(this file was made using scans of public domain works in the international children's digital library.) the story of the white-rock cove. with illustrations. london: t. nelson and sons, paternoster row; edinburgh; and new york. . [illustration: willie and aleck at the foot of the white rock.] contents i. long ago at braycombe ii. aleck's welcome iii. a whole holiday iv. the ride to stavemoor v. ship-building vi. the schooner-yacht vii. the missing ship viii. another search ix. sorrowful days x. sunday evening xi. the white-rock cove again the story of the white-rock cove. chapter i. long ago at braycombe. the story of the white-rock cove--"_to be written down all from the very beginning_"--is urgently required by certain youthful petitioners, whose importunity is hard to resist; and the request is sealed by a rosy pair of lips from the little face nestling at my side, in a manner that admits of no denial. * * * * * "_from the beginning_;"--that very beginning carries me back to my own old school-room, in the dear home at braycombe, when, as a little boy between nine and ten years old, i sat there doing my lessons. it was on a thursday morning, and, consequently, i was my mother's pupil. for whereas my tutor, a certain mr. glengelly, from our nearest town of elmworth, used to come over on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays for the carrying forward of my education; my studies were, on the other days of the week, which i consequently liked much better, conducted under the gentle superintendence of my mother. on this particular morning i was working with energy at a rule-of-three sum, being engaged in a sort of exciting race with the clock, of which the result was still doubtful. when, however, the little click, which meant, as i well knew, five minutes to twelve, sounded, i had attained my quotient in plain figures; a few moments more, and the process of _fours into, twelves into, twenties into_, had been accomplished; and just as the clock struck twelve i was able to hand up my slate triumphantly with my task completed. "a drawn game, mamma!" i exclaimed, "between me and the clock;" and then with eager eyes i followed hers, as she rapidly ran over the figures which had cost me so much trouble, and from time to time relieved my mind by a quiet commentary: "quite right so far;--no mistakes yet;--you have worked it out well." frisk, the intelligent, the affectionate, the well-beloved companion of my sports, and the recipient of many of my confidences, woke up from his nap, stretched himself, came and placed his fore-paws upon my knees, and, looking up in my face, spoke as plainly as if endowed with the capacity of expressing himself in human language, to this effect:--"i'm very glad you have finished your lessons; and glad, too, that i was able to sleep on a mat in the window, where the warm sunshine has made me extremely comfortable. but now your lessons are done, i hope you'll lose no time, but come out to play at once. i'm ready when you are." and frisk's tail wagged faster and faster when my mother's inspection of my sum was concluded, so that i could not help thinking he must have understood her when she said,--"there are no mistakes, willie; you have been a good, industrious little boy this morning; you may go out to play with a light heart." i did not need twice telling, but very soon put away all my books and maps, and the slate, with its right side carefully turned down, that it might not get rubbed, wiped the pens, placed my copy-book in the drawer, and presented myself for that final kiss with which my mother was wont to terminate our proceedings, and which was on this occasion accompanied by the remonstrance that i was getting quite too big a boy for such nonsense. then at a bound i disappeared through the window, which opened on the lawn, and let off my pent-up steam in the circumnavigation of the garden, with frisk barking at my heels; clearing the geranium-bed with a flying leap, and taking the low wire-fence by the shrubbery twice over, to the humiliation of my canine companion, who had to dip under where i went over. the conclusion of these performances brought me once again in front of the school-room window, where my mother stood beckoning to me. she had my straw hat with its sailor's blue ribbons in one hand, and a slice of seed-cake in the other. "here, willie," she said, "put on your hat, for the sun is hot although there is a fresh breeze; and--but perhaps i may have been mistaken--i thought perhaps some people of my acquaintance were fond of seed-cake for luncheon." "no indeed, dear mamma," i made answer speedily, "you are not at all mistaken: some people--that is, frisk and i--do like it very much; don't we frisk, old fellow?" "and now," continued my mother,--who must certainly have forgotten at the moment her opinion expressed just five minutes before as to the propriety of kisses, for, smoothing back my hair, she stooped down to press her lips upon my forehead before putting my hat on,--"and now you are to take your troublesome self off for a long hour, indeed, almost an hour and a half: away with you to your play." "may i take my troublesome self to old george's, mamma?" i petitioned. "if you like," she answered; "only be careful in going down the zig-zag; i don't want to find you a little heap of broken bones at the bottom of the cliff." i confess myself to being entirely incapable of conveying on paper to my young readers the charms, the manifold delights, of that zig-zag walk, which was our shortest way down to the lodge. you started from the garden, then through the shrubbery, and from the shrubbery by a little wire gate you entered the natural wood which clothed the upper part of our hill-side. the path descended rapidly from this point, being very steep in parts, and emerging every here and there so as to command an uninterrupted view of the beautiful braycombe bay, which on this bright summer morning was all dancing and sparkling in the sunshine. lower down, the wood gave place to rock and turf, until you reached the top of the shingle which the path skirted for a little distance; and, finally, crossing an undulating meadow, you gained the lodge, the abode of my friend old george, mentioned above. it was not its picturesque beauty alone which endeared the zig-zag walk to me, although, child that i was, i feel sure the loveliness of the outer world had the effect, unconsciously to myself, of brightening my little inner world; but over and above all this must be ranked my keen enjoyment of a scramble, and of the sense of difficulty and danger attendant upon certain steep parts of the descent. it was one of my great amusements to be trusted occasionally to guide my parents' visitors down by this path, for the sake of the view, whilst their carriages would be sent the long way by the drive to meet them at the lodge. there were precipitous places, where even grave and stately grown-up people would give up walking and take to running; and then again little perilous points, where ladies especially would utter faint cries of fright, and would require gentle persuasion to induce them to step down from stone to stone; whilst i, fearless from long practice, would triumphantly perform the feat two or three times, to show that i was not in the least afraid, devising, moreover, short cuts for myself even steeper than those of the recognized path. i question whether the birth-day which conferred on me the privilege of going alone up and down the zig-zag was the greatest boon to myself or to my nurse; the exertion involved in scaling the hill-side being to the full as wearisome to her as it was enchanting to myself. the emancipation, however, came early in my career, since my friend, old george, by my father's consent, assumed a sort of out-of-door charge of me at a period when most little boys are exclusively under nursery discipline. for my father reposed the utmost confidence in the old man's principles, and did not hesitate to let me be for hours under his care, saying, often in my hearing, that he would rather have me out on the water learning from him how to manage the boats, or climbing the rocks and exploring the caves under his safe guardianship, than learning from a woman only how to keep _off_ the rocks and avoid tumbling into the water. he was an old seaman, united by strong ties of friendship and gratitude to our family. in earlier years he had served on board the same ship in which my father had been a young midshipman; and on one occasion, when my father fell overboard, at a time when the vessel was at full speed, had thrown himself into the water, and held my father's head up when he was too exhausted to swim, until the boat put out for the rescue had time to come up and save both lives, which the delay had placed in great peril. when, some years later, on my grandfather's death, my father came to live at braycombe, he insisted upon groves, who was just about to be pensioned off through some failure in health, coming to settle with his wife at the lodge, promising him the charge of our boats, so that he might have a taste of his old occupation. his daughter-in-law, widow of his only son, who had been drowned, obtained the situation of schoolmistress, and lived near to the old couple with ralph, _her_ only son, a lad some few years my senior, who was employed about the place under his grandfather's supervision, and helped in rowing when we went out upon the water. a friendship firm and tender had grown up between myself and the old seaman, i accepting him as a grown-up play-fellow, and revealing to him in detail all the many plans continually suggesting themselves to my fertile imagination, and finding in him an ever ready sympathy, and, when possible, active co-operation in my schemes. from which digression, explanatory of the relationship subsisting between old george--as he had taught me from infancy to call him, _mr. groves_, as he was more properly designated by the neighbourhood--and myself, i must return to the bright june morning upon which, after my usual fashion, i descended the zig-zag, running, scrambling, sliding, with frisk scampering and capering at my side, making wild snaps at pieces of cake which i broke off for him from time to time, and held up as high as i could reach, that he might have to jump for them. we were not long in gaining the lodge, which, by the carriage drive, was nearly three-quarters of a mile from the house. i produced a series of knocks upon the door, like those of a london postman, though, as old george was wont to remark,-- "what's the use, master willie, of knocking like that; you never stop to hear me say 'come in,' but just burst open the door and drive in like a gust of wind promiscuous." but, in self-defence, i must explain that my defective manners in this particular were entirely due to my old friend himself, who, from earliest infancy, had trained me in all manner of impertinent familiarities. it was traditional that i cried to go to him whilst i was still in arms; that i made attacks of an aggravated character upon his brass buttons before i could walk alone; and i could just remember experiments upon his white beard, as trying doubtless to him as they were interesting to myself, conducted with philosophical determination on my part, in order to ascertain whether it came off by pulling or not! in all of which proceedings my friend greatly encouraged me, so that the blame of my failure in the laws of etiquette lay at his door. only mrs. groves was in the cottage when i rushed in eagerly upon the morning in question. she was busy in culinary mysteries, but assured me her master would be soon in, and, in the meantime, i was to make myself at home; which i did at once. "and your dear ma, how's she?" inquired the good lady presently, settling a cover on a saucepan in a decisive manner, and sitting down during a pause in her operations. "i saw her drive by yesterday; and susan told me she'd been at the school. a blessed time children have of it these days, going to school; it's very different to what it was in my time." "then you didn't go to school?" i asked, being privately of opinion that she was rather fortunate as a child. "oh yes, sir, i went to school, but not like the schooling children has now-a-days, with a high-born lady like your ma going herself to see them;--our old dame, she teached us all she knew--to read, and mark, and learn,--" "and inwardly digest?" i suggested, as mrs. groves hesitated in her enumeration of accomplishments. but there was not time to satisfy me concerning this branch of her education, for old george appearing at the moment, i flew to meet him, and we strolled down to the water's edge together. "i've been longing to see you," i exclaimed. "it's about aleck, my cousin aleck, i wanted to tell you. he's coming, and uncle and aunt gordon, on thursday week; that's only just a fortnight, you know." aleck was my only boy cousin, and ever since there had been a notion of his coming to braycombe, i had been thinking and dreaming of him incessantly. my aunt gordon had been in very delicate health, and the doctors ordered foreign air and constant change for the summer months, and a winter in some warm climate. there had been some hesitation as to how my cousin, their only child, should be disposed of. he was not very strong, and school life, it was feared, might be too great an ordeal for another year; so my parents had written, offering that he should spend that time at braycombe, and share my tutor's instructions. the decisive answer from my uncle had only just arrived, and i was in a tumult of joy and excitement that it was in favour of my cousin's coming to stay with us, and that the actual day of our visitors' arrival had been fixed. george listened with every appearance of interest to my communication. "i'm glad your cousin's coming, master willie, as you're pleased," he said. "but aren't you glad, too, for your own sake?" i asked. "it will be so nice having him to play with us." "oh, i'll be pleased to see him, never fear for that," responded george. "i knew his father when he was but a little fellow like yourself." "mamma calls me her _big_ boy," i threw in, disapprovingly. "but what do you think aleck will be like?" "well, sir, i should expect very much such another young craft as yourself; or, now i come to think of it, perhaps a year older or so." "not a year," i replied; "ten months and a half. i asked mamma his birth-day. do you think he'll be as tall as me? because papa and mamma say i'm tall for my age." "his father stood six feet one the day he came of age. i daresay his son will take after him," said george. "and be as tall as that?" i inquired, feeling rather anxious, until reassured, at the transformation of my cousin in prospect into a young giant. i suppose that few children had ever seen less of other children than i had up to this time. there were but three gentlemen's houses in our neighbourhood: the rectory, where lived the elderly clergyman and his wife, who had never had a family; the elms, a country seat, where sir john and lady cosington and two grown-up daughters resided; and willowbank, another country place, occupied by a young married couple, with one little baby. elmworth, our nearest town, was seven miles off; and this distance almost entirely precluded intercourse with any of the families there. in consequence of this, i had been completely without companions of my own age up to this time. in books i had read much of children's amusements with their companions; and although the perfect happiness of my own home left nothing really to be wished for, if ever a wish _did_ occur to me for anything i had not, it was for a play-fellow and companion somewhere about my own age; and now, when this wish of mine was really on the eve of being realized, i was filled with vague dreams and anticipations of all the delight which it was to bring to me. when george and i had mutually agreed that my cousin aleck--allowing for the difference of age--might be reasonably expected to be somewhat taller than myself, we sat down on the beach, and began to discuss certain plans of mine for giving him a suitable welcome. dim ideas, the result of "illustrated london news'" pictures, were floating in my mind--bouquets, triumphal arches, addresses, and so forth--even although i wound up by saying-- "of course, not like that exactly; only something--something rather grand." [illustration: old george and willie.] old george, however, kindly and wisely pulled my schemes down, and laid them affectionately in the dust:-- "you see, master willie, anything written, even in your best hand, wouldn't come up to what you will say in the first five minutes by word of mouth; and then the school banners, though very suitable for a feast--and i'm sure my susan would be right pleased to look them up for you--would be no ways suitable. '_a merry christmas and happy new year_,' or, '_braycombe schools, founded _,' would look odd-like flying in the avenue at this time of year. and though i'd be glad to do anything to give you pleasure, i'd rather be opening the gate to your uncle and aunt and cousin, as they drive up, than firing off a gun, which might disturb their nerves, not to say frighten the horses." all of which was perfectly unanswerable. but as old george put on his spectacles in conclusion, i knew he meant to consider the subject with attention; and i therefore remained quietly at his side, sending flat stones skimming along the water, or throwing in a stick for frisk to fetch out again, until, as i expected, he signified to me that he had thought of what would do. he said that the light arch which supported the central lamp over the gate might be very easily decked with evergreens for the occasion, and the word _welcome_, traced in flowers, put up so as to appear very pretty with the green background; whilst the flag-staff at the top of the hill, just by the shrubbery, should display all the flags that our establishment could boast of. groves' scheme, though not quite so extensive as those which had floated through my childish imagination, was sufficiently attractive to be very welcome; and i eagerly insisted upon our immediately returning to the lodge, where george took certain measurements of the arch which impressed me wonderfully with a sense of his superiority, and wisdom. by which time mrs. groves looked out to say that her husband's dinner would be spoiled by waiting, or eaten by the dog, "which there was no driving off." and i, thus reminded of the time, settled the difficulty about frisk by taking him up bodily in my arms, and, hurrying off, reached home only just in time to get ready for dinner before the gong sounded. chapter ii. aleck's welcome. it is almost unnecessary to remark that the fortnight preceding my cousin's arrival was one of the longest i had ever spent--even longer than those preceding birth-days or christmas. however, the long looked-for thursday came at last. i pleaded hard for a whole holiday, but my mother would not be persuaded; so i had to do my morning lessons as usual, and confessed, after they were over, that the hours had passed much faster than i at all expected. in consideration of the travellers having, in all probability, had but little time for refreshment, dinner was to be rather earlier than usual; and aleck and i were to have it, for once, with the elders of the party. luncheon was also early; and not having the time to go down to the lodge before it, i went out into the garden with my mother to help in gathering a nosegay for my aunt's room. how fresh and beautiful everything looked that morning, as we stood there amongst the flowers, my mother selecting the materials for the nosegay, and i holding the basket, and handing her the scissors as she wanted them, or executing at intervals little by-plays with frisk. i remember feeling a kind of intense thrill of happiness, which to this day is vividly recalled by the scent of those particular roses and geraniums; and also a sort of dim wonder about the unhappiness which i had heard and read of as the fate of some--pondering in my own mind how it felt to be so very unhappy, and whether people couldn't help it if they would only go out into the fresh air and warm sunshine, and enjoy themselves as i did. from which speculations i was recalled by my mother saying,-- "i think we have enough flowers, willie; perhaps just one creeper for the outside of the vase. there--we shall do now." then we went in by the school-room window, and i fetched the large vase from the east bed-room, and stood by my mother whilst tastefully and daintily she arranged the flowers as i thought none but she could arrange them. she had nearly completed her task when my father came into the school-room. "i am sending the carriage early, dear," he said to her; "for although i think they cannot arrive until the . train, there is just the chance of their catching the one before. have you any messages for rickson?" "none, dear," answered my mother. "but you must stay for a moment and look at my flowers. are they not sweet and pretty?" "very sweet and very pretty," replied my father. but i thought he looked at her more than at the flowers when he said so; and she laughed, although, after all, there was nothing to laugh at. "willie and i have been gathering them," she said; "and now we are going to put them in bessie's room." "i know who remembers everything that can give pleasure to others," observed my father, whose hand was on my shoulder by this time. "willie, i hope you will grow up like your mamma." not quite seeing the force of this observation, i replied that, being a boy, i thought i had better grow up like him. and both my parents laughed; but my mother said she quite agreed with me, it would be far better. then we carried the vase up, and placed it on the table in the window of the east bed-room; and my mother flitted about, putting little finishing touches here and there to complete the arrangements for the comfort of her visitors, whilst i received a commission to inspect portfolios, envelope-cases, and ink-bottles, and to see that all were freshly replenished. these matters being finally disposed of, i persuaded my mother to ascend to the more remote part of the house, where a room next to my own had, at my earnest request, been prepared for my cousin, and in the decoration of which i felt peculiar interest. there was a twin bedstead to my own, and various other pieces of furniture corresponding; moreover, in an impulse of generosity i had transferred certain of my own possessions into aleck's apartment, with a noble determination to be extremely liberal. my mother noticed these at once, but i was a little disappointed that she did not commend my liberality. "you see, mamma," i explained, "there's my own green boat with the union-jack, and the bat i liked best before papa gave me my last new one, and the dissected map of the queens of england." "yes, i see, willie," replied my mother; proceeding in the meantime to certain readjustments urgently called for, by the critical position of the bat standing on the drawers against the wall, and the boat nearly falling from the mantelpiece. "there, my child," she said; "the bat will do better in the comer, and the ship upon the drawers. and now the puzzle: why, willie, this is the very one of which i heard you say there were three pieces missing; and then mrs. barbauld you think childish for yourself!" my countenance fell, for i had been indulging in the cheap generosity of giving away second-bests, and i could see my mother did not admire such liberality. indeed, after a moment's consideration, i was ashamed of it myself, and hastened with alacrity to hide mrs. barbauld, and the queens of england, and one or two other trifles, in the obscurity of my own room; whilst my mother decided upon the best position for a couple of prettily-framed pictures which she had had brought up, and fastened an illuminated text, similar to one in my own room, opposite the bed--"_the things which are seen are temporal; the things which are unseen are eternal_"--and placed a little statuette of a guardian angel, with the scroll underneath, "_he shall give his angels charge over thee_," over the bed-head. "what a good thought, mamma," i said, when she had finished her arrangements; "that looks exactly like mine." "just what i want it to look, willie. you and aleck are to be as like brothers to each other as may be. you have never had brother or sister of your own, willie--not that you can remember [there _had_ been one infant sister, whose death, when about a month old, had been my parents' greatest sorrow]--but now that your cousin is likely to stay a long time with us, i hope that you and he will be as much as possible like brothers to each other." then my mother, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, drew me towards her, and quietly talked to me about some of the new duties as well as temptations which would come with new pleasures, bidding me remember that i was to try never to think first of myself, but to be willing to consider others before myself. we had been reading the th of first corinthians that morning together, and her observations seemed to me as if drawn straight from that source; indeed, before long she reminded me of it, bidding me remember it supplied the standard we ought to aim at, and telling me that strength would be always given, _if i sought it_, to help me to be what i wanted to be; it was only those who did not heartily strive who got beaten in the conflict. it is not to be supposed that this was all uttered in a set speech; i am giving the substance only of a few minutes' quiet talk which we had up there in the bed-room together that morning before luncheon, and which i confess to having felt at the time rather superfluous, my delight in the anticipation of my cousin's arrival convincing me that there would be no fear of my finding anything but happiness in my intercourse with him. my mother, on the contrary, as i afterwards had reason to know, was by no means without anxiety. she knew that hitherto i had been completely shielded from every possible trial. the darling of herself and my father, and, as the only child, a favourite amongst the attached members of our household, my wants had been all anticipated, and every pleasure suited to my age had been planned for me so ingeniously, that i had never had the chance of showing myself selfish or ill-tempered. she feared that when for the first time i found myself not _first_ considered in all arrangements, i might fail in those particular points of conduct in which she was most anxious i should triumph. my mother's gentle admonitions, to which i at the time paid little heed, were interrupted by the luncheon gong. "when will the wonderful preparations at the gate be ready?" asked my father whilst we were at table. "oh, there's nothing left to do but to fasten up the flowers. old george says it won't take an hour," i replied. "then if i come down at three o'clock the show will be ready?" "quite ready," i said. "and mamma will come too?" "of course mamma's coming too; unless, indeed, you mean to charge so high a price for the exhibition," said my father comically, "that i cannot afford it. but even then," he added, "mamma shall see it; i'll give it up for her." i was off from the luncheon-table as soon as possible, but found nurse lying in wait to capture me and enforce upon my mind the first duty of returning by four o'clock, to be dressed properly before the arrival of our visitors, whose impression of me, she conceived, would be most unfavourable were they to find me in what she was pleased to call "this trumpery," referring to a little sailor's suit of white and blue in which i was very generally attired, and which nurse chose to disapprove. she wound up her admonition by a sort of lament over my light-mindedness as to my best clothes; a spirit which, she remarked, was apt to cling to people to their graves--sometimes afterwards; which i scarcely thought possible. frisk and i darted down the zig-zag at our usual pace, so soon as i was released from nurse's kind offices, and joined old george, who was on the look-out for us. very pleased we were with the result of our exertions when the really pretty triumphal arch was completed; the letters of the word _welcome_ in conspicuously gay flowers forming a pretty contrast to the leafy background, and eliciting what we felt to be a well-merited admiration from my parents and a select committee of servants, who came severally to inspect our handiwork in the course of the afternoon. "it's fit for her majesty," said my father in his playful way, "and far too fine for a little stranger boy! in fact, it seems scarcely proper that a humble individual like myself should pass under it!" "you're not a humble individual, papa!" i exclaimed vehemently. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed my father, "that it should come to such a pass as this; my only son tells me i am wanting in humility--not a humble person!" "an _individual_!" i said, feeling that made a great difference. "but now, papa, you're only in fun; you know i didn't mean that." "one thing i do mean very distinctly, willie, which is, that i must not stay chattering here with you any longer, or my letters will never be ready before post-time. you may stay a little longer with george if you like." i stayed accordingly, determining to be home by the zig-zag at the appointed hour. but my parents had scarcely had the time necessary for walking up to the house, when the sharp sound of horses' trot suddenly aroused my attention, and in another moment our carriage, with the travellers inside, was rounding the curve of the road, and had drawn up before the gate. my confusion and shyness at thus being surprised were indescribable; and a latent desire to take to immediate flight and get home the short way might probably have prevailed, had not my uncle's quick eye caught sight of me as i drew back under the shelter of old george. "why, surely there must be willie!" he exclaimed; and in another moment groves had hoisted my unwilling self on to the step of the carriage, and was introducing me to my relations, regardless of my shy desire to stand upon the ground, and make geological researches with my eyes under the wheels. "yes, sir, this is master willie; he's been uncommon taken up with the other young master coming, and it's his thought having a bit of something [to think of old george designating our beautiful arch as a bit of something!] put up at the gate to bid him welcome." "there's for you, aleck," said my uncle to a fair-haired boy sitting in the furthest corner of the carriage opposite to my aunt, whom i just mustered courage to look at. "you'll have to make your best bow and a very grand speech, to return thanks for such an honour." "master didn't expect you so soon, sir," proceeded george; "he thought you'd be coming by the next train; that's how it is that master willie was down here." "then i think the best thing we can do with master willie is to carry him up to the house with us," said my uncle. and accordingly i was lifted over from my step into the midst of the party in the carriage, and seated down between my uncle and aunt. the coachman was compelled to rein in the horses a minute longer, whilst they all looked at and admired the arch, and then we bowled off rapidly up the avenue. i sometimes think we remember our life in pictures: certainly the very frontispiece of my acquaintance with my cousin aleck always is, and will be, a distinct mind's eye picture of that party in the carriage, with myself in their midst. uncle gordon sitting in the right hand corner with his arm round me, keeping me very close to himself, so that i might not crowd my aunt, who was leaning back on the other side of me, as though weary with the long journey. opposite my uncle my aunt's maid, with a green bonnet decorated with a bow of red velvet of angular construction in the centre of the front, to which the parting of her hair seemed to lead up like a broad white road; she was grasping, as though her life depended upon her keeping them safely, a sort of family fagot of umbrellas in one hand, whilst with the other she kept a leather-covered dressing-case steady on her lap. in the fourth corner was my cousin, in full highland kilt, such as i had hitherto seen only in toy-books of the costumes of all nations or other pictures, and which inspired me with a wonderful amount of curiosity. lastly, myself in blue and white sailor's dress, looking, no doubt, as if i had been captured from a man-of-war; conscious of tumbled hair, and doubtful hands, and retribution in store for me in the shape of a talking-to from nurse, who had still unlimited jurisdiction over my wardrobe, for having been surprised in a state she would designate as "not fit to be seen." aleck and i found our eyes wandering to each other momentarily as we drove along. when they met, we took them off again, and pretended to look out at opposite sides of the carriage; but this happened so often, that at last we both laughed, and--the ice broke. i was quite on chatty terms before we reached the house. "there are papa and mamma!" i exclaimed, as we came in sight of the entrance. they had heard the carriage, and were at the door to welcome their guests. "see, i have brought you two boys instead of one," said my uncle, lifting me out first, and then proceeding to help out my aunt, as if she were a delicate piece of china, and "with care" labelled outside her. when the greetings were over, my mother declared a rest on the sofa in her room and a cup of tea indispensable for my aunt's refreshment. my uncle took my father's arm and disappeared into the study; and we two boys were left to take care of each other until dinner-time. i proposed going round the garden, and frisk being of the party, proceeded to show off his accomplishments. this led to an animated description of my cousin's dog, cæsar, and a comparison of the ways and habits of cæsar the big with those of frisk the little, on the strength of which we became very intimate. afterwards we returned to the house, and having shown aleck his room, i took him into mine, where we were found seated on the floor surrounded by "my things," which i had been exhibiting in detail to my cousin, when nurse came, a little before six o'clock, to see that we were ready for dinner. "aleck, tell me one thing," i had just said to my cousin; "are they really your knees or leather?" aleck stared, "leather! why, of course not; what made you think such an odd question?" "i didn't think they _could_ be leather after the first minute," i replied, doubtfully; "but i couldn't know--" chapter iii. a whole holiday. to what boy or girl does not the promise of a whole holiday convey a sort of fortunatus' purse of anticipated enjoyment! i used to wonder--i remember wondering that very day after aleck's arrival, when i had the most enjoyable whole holiday i ever spent--why grown-up people who always had them should seem so indifferent to their privileges, writing it down upon the secret tablets of my resolve, that when _i_ grew up things should be very different with me. my cousin and i sat side by side at the breakfast-table in a vehement impulse of boyish affection, so completely taken up with each other that i for one never remember noticing any one else during the progress of the meal, except when once i caught a wistful look from my aunt, and heard her saying, in a rather sorrowful low voice, to my mother,-- "i am very thankful to see our boys take to each other; it is quite a load off my mind that aleck should be with you instead of being left at school." "won't aleck come too?" i asked my mother, when she summoned me to our usual bible-reading after breakfast. "not whilst his own mamma is here," was the answer; and i was obliged to rest content. but the moment i had put away my bible, i flew off in search of him, eagerly explaining that we were to do what we liked for the whole of the morning, and sketching out a plan for our amusement such as i thought would be pleasant to him:-- "first, we must go over the whole house--you've only seen a little bit of it yet--and the kitchen-garden and the stables, and then down the zig-zag to old george's, and we'll get him to go out with us in the boat. it's smooth enough to sail the 'fair alice'--that's a little yacht of mine that old george gave me." aleck's face brightened. "may you go out in a boat when you like?" he asked, eagerly. "oh, how _de_-light-ful!" how we careered over the house that morning, visiting every nook and corner of it, from the "leads" on the roof; accessible only by a ladder and trap-door, to the most hidden repositories in the housekeeper's domain! the servants good naturedly remarked i had gone crazy. presently i bade aleck shut his eyes, and submit to my guidance blindfold, whilst i led him to the only room he had not been in. we passed through several passages, and then i went forward, tapped at a door, and finding i might come in, fetched aleck, still with eyes shut. "there now, you may look," i exclaimed, watching in a satisfied manner the astonishment with which he opened his eyes to find himself in the study, and his confusion on seeing my father seated at the library table near the window, surrounded by books and papers. "oh, uncle," he exclaimed, "i did not know i was in your room!" "and are very much startled at finding yourself there," said my father, finishing his sentence for him. "what shall we do with the culprit, willie? prosecute him according to the utmost rigour of the law, and sentence him to a year's imprisonment at braycombe, with hard labour, under mr. glengelly and old george!" "i think that would be a very good punishment," i answered, "only i should like it to be more than a year." "see what a cruel fellow your cousin is," said my father, getting up from his chair, and proceeding to take aleck round the room, showing him various curiosities with which i was familiar; then he sat down again, and keeping aleck at his side, told him that so long as he remained at braycombe he was to feel as much at home, and as welcome to the study as i was, and that he was to try and trust him as he could his own father, until we all had the joy of welcoming his parents home again. "famous chats we get here sometimes, eh, willie?" he concluded, appealing to me. "_rather!_" i answered emphatically, seating myself on the arm of his chair, and looking over his shoulder. "papa, shall you have time to play with us this afternoon. it's a whole holiday. i want you to very much." "i fear not, willie. i must be away all the morning. peter the great will be at the door to carry me off in another minute, and i must keep the afternoon for your uncle and aunt. to-morrow afternoon i will give you an hour, only i stipulate you must have mercy upon your old father, and not expect him to climb trees like a squirrel, or run like a hare." "you know you're not an _old_ father, papa," i said; "and, aleck, papa can run quite fast--faster than anybody else i ever saw, and he climbs better than anybody else. he's been up the tree i showed you in the avenue." "whatever papa's qualifications may be," my father observed, "the end of the matter just at present is, that rickson is coming round with the horses, and i cannot keep his imperial majesty waiting." "what does uncle do?" inquired my cousin after we had been to the door and had seen my father mount and ride away on peter the great. "papa! oh, he does quantities of things," i replied, somewhat vaguely. "what kind of things?" i proceeded to enumerate them promiscuously:-- "why, he's a magistrate, and tries cases at elmworth, and sends people to prison; and he goes to a hospital twice every week at elmworth, and he goes to see poor people--we often have some from the hospital down here; and he always has quantities of letters; and he reads to mamma; and, do you know, he once wrote a book--" i paused, not so much because i had exhausted the list of my father's employments, as because i had named that achievement which of all others filled me with the deepest awe and reverence. i could remember how, when i was four years old, my mother had lifted me up to see a volume on the counter of the great bookseller's shop at elmworth, and had let me spell through the name "grant" on the title-page. i felt as if i had risen in life, and looked upon books in general with a feeling of personal friendship, as from one behind the scenes, from that day; whilst, personally, i was much elated by the thought of what a very wonderful and extraordinary man my father was. i was rather glad when aleck told me that he did not think his papa had ever written a book;--it made me feel a little bit superior to him. after going to the stables to see my pony, we proceeded to the zig-zag, chattering fast the whole way. i was full of plans and projects, and anxious at once to interest my cousin in every one of them. "you see," i explained, "there are quantities of things that we haven't been able to do, because there's been only george and me; and he's always had it to say that there were only us two, and that he was old and i young, but he can't say that now." "he doesn't seem so very old," remarked aleck. "i don't think he is," i answered, "but he's taught me to call him old george since i have been a baby; everybody else calls him groves or mr. groves. now there's one thing i want very much to begin, and that is digging a hole right through the earth to come out at the other side, where, you know, we should find ourselves standing on our heads! george has always kept putting off beginning. but haven't you heard of many people beginning to do something great when they were boys?" "yes," answered aleck, musingly; "i have a book about wonderful boys, and one of them cut out a lion in butter, and another drew a picture upon a stump of a tree; but i don't think we should be able to dig so very far down--we should have to stop at last." this unprejudiced opinion of my cousin's, adverse as it was to my favourite scheme, was rather disappointing, but we were now engaged in the excitement of descending the zig-zag, so i had not leisure to think much about it. "isn't it a jolly way down?" i exclaimed. "papa says it's two hundred feet to that piece of rock down below." "it's not steeper than our hills at home," said aleck; "only we have not the sea near us--oh, how i wish we had!" aleck was quite as good a scrambler as i was, so we were not long in reaching the lodge, where old george seemed to be on the watch for us, and welcomed us both with his wonted heartiness. "master told me you'd be coming down, young gentlemen, as he rode by, and that you were to go out as much as you liked in the boat; and so i've been telling my good wife she must keep the look-out for the gate. ralph's coming along presently, and will be down at the cove most as soon as we shall." george wanted aleck to go into the lodge and see certain objects of interest, which, to use his own words, he "set _great store by_." but i was too eager to allow of this, and insisted upon our setting out at once for the cove. "i want to show him the greatest treasure i have of all my treasures," i exclaimed. "is that the 'fair alice' you were telling me of?" asked aleck. "yes; you'll see her presently," i replied; "and you won't wonder that i like her better than all my other things." i led the way at once by a footpath from the lodge across the sloping green meadow, then through a little tangled copse, and finally a short rocky descent to what was at braycombe always styled _the_ cove. not but that there were many coves on our beautiful indented coast, but this one was the most accessible on our grounds. the boat-house and the bathing-box were both here; and here, too, as being within easy reach, i had from earliest years climbed and scrambled and explored, until every stone was almost as familiar as the letters of my alphabet; and i could tell at what state of the tide certain rocks would be uncovered, and knew at a glance whether it would be safe to cross from one part to another on stepping-stones, or whether, to reach a given spot, we must go round by the side of the hill. how i loved, and do love, every foot of the ground, every stone, every rock, every silvery ripple of that the most charming of all possible play-grounds! thither, then, i led the way, aleck following me closely, and george more slowly behind. "there now," i cried, drawing up breathlessly as we gained our destination, "see, that's my boat-house." it was an exact miniature of the real boat-house, and aleck stood transfixed with admiration looking at it; for of all things calculated for the amusement of children, nothing, i think, succeeds so well as real miniatures--imitations in proportion--of things which belong to the grown-up world. but the true kernel of the nut--the jewel of the case--was the elegant little model yacht, which i presently drew forth from her moorings within. "now that's the 'fair alice,'" i continued; "isn't she lovely?" "awfully jolly," aleck replied, after gazing for a moment in speechless admiration. "i never saw anything half so nice before! oh, if only we were small enough to get into it! just look how beautifully the deck is made--i can see all the little timbers; and the mast, it's nearly as high as i am; and those little pulleys--oh, how perfect they are!" "you must see her with all her sails set, a-scudding before the breeze, master gordon," said george, overtaking us. "i reckon there's not a craft of her size that would beat her for speed." "can you do the sails?" my cousin asked me, regardless of nautical phraseology. "master willie! he knows as much as a sailor born about reefing and unreefing the sails," said george, answering for me. "then please do let us sail her at once. i do long to see her on the water," begged aleck. and accordingly we two sat down, overlooked by george, who, from a delicate desire to show off my capacity to manage the sails alone, abstained from offering any help; and, drawing the boat up between us on the beach, set the sails, and then proceeded to launch her upon the clear deep water of the cove. "this way now," i said to my cousin, when we saw that the breeze was filling the sails, and the "fair alice" was making her way out towards the mouth of the cove. "come and see my harbour bar;" and springing quickly from rock to rock, and running where there was sand, i guided my cousin to the entrance of the cove, which was very narrow in proportion to the width and extent of the inlet. on each side of it there was a low stake strongly fastened into the rock, and from stake to stake a rope was stretched: it was long enough to lie along the bottom of the ground, and so offer no impediment to the boats; but when i was sailing my vessel in the cove, and the tide was in, it was always stretched more tightly, so as to prevent the possibility of my little ship escaping from me into the wide sea. "see," i said, "i have only to slip this ring over the stake, and then i can feel quite sure the 'fair alice' is safe. she can't get past my harbour bar." in the meantime the little yacht had kept her course nearly to the entrance of the cove, but a sudden shifting of the wind landed her on the opposite side, and i had to make my way all round to get her off again. aleck remained on his side of the cove, and we amused ourselves for some time in contriving to get the little boat to sail backwards and forwards, tacking gradually down to the boat-house. my cousin was so absorbed in the enjoyment of sailing the "fair alice," that he was less eager about getting into our own boat for a sail than at first. but by-and-by, when we were dancing over the waves outside the cove, he became quite wild with delight, and enjoyed himself, i verily believe, as much as is possible for a free, happy, eager boy; and that is saying a great deal. of course i caught the infection from him, finding a fresh delight in my ordinary amusements through having a companion to share them; and, truly, a merrier boat's crew than we made on that whole holiday morning could not have been found. [illustration: sailing the "fair alice."] aleck's love for the sea was an absorbing passion; and it quite amused me to hear all the questions he kept putting to old george--as, for instance, how old he was when he went to sea; how long before he went up the mast; how they reefed the top-sails in his vessel, and which of the ship's company did it in a gale; together with many other inquiries, showing a degree of technical knowledge that perfectly overwhelmed me, and which, he explained to us, was extracted from "the cadet's manual," and a big book on "the art of navigation" which they had at home. i almost wished my cousin did not know quite so much; it made me feel as though the ten months were a longer and more important period than i had admitted to myself. but it was a relief, when the oars were called into action on our way in, to find that he could not row, whereas i had handled an oar almost as soon as i gave up a rattle; and, as i showed off my best feathering, i felt we were equal again. "how is it you can't row, sir, when you know so much about it?" asked groves. "why, there are only streams and the river at my home in scotland," explained aleck. "we're up amongst the hills, you know. i have often fished, but i've scarcely ever been in a boat before, except when we've been travelling; and then it was going out to the steamer, and i mightn't do anything but sit still. it was famous, though, in the steamer," continued aleck, kindling with the recollection of his journey. "i went down, and saw how the engine worked; and helped the man at the wheel; and learned about the compass--at least, i knew the points before, but it was different seeing how to steer by it. only i liked the stoker the best. i had just gone down again with him to the engine-room, to see the engine stopped, and pulled off my jacket because it was so hot; and then the steam was let off, and made such a noise! just when there was all the noise of the steam, i heard somebody shouting my name, and calling so loudly to me that i ran up to the deck at once. i had quite forgotten about not having my jacket on, and i believe my face had got blacked--it was, i know, when we got on shore. everybody laughed at me; only mamma was poorly and frightened--she thought i had tumbled overboard. i suppose i oughtn't to have gone down just then, for that was the place where we were to go on shore," aleck added, somewhat thoughtfully, remembering how very white was the face to which his own blackened one had been pressed. by this time we were re-entering the cove. "you'll only be just in time for your dinner, young gentlemen," said george, as we drew in towards the landing-place; "i reckon it won't come a minute before you're ready for it." "you'll teach me to row, will you not, as soon as possible?" said my cousin, as we parted. "i should like to begin at once, please." "so soon as you like, sir. master willie, you mustn't be long in bringing down your cousin." thus saying, groves took his way to the lodge, and aleck and i clambered quickly up the zig-zag, reaching home in time to appear, with smooth hair, and rosy cheeks, and keen appetites, at the luncheon-table. aleck was in wild spirits, and confided to me that he didn't think he had ever enjoyed himself so much before. chapter iv. the ride to stavemoor. a month after aleck's arrival at braycombe, it seemed so perfectly natural to have him with us--he had fitted so completely into the position of companion, play-fellow, school-fellow, brother--that i could scarcely fancy how it felt before he came. my uncle and aunt had left us after a fortnight's visit, and were now on the continent. the parting was hard work--harder, i fancy, to them than to him, for boys soon get over trouble, whereas it was plain to see in my aunt's wistful eyes that it was a sore trial to her to leave her child behind. i believe that she did not anticipate, in as sanguine a spirit as did her husband, the happy meeting again that was talked of for the spring, after a winter in madeira. it was a subject of great thankfulness, to both my uncle and aunt, that aleck and i had formed such a friendship for each other. they had scarcely driven from the door, and aleck's eyes were still wet with tears, when he told me that he did not think he could be so happy anywhere away from his papa and mamma as at braycombe, with me for his companion; and i answered by assuring him i should never be happy again if he were to go away from me. we soon settled down into our school-room occupations together. mr. glengelly, who used to come three times in the week, now came daily, staying for the whole morning, and leaving us always lessons to prepare for the next day. aleck and i spent almost the whole of our play-time down at the cove; his passionate enjoyment of everything connected with the sea continuing in full force, whilst two or three times every week we had walks, rides, or drives with one or both of my parents. aleck could ride beautifully, having been accustomed to it at his own home, and i was delighted to lend him my pony from time to time--more ready at first, if the truth is to be told, than afterwards. he also learned to row, though not so quickly nor so easily as i should have expected; and feathering remained an impossible mystery to him, being, as he said, more than could be expected from his clumsy fingers. in this one point--that of being unskilful in the use of his hands--aleck was below the mark; in lessons he was far my superior, being, as i soon found, more than his year ahead of me. but, oddly enough, as it seemed to me, it was always in matters requiring skilled fingers that he was anxious to excel. he was never tired of playing at sailing the "fair alice," but would daily, before we launched her, examine afresh all the different parts of the little vessel, and sigh over the neatness of their workmanship, and ask himself and myself whether it were possible he should ever be able to make a ship like it. various abortive attempts were to be seen in our play-room--pieces of wood cut, and shaped, and thrown away in disgust; but as yet he made no progress towards anything like skill in carpentry. the old play-boat of mine which i had given, to him afforded very little pleasure: it was not like a real vessel. having seen the "fair alice," anything that fell short of it gave him no satisfaction. it added greatly to the pleasure which i had always felt in this possession, to see how ardently my cousin admired it, and how much he thought of the title of _captain_, which, as owner, had been playfully adjudged to me. i scarcely know when it was that the feeling first began to steal over me that i was not always quite so glad as i had been at first that my cousin was living with us. it was an unworthy feeling, and i felt ashamed to confess it to myself; but there it was, and i discovered it at last. perhaps it was because of his quickness at lessons; perhaps because, from time to time in his turn, enjoyments which could not be shared by both were permitted to him--i had only the half, where before i should have had the whole; perhaps it was all this together, combined with the secret evils i had not hitherto found out in my own heart and disposition; but the result was, that i had now and then such miserable moments of being angry, and provoked, and unhappy, not because my cousin had done anything unkind, but simply because he had, in some unintentional manner, interfered with my pleasure, that i was ready to wish i had never had a cousin, or that he had never come to braycombe. it is not to be supposed that this was my settled, constant state of mind. far from it. in general, we two boys were as frisky, and merry, and happy with each other, as boys could be; but these dark feelings came and went, and came and went, until i began to be less surprised at them than when i first found them out. for some time my mother had no idea of their existence. to all outward appearance we were just as we had been in the early days of our friendship; and if i did not so often enlarge upon the happiness of having aleck to live with me, i know now that she only put it down to the novelty of the companionship wearing off. i remember quite distinctly the first time that she noticed some little indication of the secret mischief that was going on. it was the time of afternoon preparation of lessons for the following morning, and i was sitting with my books before me at the school-room table, writing a latin exercise; or perhaps it would be more correct to say, _not_ writing my latin exercise, for my pen had stopped half-way to the ink-bottle, and my chin was resting on my left hand and my elbow on the table, and i was indulging uninterruptedly in my own reflections, when the door opened, and my mother entered the room. "where's aleck?" was her first inquiry, as she looked round and saw that i was alone. "he's been gone five minutes," i replied, without raising my eyes, and in a tone which i meant to convey--and, i am aware, did convey--that i was in no pleasant mood. "how's that?" rejoined my mother, taking no notice of my manner. "aleck was told not to leave the school-room until his lessons were finished. he knows my rule, and is not generally disobedient. i must go and see about him. where is he?" "in his room, i suppose"--still in my former sulky manner; and, without further words, my mother left the room, and went in search of my cousin. i presently heard her voice calling to him at the foot of the stair-case leading to our rooms, and aleck's voice more distantly replying to her. as, however, he did not immediately appear, i heard afterwards that she had gone up-stairs, and found him pulling down his sleeves and shaking off pieces of wood, and generally endeavouring to render his appearance respectable; which was made the more difficult as, in the course of his operations, he had dipped his elbow in the glue-pot, and was considerably embarrassed by the fringe of shavings which he was unable to detach. "i'm coming as fast as i can, auntie," he said, pulling at the shavings, and giving himself a rub with a duster in hopes that would make him right. "but, aleck, how is it you're not in the school-room?" said my mother. "i have just seen willie there alone. you know the rule about not leaving until lessons are finished. i fear that you have been tempted away too soon by your ship-building tastes." "did not willie tell you i had finished my lessons?" said aleck, quickly. "oh, auntie, i would not have left before." "really finished, aleck? take care to be quite honest with yourself, for indeed you've had but short time." "really and truly, auntie. i tried to be very quick to-day, because i do so want to get on with this last ship i've begun. it seems coming more like than the others. see, the stern is very like a real one." my mother carefully inspected the unshapely block upon which my cousin was at work, gave him a word or two of advice upon the subject, and came down-stairs again to me; having decided in her own mind, as she afterwards told me, to be present the next morning when mr. glengelly came, and notice whether aleck's work had been thoroughly prepared. "how soon shall you have finished, my child?" she said, laying her hand softly on my shoulder, and bending down to inspect my writing. "let me see what there is to be done." "this exercise, and the verb to be learned, and my sum"--very grumpily. "and how much have you done already?" "part of the exercise--not quite half; and i'm doing the verb now; and the sum is finished, all but the proving." my lip was quivering as i completed the list of what i had achieved, and i was as nearly bursting into tears as possible. my mother's loving, pleasant way staved off the sulky fit, however. "these lessons begun, and not one of them finished off!" she exclaimed. "let us see how long they will take you. first the exercise, we will allow a quarter of an hour for that; five minutes will prove your sum; and the verb, an old one you say and very nearly perfect, two minutes for that: less than twenty-five minutes, willie, and you will be so perfectly prepared that you will be longing for ten o'clock to-morrow, and mr. glengelly to come, all the rest of the evening." i could not help laughing at the notion of my pining for mr. glengelly's arrival, and a laugh is an excellent stepping-stone out of the sulks. my mother put her watch on the table, and stayed in the room, helping me by quiet sympathizing superintendence, and i set to work with such earnestness that i had completed my tasks in twenty minutes, and was off to the play-room without a trace of my wrong temper, as eager to join my cousin in the carpentry as if nothing had gone wrong between us, and only rejoicing that my lessons were over at last, without troubling myself to remember that the trial of aleck's being so much quicker than myself at his studies was sure to recur again and again, and that, unless my dislike to his superiority could be conquered and stamped out, i should soon find every-day trouble in my every-day work. and in truth the conquering and stamping out of such feelings as these is no easy task. it is unquestionably a real trial to find that work which takes you an hour's hard labour can be accomplished by your companion in not much more than half the time; that even though the lessons are apportioned so as to give him the heavier burden, he can always dispose of the heavier more readily than you can of the lighter. in my own case, aleck was often very good-natured, and would linger in _his_ work to give me a help in _mine_; or purposely keep pace with me, so that we might go out to play together. but this was not always the way; when he was very eagerly engaged in any play-time occupation, he would bend all his energies to getting his tasks finished off quickly, and then hurry away, without appearing in the least troubled that i could not accompany him. upon which occasions i thought him selfish and unfeeling, and was inclined not a little to regret that he had ever come to braycombe. the worst of it was, that though i knew i was wrong, i could not muster courage to speak to either of my parents about it; no, not even in that moment of deepest confidence when my mother looked in to wish me good-night before i went to sleep, and sat, as she was wont to do, upon my bed talking to me about the various things which had happened during the day. many a time, on such occasions, i thought of telling her my troubles, but was afraid lest she should think me very naughty; so i tried at last to persuade myself there was not much to tell after all. half an hour spent with us in the school-room the next morning convinced my mother that aleck's work had been well done. i fancy that she watched me a little closely for a few days, but i happened to be specially prosperous in my lessons, and nothing occurred to disturb my serenity, so that she dismissed after a time the anxiety which had begun to arise in her mind concerning me. as for aleck, he had no notion of the real state of things. i am sure he must have thought me selfish and cross very often, but almost as often he would win me into good temper again; and his own temperament was naturally so bright and sunshiny, that trouble never seemed to remain long with him. it was about a fortnight later that i was sitting, after breakfast, in my father's study doing my arithmetic. our school-room adjoined the study, and it was not an unfrequent arrangement, that whilst aleck did his construing with mr. glengelly, i should take in my slate to my father's room and do my sums. i fancy he liked to have me with him; for whenever he was at home he would look up with quite a pleased expression when, after knocking at the door, i appeared with my slate and made the usual inquiry whether i should disturb him if i came in just then; and would tell me that i never disturbed him, and bid me show him my sum before i returned to the school-room, when he had always some pleasant remark to make upon it. i then was sitting on my favourite seat in the window working at compound division, when my mother came into the room. "i've been thinking," she said to my father, "that it's a pity both the boys should not go with you to stavemoor: if you could manage without rickson, or let him ride one of the carriage horses, i think you might trust aleck on the gray." i listened to every word, my pencil going slowly and more slowly, whilst i put down three times nine, twenty-seven--two, carry seven; and was hopelessly wrong afterwards in consequence. this ride to stavemoor was a special pleasure in prospect. both aleck and i had wanted to go; but the pony being mine, i had taken it as a matter of course that i should be the one chosen, and my cousin had not thought of questioning my rights. but now to hear my mother quietly proposing, not only that aleck should go, but that he should ride the gray--it was a sore trial to my feelings: that gray had for months been the object of my ambition, but i had not been thought a good enough rider to be trusted, and now that my cousin should be thus promoted was hard to bear. the colour mounted to my face when i heard the proposition, and then my father's answer:-- "i am not sure about it; and yet the boy is at home in the saddle, and has a firm seat. i'll speak to rickson. aleck's been looking pale of late, and i think more rides than he can get when there's only the pony between the two boys, would do him good." "papa," i said, with quivering lip and reproachful voice, "you've never let _me_ ride the gray. it's always aleck now--he gets everything, it doesn't seem to matter about me." my father gave one quick glance of surprise and consternation at my mother, and then turned to me:-- "willie! my own little willie!" he said, pausing as if for an explanation, and putting out his hand in a manner that meant i was to come to his side, which i did rather slowly. "i've so often asked you to let me ride the gray, papa, and you've never allowed it, and now you're going to let aleck. i don't want to go to stavemoor--aleck may have the pony; i wish i had said so at first; i don't want to ride the pony, and have him on the gray." and thereupon, almost frightened by the evident distress my sentiments had occasioned, i burst into a passionate fit of crying, which permitted only a few more broken words to the effect that i wished aleck had never come to braycombe; i hated his being there; and that my parents were very unkind to care for him more than they did for me. my father held me there at his side whilst i sobbed and cried as if some tremendous calamity had overtaken me. i knew without looking up, which i was ashamed to do, that his eyes were resting upon me with an expression of sad surprise; and the silence became perfectly unbearable. he spoke at last:-- "my poor little willie," he said, "what sad feelings you have allowed to creep into your heart! how unhappy they will make you! you have said very wrong words, my child, and i cannot tell you how much pain you have caused to me and your mamma. i hope that you will be very sorry by-and-by; but you know, willie, being sorry will not undo your fault, nor take away the envious feelings which you have allowed to spring up within you; and unless such feelings as these are conquered you will be an unhappy little boy, and grow up to be an unhappy man. willie," he added, after another pause only interrupted by my struggling sobs at longer intervals than at first, "you know, my child, whose strength you will need to help you in the battle: you are but a weak little boy, and cannot help yourself; you must pray for the help of god's holy spirit, or else you will never conquer these wrong feelings." i hung my head, and remained silent. "i trust aleck knows nothing of all this," resumed my father. "we have promised to care for him as though he belonged to us. i will not allow him to feel that he is disliked by the boy who promised to love him." "no, papa," i put in, for my temper had well-nigh expended itself; "i do like him still--rather--only not always. i like him very much sometimes: i think now i'm very glad he came--only i don't like his having things that i mayn't have." "that, willie," answered my father, "must be left to me to decide. i shall miss my little boy very much this afternoon; but i cannot allow you to come to stavemoor with me to-day, after all that has passed." there was just this ray of comfort in the announcement, that at least aleck would not on this particular occasion gain the object of my ambition. "is aleck to ride my pony, then?" i inquired, half ashamed of myself for asking. the quick, decided manner, in which my father withdrew the arm he held around me, and answered,-- "certainly not, unless i find rickson thinks the gray would be unsafe," made me feel more unhappy than ever; and it was with a sorrowful heart that i obeyed a summons to the school-room brought in at that moment by my cousin, and showed up my incorrect and unfinished sum to mr. glengelly. i suppose that he saw something had gone wrong with me, by my appearance; he was certainly more merciful than usual over my shortcomings in arithmetic, and the lesson-time went by so pleasantly that i was quite in good humour by the time it ended, and went out in restored spirits for the half hour's exercise which preceded our dinner, determining that, the first moment i could see my father, i would tell him i was sorry, revoke what i had said about aleck, and ride my pony to stavemoor. in furtherance of these views, i ran round by the stables, and finding that only peter the great and the gray had been ordered, told rickson in confidence that i had said to my father in the morning i would rather not ride; but, having changed my mind since then, he was to be sure and be ready to send round the pony as well. aleck, in the meantime, heard of the treat in store for him, and was greatly elated, chattering briskly during dinner about the expedition, without any idea that i was likely to be left behind. my father was not a great luncheon eater, and when very busy, would often only have a glass of wine and a biscuit sent into the study, instead of joining us at table. finding this was to be the case on the present occasion, i asked leave to carry in the tray, and was permitted to do so after i had finished my own dinner. my father was at his writing, and looked up when he saw me, making a place amongst his papers at the same time for the tray. "papa," i said, when i had put it down, "i'm sorry for what i said this morning. i don't mind aleck's riding the gray; and please i should like to ride my own pony. i saw rickson before dinner, and told him i had changed my mind, and that very likely the pony would be wanted." my father answered, in a quiet, grave voice: "you might have spared yourself the trouble, willie, of speaking to rickson, for, though i'm sorry to leave you behind, i cannot allow you the pleasure of the ride to stavemoor this afternoon." "but, papa," i pleaded, "you always forgive me when i say i am sorry." "and i do not say now that i will not _forgive_ the wrong things you said this morning," he answered; "but i cannot let your conduct pass without punishment. you must remember, my child," he added, drawing me towards him, "that _forgiving_ and _not punishing_ are very different things. do you remember when god forgave david his sin, yet he punished him by the death of his son. and it would be contrary to his commands if christian parents were to allow their children's faults to be _unpunished_, although it is a christian duty to exercise a _forgiving spirit_." the practical result of this statement was what i thought of most; it was clear to my mind that the ride to stavemoor had to be given up, and my brow grew cloudy. "then, papa," i said, poutingly, "i mayn't go with you this afternoon?" "certainly not, willie," very decidedly; "you will spend one hour, from the time we start, in your own room; and i trust that you will remember during that time--_if you are_ really sorry--that mine is not the only forgiveness you have to seek." "aleck's, papa?" "no, not aleck's; i hope he will never have an idea of all the wrong feelings you have entertained towards him." "you mean god's forgiveness," i said, more seriously; for that was a name never to be pronounced without deep reverence. "yes, willie; don't forget, my child, that the youngest as well as the oldest of us has need to seek the fountain opened for all uncleanness. no repentance will wash us clean. you must ask, through the lord jesus, not only that your sins may be forgiven, but that you may also have strength to do better for the future. you may go now. remember what i said about the hour in your own room." i departed accordingly, passing aleck in the passage all ready and equipped for his ride. brushing past him, without giving an answer to his inquiry whether i was going to get ready, i ran quickly up-stairs to my own room, shut the door, and burst into tears. by-and-by i heard the horses coming round; then i wiped my eyes, and kneeling upon a chair at the window, where i could not be seen, watched all the proceedings. rickson, faithful to my interests, had, i perceived, brought up the pony ready saddled. i almost hoped that aleck would have had it after all. but no; i saw him in another moment mounted upon the gray, which, apparently conscious of a lighter weight than usual, began shaking its head, and showing off its mettle. rickson held it firmly. "so-ho! so-ho!" i heard him saying. "ease her a bit, master gordon; ease her mouth; there--there--so-ho!" aleck held the reins firmly, and his ringing voice came up cheerily through the air. "i'm not a bit afraid, thank you, uncle grant." my father in the meantime mounted peter the great; and before starting i saw the stable-boy give him a leading rein, which he put into his pocket, for future use i mentally decided, in case aleck should have difficulty in managing the gray. but no such difficulty occurred within the range of my observation. when rickson removed his hand from the bridle she bounded off rather friskily; but in another moment aleck had reined her in, and was displaying such ready ease in the management of his steed, that it was clear my father's confidence in his horsemanship was justified. as i turned round from the window i heard my mother's soft footstep in the passage, and in another moment she had entered my room. she had her walking things on, and a little basket in her hand, well known to me as invariably containing jellies, puddings, or packets of tea for some of the many invalids to whom my mother was as an angel of mercy. she stopped only for two or three minutes, to tell me how thankful she was to know i had felt sorry for my behaviour in the morning, and how grieved to have to leave me at home when she would have liked me to have been out riding with my father, or walking with her; and then, after some further words of monition, she left me to my solitary hour's watch, and i could see her taking her way down the drive, and turning off through the wood, until the last flutter of her blue ribbons was lost in the distance. then i bethought me of seeing how much longer i had to spend in my own room, and, looking at the clock-tower over the stables, found it was scarcely more than three o'clock. i could not feel free until a quarter to four, and the time began to feel very long and wearisome. in general, i was a boy of manifold resources, and every moment of my leisure time seemed too short for the many purposes to which i would willingly have applied it. but on this particular afternoon i seemed to weary of everything. even my last new book of fairy stories failed to interest me. i felt as if, instead of fancying myself the hero of the tale, i was perpetually being compared, by my own conscience, to the unamiable characters--cinderella's sisters, for instance, or the elder of the two princes who lived in a country long ago and nowhere in particular; elder brothers being in fairy tales, as all true connoisseurs are aware, jealous, cruel, and sure to come to a bad end; whilst the younger brothers are persecuted, forgiving, and finally triumphant, marrying disenchanted princesses, and living happy ever after. i threw aside my fairy book, and sought for some other means of amusement in a repository of odds and ends, established in a corner of the room by the housemaid, whose efforts to observe order in disorder were most praiseworthy. there i was glad to discover a piece of willow-bough stripped of its twigs, and in course of preparation for the manufacture of a bow. immediately i set myself to adjusting a piece of string to it, and completing its construction. this occupation was far more engrossing than the reading had proved; and almost sooner than i had expected, the three-quarters chime of the clock proclaimed my liberation. i seized my garden hat, ran down-stairs, and sped out upon the lawn, determined to feel very merry, and to enjoy trying my newly-made bow as much as possible. it was annoying that frisk had gone with the horses--it made me feel more lonely not to have him to play with; but still, my hour's imprisonment being over, i thought i could find plenty of amusement. so i began firing away certain home-made arrows, to which my mother's loving fingers had carefully fastened feathers; putting up a flower-pot on a stand as a mark, and trying to hit it. but the arrows did not go very far after all, and i leant down upon the bow and tightened the string, and then tightened it again, until there was a sudden snap, and a collapse--it had broken in two pieces! i threw the bow aside in disgust, and went off into the shrubbery, and then down the carriage drive, hoping to meet my mother; but she happened to be detained that afternoon at one of the cottages where she was visiting, and missed her usual time for returning. feeling very dreary and disconsolate, i finally wandered back again into the house, and hung about in the different rooms in a listless, dissatisfied mood, until, at about half past five, i could hear the rapid tread of horses' feet, and in another moment my father and aleck cantered up to the door. frisk was flourishing about in his usual style, and found me out in a moment, jumping up upon my shoulders, and licking my hands, and expressing in perfectly comprehensible language his regret that i had not been of the party, and his pleasure in seeing me again. aleck was in a high state of spirits, triumphant at having proved himself sufficient of a horseman to manage the gray, and delighted with all the incidents of the expedition. he did not know the reason of my having stayed at home; but told me how sorry he was i had not been with them, and tumultuously recounted the various pleasures he had enjoyed. "see, i've got lots of shells," he said, "and several beautiful madrepores. you must have some of them. they'd had a wedding, too, and we had to eat some of the bride-cake, and drink their health, and--" but aleck's enumeration did not proceed further, for i think my father perceived how keenly i was feeling the contrast between his joyous excitement and my own very dreary heaviness of heart, and called to me to come to the study with him, and put away his riding whip. so i gladly turned away from my cousin, and followed my father to his room. to some children, the study, library, or whatever other room is consecrated to the use of the head of the family, is a sort of dreadful and solemn place, generally closed to them, but opening from time to time as a court of justice, to which they are brought when their misdemeanours have exceeded usual bounds, and are considered to require severer measures than are within the province of the lesser authorities. very alarming, in consequence, is the summons when it comes. with me, however, the case was happily very different; the study was associated with countless hours of happy intercourse with a father whose very countenance was beaming with love. times of reproof and punishment there had been also, but the returning happiness of forgiveness, the loving words of advice, the kind and constant sympathy, i never failed to find from him, made me look upon an invitation to his room as the best thing that could happen to me, whether i was happy or in trouble. "my poor little willie," he said, sitting down almost immediately, and drawing me towards himself; "have you been very sorrowful?" i hid my face on his shoulder, and sobbed out that i was quite miserable. "have you thought what it is that has made your day so sad, willie?" he asked, kindly. "yes, papa," i answered between my sobs; "i wasn't allowed to go to stavemoor, and i was so unhappy in my own room all alone, and--and--i broke my bow just after i had finished making it--" "but the beginning of all this unhappiness, willie--quite the beginning?" "aleck's having the gray, papa," i said. "i think that was quite the beginning." "so do i think so, my child," rejoined my father; "or rather, the wrong feelings to which this gave rise. and now consider, willie, how wrong and ungrateful you have been, to let this grow up into such a trouble. just think of all to-day's mercies: your home, your loving papa and mamma, all the comforts that so many little boys are without; and then, besides all these, a pleasant excursion planned to give you special pleasure on your half holiday. and, in the midst of all these blessings, instead of being thankful and happy, you are suddenly overwhelmed, as though by a great misfortune; not because any of your enjoyments are to be diminished, but because another is to have a pleasure which you think greater." my father paused for a moment, and i could not help feeling that, according to his way of putting it, i certainly had been both naughty and foolish: still, it occurred to me that being happy was not in itself possible at all times; and that, similarly, if i were unhappy, i was unhappy, not by choice, but because it was not in my power to feel otherwise. i thought this, not indeed in words, or in any semblance of coherent argument, but in a sort of confused perplexity, which was only partly represented by my reply to my father:-- "papa, i couldn't help feeling unhappy when i heard you talking about aleck's going. i couldn't make myself feel happy." "ah, willie, you've come to the root of the matter now," he answered;--"'_couldn't make myself_ feel happy!' that is just it, willie; a wrong feeling of envy came into your heart--you know it was a wrong feeling that feeling of dislike that another should be happy, so i need not waste time in proving it to you; and you could not chase the enemy from your own heart, so, without ever remembering that there is one who promises to help all who cry to him for help, and who is stronger than the strong man armed, you give in at once to the enemy; and as you couldn't help yourself, came out of the battle conquered and vanquished." i hung my head down, feeling i had been a coward. "i'm so sorry, papa," i whispered. "i thought you would be ere long, my child," he said. "i hope you used the time in your room partly as i intended." i knew i hadn't, and felt still more ashamed of myself, but said nothing; i was never required to mention whether i had followed my parents' advice on such occasions, they were so fearful of making me a hypocrite. "our heavenly father will have forgiven you all your fault, if you have sought forgiveness through jesus christ; and now your earthly father is quite ready to forgive also, as you seem really sorry." my father gave me a kiss, and i threw my arms around his neck, and felt the loneliness and sadness of the day all over. my mother came in a few moments later, and joined us in the study, and with her loving, gentle words, completed my happiness in being forgiven and received back again into my usual position. she did not forget all that had passed, however. i found that out at our bible readings; for almost the very next day she took for her subject with us boys, the sin of envy and its consequences, and the best means of conquering it. i can remember to this hour the different illustrations--cain, and saul, and the blood-thirsty pharisees on the one side; and moses, and david, and jonathan, and paul, on the other; and the verses we found out in proverbs and in the epistles: they perhaps did me some good at the time, but my heart was not really touched. i had not found out, in my own little personal experience, what my father meant by the _fountain opened for all uncleanness_, and there were bitter but necessary lessons still in store for me. chapter v. ship-building. my story would grow too long were i to tell of all the employments, amusements, and adventures, which made the months fly rapidly by with us boys that summer and autumn long ago at braycombe. my cousin's companionship made me more than usually diligent in my studies, and more than usually eager in my amusements; whilst the watchful care of my parents seemed to screen me from many of the minor trials and temptations which might otherwise have rendered me less happy than i had been in former days. i can remember now with admiration, how carefully they measured out even-handed justice to my cousin and myself. they never seemed to forget that they had promised aleck should be as my brother, therefore every arrangement took us equally into account. and although the meanness of envy was held by them to be not only sinful, but contemptible, they were quite alive to the keen sense of justice which is born with most children, and would never violate it by the exercise of a partiality too common amongst those who have the charge of the young, either with the object of giving me as their child some special pleasure, or aleck as our visitor some special indulgence. it was not long after the stavemoor expedition that i was allowed to try my horsemanship by mounting the gray. rickson was on the alert; but had it not been for his interposition, my equestrian pursuits would have come to a very disastrous ending. i was convinced against my will of the wisdom of my father's decision, that i should for the present be content with my pony; relying, for consolation, on his promise that, before very long, i should learn to manage the more spirited animal. in the meantime i no longer felt it a trouble that my cousin's superior skill in this respect should be recognized. aleck seemed to care less about the riding than i did. his passion for the sea--for boats, sea-weeds, stones, caves, and cliffs, everything directly and indirectly belonging to the sea--grew and strengthened upon him. his special ambition was to succeed in constructing a rival to the "fair alice;" but although honourable scars on his fingers bore witness to the industry with which he plied his tools, his attempts at ship-building had hitherto proved signal failures. i was more successful in my carpentry than he was, and it was quite a pleasure to me to give him all the help i could. between us we at last produced something more resembling a ship than all former attempts, and we rushed eagerly down to the cove one bright september afternoon, impatient for the launch. aleck and i had the cove all to ourselves: old george had not been with us so much as usual for weeks past; there were, indeed, few days we did not see him, but he did not stay with us all through our play-time; he would come and go, and come and go, until we boys would take to teasing him with questions as to what it could be that kept him so much occupied. i had my own private suspicions, and communicated them to aleck; but old george would throw no light upon the subject. i had good reason for remembering that the th of september, now drawing near, was my parents' wedding-day, my mother's birth-day, and almost the greatest festival in the year to us at braycombe. old george, who lay in wait for opportunities of giving me presents, always looked upon this anniversary as one that would admit of no questioning, and more than once the offering to me--by which he meant to show his love to my parents--had been the result of many a long hour's secret work. the "fair alice" had been my present on the preceding year, and i had dim suspicions--built upon a certain hasty glance into a little room called the work-shop at the back of the lodge--that something else was even now in course of construction, which i half suspected to be a schooner-yacht with two masts, such as i had more than once expressed a wish to possess. but george was impenetrable, and kept the work-shop closely bolted, so i had to nurse my curiosity until the th. it was the day before this great occasion that aleck and i ran down to launch our boat, as before-mentioned. alas! we had scarcely pushed it out upon the water, when, with a roll and lurch, it turned over upon its side, and floated like a wreck, in a helpless and melancholy manner. we drew it up on shore again and set to work; i cheerily and hopefully, feeling perfectly aware that everything that was at all good in the workmanship was mine; aleck mournfully, knowing that all the faults in its construction were his. "i wonder at groves not coming," he said, presently; "i can't help thinking he could tell me how to make it float straight." "i'll just go and make him come," i replied; "he's been so little with us the last few days, i'm sure he might find time." aleck agreed, and i set off to the lodge, leaving him to puzzle on by himself over the manifold difficulties of ship-building. to bring old george to the rescue, however, did not turn out the easy task that i had anticipated. he was in the work-shop, the door safely bolted, and not even the smallest aperture anywhere, through which i might discover the nature of his employment. my persuasions were all carried on at a disadvantage, and the conversation resolved itself into:-- "please, george, _do_ come and help us; it's very important. aleck wants you particularly down at the cove." this from my side of the door. then from his side:--"i'm afraid, master willie, i can't possibly find the time; i'm very busy." from my side:--"but aleck's boat won't sail, and we've tried everything to make it, and unless you come we can't do anything more." from his side:--"i'll come to-morrow, master willie, and then see if we don't get master aleck's ship to sail as merrily as the 'fair alice' herself." "even _you_ will not be able to do so much as that," i rejoined; whereupon a low chuckle of merriment and satisfaction was clearly audible on the other side. i continued:--"it's very well to laugh, but if you could see aleck's boat all lying on one side, looking not so nice even as the tub-boat in the 'swiss family robinson,' you wouldn't think it so easily made all right." no answer; but click, click inside. "at least, do tell me what you're working at," i said, growing impatient, and battering at the door; "do tell me--there's a dear old george." "work that can't be hindered by playing with two young gentlemen all the afternoon. there, sir, now i've told you;" and another chuckle followed, and click, click went on as before. i had no excuse for lingering longer. george was like a besieged garrison within a secure fortress; there was no chance of enticing him out beyond the shelter of his walls. so i could only return discomfited to the cove. "there's no use trying," i said to aleck. "all that old george will promise is to come out to-morrow, and make your boat sail as well as the 'fair alice' herself: those are his words." "he's not very likely to be able to do that," responded aleck, dolefully surveying our workmanship. "i've been trying to trim it with a stone stuck securely on and tarred over; but look, even that has come off again, and it will do nothing but turn over in that wretched way. if i had been trying to construct a wreck now, i'm sure i couldn't have made anything more like." "and that's something, after all," i said, encouragingly. "it's not every one that could have made a wreck." but my cousin took little comfort from the suggestion; he stood looking and pondering, until, at last, after some minutes' pause, he drew a long breath and exclaimed, as if from depths of internal conviction, "i'll tell you what; i must pull it all to pieces, and put it together quite afresh--from the beginning." "a strong-minded decision, and spoken out most heroically, mr. shipbuilder!" said a voice from behind, and we started at finding my father had come upon us so quietly that we had not perceived him. "you two boys are just like a pair of doctors consulting over a bad case; only you've come to what is happily rather an unusual conclusion, namely, that the best plan is to kill the patient!" "i think the patient's dead already," answered aleck, tragically. "and you're only going to dissect him--is that it?" asked my father merrily, inspecting the boat, and listening with interest to the various measures which had already been tried and had failed. "well," he added, "if my opinion as a consulting physician is to be taken, i should recommend groves as the best surgeon; his advice to be followed in every particular, and all operations he may suggest to be duly performed." "we've asked him," we both exclaimed, "and he said he was too busy to come." "but," i added, "he promises that to-morrow he will make aleck's boat sail as well as mine." "his must be uncommonly clever fingers if they are equal to that task," said my father doubtingly; "but, as i said before, surgeon groves is the man for your bad case. and now i should like to know which of you means to stay at home to-morrow morning and learn the lessons which ought to be prepared this afternoon, and which will not be ready unless we are betaking ourselves home very soon? you, willie?" "no, papa," i said, "nor aleck either; we mean to have a very delightful, long, whole holiday, and to do no lessons at all, not the very smallest little bit of one." and so saying, we picked up the boat and various other belongings, and, one on each side of my father, took the way of the zig-zag up towards home. "we haven't quite settled all we are going to do to-morrow, papa," i proceeded; "but if we may, we want to have the boat in the morning, and sail the 'fair alice,' and go out to some place for madrepores; and george is going to see about aleck's boat too. and then, in the afternoon, we would play cricket with you, dear papa." "i am much obliged to you, willie," answered my father, playfully bowing to me, "and feel greatly honoured at your kind arrangement for my amusement. perhaps you have planned for your mamma also; is she to field-out when i take my innings? or possibly she will bowl!" "auntie couldn't soon put you out if she were to bowl," said aleck, laughing; "it would not do to trust auntie with the ball." "then, perhaps, the wicket?" suggested my father. "now, papa, you know," i interposed, "you will be all alone with dear mamma in the morning--you always are--but you always do play with me in the afternoon; and now that aleck is here to play also, it will be so jolly. please, dear papa, do say you will." "shall i say, like the poor people, _i'll consider of it?_" answered my father. "but allow me to state to you both that i am at present considering another thing, which is, that so long as i have you two boys clinging one at each side of me, i am reduced to the necessity of climbing this steep hill with a matter of twelve stone in tow, and that at my time of life i ought rather to be looking upon you young people as crutches to assist my failing steps." "do use me as a crutch, papa!" i exclaimed. "please, uncle, let me be another crutch," chimed in aleck, and we insinuated ourselves into what we thought a convenient position under his elbows. whereupon, suddenly bringing his weight down upon us, and contriving a dexterous movement towards the bank, my father landed us both on our backs amidst the grass and the ferns, and was off at such a pace that we were some time in catching him up again, out of breath as we were with the fall, and the laughing, and the running up the hill. "isn't papa great fun?" i asked my cousin, as we were in pursuit. "glorious!" was his only response; but i thought it quite sufficient. chapter vi. the schooner-yacht. there are some unfortunate children who seem fated to have their holidays and special occasions drowned in rain. i, on the contrary, belonged to the favoured class, accustomed always to expect, and almost always to enjoy, sunshine bright and glorious, whensoever birth-days, high days, and whole holidays made me specially prize and value it. so it was by no means with surprise that i opened my eyes the next morning to find the sun's golden rays streaming in at my window, and to observe, on jumping up and looking out, that there was not a cloud to be seen, save, indeed, the shadowy gray morning mist that was fast dispersing over the sea. i pattered hastily into aleck's room before proceeding to the business of the toilet, to awaken him, and to urge upon him the desirability of getting up as soon as possible, and coming down with me into the garden to gather a nosegay for my mother, an institution of three years' standing, and which i would not upon any account have dispensed with. aleck murmured such a very sleepy assent to my views, that i was constrained to resort to extreme measures, lest he should "go off" again, and accordingly took to the gentle persuasion of water sprinkled on his face, the counterpane delicately withdrawn from his bed, and similar little attentions, which i felt to have been completely successful, when a pillow, wielded with the vigour of self-defence, gave notice that hostilities were about to be returned, and i withdrew to my own room. it was not long before we were both out in the garden busily engaged in a careful inspection of the flower-beds, preparatory to the flower-gathering. any flowers i liked, i might gather on this particular morning, but as the nosegay must not be too large, choice was difficult. aleck made plenty of fun, but in reality gave little help. "what's the use of my advising you," he said, not without reason; "you never take my advice when you get it?" and, in truth, i had uniformly taken the opposite line to the one he suggested, choosing a scarlet geranium where he offered a light-coloured verbena, and a rose when he had suggested mignonnette. "you see," i explained, "mamma won't care for it unless i arrange it all myself. then nurse has a lace paper ready which i shall put round it to make it look better. if you like you can hold the flowers," i added, kindly. but this did not meet my cousin's views. "i think i'll make a nosegay for uncle," he said, presently; "i suppose i may--eh, willie?" i felt sure there could be no objection, and signified my opinion from the very centre of a geranium bed, in which i was making active researches, that would have turned the gardener's hair gray with consternation had he not been safely off the premises at the time, comfortably engaged in discussing his breakfast. and aleck set to work, and soon gathered a nosegay that almost, if not quite, equalled my own. which of our young readers who knows the delight of being let loose on some fine morning in a garden, with full permission to pluck flowers at their own sweet will, knows when to stop? we certainly did not, and should have produced bouquets, at all events, quite unrivalled for size, had it not been for the sounding of the first gong, and the appearance on the lawn of nurse herself, still so called, although i was no longer her subject, in virtue of her unlimited right of jurisdiction over our clothes. "a fine sight you're making of yourselves, young gentlemen," she said, beginning with general statements, and then descending into details. "i should like to know what you call that style of hair-dressing which means that every hair stands straight out in any direction but the right one, and no two of them the same. and, master willie, if you think you can go down into the dining-room with your tunic in its present condition, not to mention your boots, or master gordon's jacket, you're greatly mistaken. and then to look at your collars! no wonder that the bills are as they are, with respect to french polish and blue for clear starching; i know that boys, be they young gentlemen or others, cannot be expected to act like creatures endowed with reason, but still it passes me to understand their ways with respect to clothes well fitted too, and made in the most approved fashion." "i think _we_ should be black and blue if nurse were not really very good-natured, though she talks like that," i whispered to aleck; feeling too much the cause she had for strictures upon my personal appearance at the time, to take that opportunity of defending the general character of boyhood. so we surrendered at discretion, and went up-stairs to make ourselves tidy, receiving before the second gong visits of inspection from nurse, who had in the meantime tied up our nosegays for us, and placed the lace paper round the one i had gathered for my mother. very important i felt myself as i went down-stairs, for two little packets, folded in white paper, had been entrusted to my care by my parents respectively, containing, as i well knew, their presents for each other, which were to be delivered by me before breakfast. directly after prayers the presentation took place. first, the little parcel addressed to my mother, with the message, which i delivered demurely enough, that a gentleman who would not give his name, had left it for mrs. grant yesterday, and--but here i broke down, and my appeal, "oh, papa, i've forgotten what more it was i was to say," produced a peal of laughter, and put an end to our little pretence of mystery. "your packet is much the smallest, papa," i said; and watched to see what would come out of the white paper. my father's face lit up with pleasure as he opened a small case and discovered a beautifully executed miniature of my mother. "willie," he said, "i think the lady who left this for me yesterday must have been very like mamma." "yes, papa, she was _very_ like indeed," i answered; and then we proceeded to inspect the contents of my mother's parcel, and admired, as much as it is in boys to admire jewelry, a beautiful bracelet, with which she seemed quite as much pleased as my father was with his present, and which had attached to it a locket in the form of a heart, containing, as we presently discovered, my hair twined with his. then aleck and i had to present our nosegays, which were, of course, greatly praised. "an unusual honour for me!" said my father merrily, when he received his. "willie generally cuts me off with a sprig for my button-hole." "aleck gathered it for you quite out of his own head, papa." "indeed!" said my father; "that is really the most wonderful thing i ever heard! gathered the nosegay out of his own head! well, i have been told of flowers growing in many strange places before, but never in so strange a place as a person's head. aleck, my dear boy, you will be the wonder of the age, so prepare to be made a show of! a flower-garden in your head! we must let the gardener know! we ought to place you under his cultivation instead of mr. glengelly's!" what a merry breakfast-table we had that morning. my father declared that he felt just like a boy, so happy in having his holiday; and aleck and i thought him more amusing and pleasant than any boy, no one ever seemed to make us laugh as he did. "of course, however," he suggested, "as it is going to be a whole holiday, and no work, there need be no eating either." but that was by no means our view of the matter; we declared ourselves more hungry than usual, and made such inroads on the honey that my father asked at last whether he had not better send out for the hive. after breakfast we had our bible reading with my mother; that was a treat and not a lesson--we never missed it even on whole holidays--and then my father joined us and took part in consulting over the plans for the day. "we shall dispose of these young gentlemen at once," he said, "for i find groves is expecting them at the cove, so soon as they can go; and they may have the whole morning to employ as they like, in the boats, or on the rocks--anything short of being in the water, which i do _not_ recommend. and for ourselves, rickson is going to bring round the pony carriage at twelve, when mrs. grant will be driven out by her humble servant, the coachman, supposing always that she sees no just cause or impediment." and my father playfully touched his forehead, as if waiting for orders. it was clear to read in my mother's eyes that she saw no difficulty in the way of the drive with my father; and we boys were not less ready to avail ourselves of the permission to go out at once and for the whole morning. we flew off to the play-room, loaded our pockets with a miscellaneous store of nails, string, and implements of one kind or another, such as we were wont to use in our various undertakings, and, carrying the melancholy hulk which aleck had not had time to pull to pieces, we set off at express speed to the cove, with frisk barking at our heels. there was not much talking during the first part of the scramble, but aleck contrived to get the contents of one of his pockets scattered by a hasty jump, and we had to stop and pick up the things, which was the signal for our chatter to begin as usual. "i wonder what surprise old george has for us?" i observed confidentially to my cousin. "whatever it is, i think he must have been a long time at it," replied aleck; "he's been shut up in the work-shop so often of late." "yes," i said; "and since that one peep i told you of, i've never had a chance of looking in." "perhaps more ships," my cousin suggested, his thoughts running in that line. "ever since i can remember he's always made me something," i said; "once it was a pop-gun, and the next time it was a cart, and then, last time, the 'fair alice.'" aleck listened quietly to the catalogue of my presents, only remarking that, if they got better each time, he wondered what they'd come to be at last; thus suggesting such a pleasant subject for speculation that i did not immediately find any occasion for further talk, but ruminated as we pursued our way for a few moments in silence. "it must be very nice," my cousin resumed presently, "having another day for presents besides christmas-days and birth-days. i wonder where papa and mamma will be my next birth-day." "whatever it is that george has made for me," i said, "you shall play with it too, aleck. i like you to play with my things." "you're very good about the 'fair alice,' i'm sure," answered my cousin. "i wish i had anything to lend you that would give you half as much pleasure. i'm afraid this--referring to the boat he was carrying--will not come to much, in spite of george's promises." it certainly did not look encouraging, but by this time we were gaining the shingle, the fresh sea-breeze blowing in our faces seemed to quicken our steps, and the rest of our way was a race between us and frisk until we reached the lodge. we found old george on the watch for us, his kind cheery face all in a pleasant glow of welcome. he was ready to start directly for the cove, he told us, when the first salutations were over. but i did not feel quite so eager, as might have been expected, having a private desire to explore the work-shop, of which i perceived the door to be open. "may i go in now?" i asked, moving towards it. "ay, ay, sir," answered my old friend with a merry twinkle in his eye, which developed into a broad smile by the time we returned from our fruitless inspection of bare benches and tools; and he took to singing,-- "when she came there, the cupboard was bare." "that master willie is a quotation from a celebrated poet. i reckon you're ready enough now to come on to the cove." we sallied forth accordingly, i convinced that there was some secret in store for me still; aleck full of thoughts about his ship, which he was exhibiting to george as he went along, narrating its many mis-adventures, and incorrigible tendency to sail bottom upwards, and gaining from the old man nothing but a series of chuckles, together with assurances which seemed to afford to george himself infinite amusement, that "master gordon's boat should sail in the cove as trim and tight as the 'fair alice' herself." it was a glorious morning. the sunshine was dancing and sparkling upon the water with a thousand gleaming flashes; the little waves came lapping playfully upon the sand and shingle to our feet, and made sweet music in the recesses of the rocks. we used to call these warm september days our indian summer, and were wont to fancy that they were never so bright and beautiful anywhere as at braycombe. groves took a quick comprehensive look towards the offing, and round again towards the rocks, and finally off towards the west, and then, as if satisfied with the result of his observations, said to us: "it would be a beautiful day for the white-rock cove, young gentlemen; the wind's shifted a bit since early morning, and ralph will be round in half an hour to give us a hand with the oars; if mrs. grant wouldn't mind your being a bit late for luncheon, as you're to dine in the evening, we could do it nicely." now if anything had been wanted to add to the zest of our enjoyment, this suggestion of groves's was just the thing. no expedition in the whole range of possibilities gave us so much pleasure as this one. first, it could only be accomplished in certain states of wind and tide; secondly, it occupied a longer time than could be usually available except on very propitious half holidays; and, finally, its attractions were of the most varied character. for what caverns were there in the whole neighbourhood that could compete with those at the white-rock cove?--with their deep clear pools, in which the pink seaweed and gorgeous anemones seemed to find a more congenial home than in any other place; with mysterious dark recesses and wonderful natural arches, and miniature gulf streams, that offered irresistible attractions to the spirit of enterprise, in the way of crossings on slippery stepping-stones; and with a soft white beach, spread out at the foot of the rocks, abounding with such a wonderful variety of shells, that our researches rarely ended without the discovery of some fresh specimen for our collections. nor must we omit to mention the only white rock of any size which was to be found in our red sandstone district, which gave its name to the cove, and as to which there were numerous traditions current in the neighbourhood. to the near side of the cove there was, indeed, a short way through the woods, but unless we had a boat we could not reach the caverns, or find our way to the most attractive spots for shell gathering. groves's suggestion was met, as might be expected, with rapturous applause, and by the time that we reached our own cove, it was decided that one of us boys should go up to the house to obtain the necessary permission, whilst, in the meantime, the boat should be got ready for the sail. the door of our boat-house was lying open as we came up, and something of unusual appearance was dimly visible inside. "the secret!" i exclaimed, running eagerly forward and drawing to light a beautiful large kite with a wondrous flying eagle depicted on it, and a tail of marvellous length, together with an apparently inexhaustible length of string. "oh, george, this is what you've been making--how beautiful it is!" "but maybe you don't guess for whom it's intended, sir; i don't deny the making of it," said the old man. "i think i do though," i answered, looking up at his kind, cheery face; "i think you've made it for me, george." "well, you're about right there, sir, and it's been a real pleasure to me the making of it, being, as it were, somewhat of a sailor's craft, it having to be driven of the wind, even though it might be said to be more for land than water." i heard aleck say that it belonged rather to the air than to earth or water in his opinion. then we took to a close inspection of the eagle, which we both agreed to be splendid, and became eager for an immediate trial of its flying powers. but here, to our surprise, old george did not at once agree. he wanted to see, he told us, whether he could not make master gordon's boat sail as well as mine. we could have a sailing match, and try which would go the best, if only we would get out the "fair alice;" and so saying he led the way to my own little boat-house, whilst we followed in speechless wonder at the absurdity of the proposition. "as if he could set my boat to rights in a few minutes!" said aleck to me incredulously. "here, master gordon," continued george, making pretended difficulties at the lock; "you had better open the door yourself, sir." aleck stooped down to do so. "why, george!" he exclaimed, "it's as easy as possible; what _did_ you make such a fuss about? but--oh--what a beauty! willie--willie--look!" and so saying, he drew forth a beautifully made little vessel, about the same size as my "fair alice," but even, as i thought, more perfectly finished, and with two masts. "a schooner-yacht," my cousin continued, triumphantly. "oh, willie, i like it a great deal better than even the 'fair alice.' is it yours, george?" he inquired. "no, sir," answered groves, quickly; "guess again." "i don't know any one else, unless it's willie." "near it, but not right; try again, sir; somebody else that's not very far off." my cousin coloured with a wild flush of delight; but though he stooped down to finger the new yacht in a sort of tender way, as if he loved it, he hesitated to make another guess, and i broke in impatiently,-- "aleck, why are you so nonsensical as to pretend you don't see it's for you?" "that's it indeed, master gordon; you'll understand what i meant about the sailing match now;" and the old sailor's face lit up afresh with kind enjoyment, as he marked the absorbing pleasure which his present was giving. another moment, and aleck was almost hugging the old man: "oh, how very, very, very kind of you to make it for me; i like it better a great deal than anything i have ever seen, better than the 'fair alice' even, and i did think that nicer than anything else. may i have it out on the water to-day; and couldn't we sail them both together as you said." there was no time for answering him, as he ran on immediately into a minute individual examination of all the details of the little vessel, calling for attention and admiration in every case: "look at the bowsprit, and then the rudder; see how delicately it moves; the royal is beautiful, and there are three flags; do look, willie, mine will be the admiral's vessel, and i can signal to you." i looked, but said very little, though aleck was too much absorbed with his own enjoyment to notice this, and kept appealing to me for sympathetic interest during the whole operation of unreefing the sails and launching the yacht for a trial sail in the cove. nothing certainly could look more graceful and pretty than did the little vessel, as it bent to the breeze, and steadily kept its course out towards the mouth of the cove. aleck clapped his hands exultingly, and ran forward to slip the rope across, as the tide was already pretty high, and still rising. then slowly brought the treasure back again, and surveyed it at his leisure in one of the little creeks, where the shelter of the rocks prevented it from speeding off again on its journey. frisk, too, took a great interest in the new acquisition, seeming to recognize in it an addition to his circle of friends. and george rubbed his hands, and chuckled with satisfaction, as he repeated again that master gordon's boat should sail on the cove as tight and trim as the "fair alice" herself. and i--yes, i must confess it, found the old miserable feelings were all back again, and vainly tried to shake off the dead weight which had settled upon me from the moment that i had clearly understood that aleck, and not i, was to possess the new vessel. perhaps george detected something of what was passing in my mind, for, when the question arose which of us boys should go up to the house to ask permission for the expedition to the white-rock cove, he decided at once that it should be aleck, saying that he and i would have time for trying the kite meanwhile; and, looking back at it now, i fancy i can understand his wanting to take off my thoughts from aleck's present, and make me think about my own. so aleck started off by the zig-zag, and george and i would have set to flying the kite immediately, had not he discovered that one of the sails of our own boat had been taken up to the lodge, and that he must go and look for it first. "i'll be back in less than a quarter of an hour, sir," he said, however, as he left; "and you can have the kite and be on the meadow ready." i had taken up the kite in my hand, but i threw it aside again the moment george turned his back upon me, and sitting down upon the stones near the water's edge, with frisk's fore-paws stretched across my lap, looked gloomily at the water and at aleck's new boat. evil feelings grew stronger and stronger within me as i looked. though fascinated so that i could not take my eyes off it, i hated the very sight of the pretty little schooner, and wished heartily that george had never made it. and i thought about aleck, how happy he was this morning, and how miserable i was; and i thought it unfair of him to be happier in my own home than i was; and then i wondered why george should care for him so much as to take all that trouble for him, forgetting how i had begged old george to love my cousin who was to be like my brother, and forgetting, too, that aleck's pleasant ways had won upon the old man during the past few months, so that he had gained quite an established place in his affections. these and countless other, but similar thoughts, chased each other through my head in a far shorter time than they take to relate, whilst dreamily i kept watching the little vessel, and mechanically taking note of its different points. the sails at first were flapping listlessly, the rocks, as i mentioned before, affording shelter from the breeze. but presently the breeze shifted a little, and this change, together with that produced by the tide, now just at its full height, moved the schooner somewhat further from the rocks; then gradually the sails filled once again, and after stopping a minute at one point, and a minute at another, as, drifted by the motion of the waves, it finally escaped from the little creek and stood steadily out into the open channel of the cove. i sprung to my feet and followed in pursuit, running or jumping from rock to rock towards the mouth of the cove. but the little vessel got under the lee of a projecting rock, and was stopped in its course for a while, so i sat down once more, not caring to find my way round to the other side and release it, according to my usual fashion, but finding a moody satisfaction in staring straight before me, and paying no attention to frisk, who was flourishing about with barks, and waggings of his tail and prickings of his ears, as if he thought he ought to be sent in pursuit of the new boat, and considered me deficient in public spirit for not stirring in the matter. then, as i steadily refused to notice him, he took to playing with the end of the rope on which the rings were fastened, which slipped on to the iron stake, as before-mentioned, and constituted our "harbour-bar;" seeming as pleased as a kitten with a ball of worsted, when he found that he could push the ring up and move it with his paws. in fact, the stake was so very short, and the ring so light, that i could see five minutes more of such play, and probably the rope would be unfastened, and the channel clear to the open sea. another moment and i noticed that the little vessel was clearing out from its shelter under the rock, the wind coming down into the cove in gusts and draughts, so that it seemed to blow every way in succession, and was now standing straight towards the mouth of the harbour. there was a quick, sharp conflict between the strong whisper of temptation and the protesting voice of conscience, when i marked the position of the boat, and saw also, that in another moment frisk's antics would have unfastened the barrier between it and the wide waters beyond. a quick, sharp conflict, and i came off defeated. hastily turning my back upon the harbour-bar, i ran to the head of the cove without disturbing frisk, who was so taken up with his newly found amusement, that he did not miss me; took up the kite and sped off to the meadow, which lay between the cove and the lodge, where i was joined by the dog, two or three minutes after, panting and breathless at my having stolen a march upon him. george, too, came a minute later from the other side into the meadow, which, although out of sight of the cove, owing to the rise of the ground, was as good a place to wait in as any, since aleck would have to pass through it on his way from the house. ralph appeared also, and through our united efforts, and to our united satisfaction, my new kite was soon soaring higher than any kite ever seen before by any member of our little party; great was my excitement in holding the string and letting it out, or taking it in as i ran from one part to another, frisk the while dashing about wildly, and barking as though at some strange bird of which he entertained suspicions. old george looked as pleased as if he had been a boy of six, rather than a man of sixty, and ralph rushed recklessly here and there and everywhere, with his head thrown back and his eyes rivetted upon the soaring kite, until, like genius in the fable, he was suddenly prostrate through stumbling over an unnoticed stump. "see what comes of not looking where you're going," moralized george, as he picked him up and gave him a general shaking by way of seeing that nothing had come loose in his tumble; a sentiment from which it is possible the youngster might have derived more profit, had not his elderly relative experienced a similar mishap almost immediately afterwards. i was the only heavy-hearted one of the trio; and even i forgot my cares and anxieties in the glorious excitement of holding in the kite, which tugged and tugged at the string as if it would carry me up to the skies, rather than give in. "i wonder what's kept master aleck such a time?" said old george, after we had spent nearly three-quarters of an hour kite-flying. the load at my heart came back again in a moment as i answered hurriedly, that i did not mind aleck's being detained, for the pleasure of flying the kite was as good as anything. and george, who inferred that the cloud he had noticed before over me had passed away, rejoiced accordingly. it was more than an hour from the time of his leaving, when aleck reappeared, holding one side of a small hamper, whilst one of the men-servants held the other. "lots of good things for luncheon," he said, by way of explanation, as they deposited their burden on the grass. and then he proceeded to unfold how some one had been calling on his uncle and aunt, and he could not speak to them at first; and then how his uncle had told him the drive would have to be later, and more distant than they had intended; and, finally, that the game of cricket being given up, we might have our luncheon and picnic at the white-rock cove, returning any reasonable time in the afternoon. "won't it be splendid?" aleck continued, gleefully, whilst i drew in line, and my kite slowly descended; "we shall have time for the sailing match, and madrepore hunt, and the caverns--everything!" i assented with as much of pleasure in my tone as was at command, thinking after all how very pleasant it would be if--there came the _if_--and i scarcely dared admit to myself, how sorry i began to feel at the thought that my man[oe]uvre had probably succeeded, or how sorely the disappointment to george and my cousin would mar our happiness! if only i could know that what i had wished to happen an hour ago had not happened, then how wonderfully light my heart would feel. a sickening feeling of anxiety, such as i had not dreamt of in my little happy life before, came over me, and nervously i hurried on the winding up of my string. "what a noble kite it is," said my cousin, "i wish i could go up upon one!" "'if wishes were horses'--you know the old saying, master gordon," responded groves. "i think you'd be sorry enough after getting up five hundred feet into the air, to feel that a puff of wind might tumble you over, and make the coming down a trifle quicker, and less agreeable, than the going up." "it was the going up, and not the coming down that i meant," rejoined aleck, "though i have heard papa say that coming down from a great height does not hurt." "ugh!" i ejaculated, "you wouldn't have me believe that. just a little while before you came to us i had a bad fall off the table. i can tell you it hurt!" "i've fallen, too, off a tree," answered my cousin, not to be outdone, for boys are wont to brag of their honourable scars, "and it hurt a great deal, but i mean falling from higher still. one of the sailors i talked to on board ship had fallen from a mast, and he told me that he went over and over; the first time he went over seemed quite a long time, and between that and the second time he seemed to remember almost everything he had ever cared about much in all his life, but after the second going over he never knew anything until he found himself lying in the cabin, and the doctor setting his arm, which had been broken in the fall, though he never felt it." "i'll be bound he felt it enough when the doctor got to work upon him," remarked george. "yes; but he didn't feel it when it broke," returned aleck, who wished to establish his point. by this time the stately kite was lying on the grass. i lifted it up, and we started in procession for the cove, aleck acting train-bearer to the long tail, and winding it up as he went along; and groves and ralph carrying the hamper. another moment, and we were in sight of the cove. my heart was beating violently, and i felt the crimson flush mount suddenly to my face, and then leave it again; but no one else noticed it, and as yet i could not see to the harbour-bar, so as to know whether the ship were safe or not. the little creek in which it had been left was, however, full in view, and aleck instantly observed that his new treasure was not there. but there was an entire absence of uneasiness in his tone, as he quietly remarked,-- "i suppose you put it into the boat-house lest it should be blown about whilst we were away;" and without waiting for an answer he placed the rolled-up tail of the kite in my hand, and ran forwards to look into the boat-house for it. it was in vain, however, that he searched first my miniature boat-house, and then every nook and corner of the real one. "it's not there," he said. "i thought you must have put it away." "i never said so," i answered; and then a bright thought coming to me, as to what would be an impregnable position to take up in all future inquiry, i boldly added, "i never touched it after you went away." "where can it be, then?" said aleck; and yet, though it was clearly a hopeless task, we once again looked carefully for the missing treasure in both boat-houses. there was the "fair alice," my own beautiful little vessel, that had seemed the most perfect thing of its kind, until the arrival of the new one; but the other was nowhere to be found. "tell you what, master gordon," said old george, "the wind's been uncommon shifting and fanciful this morning, and we left her with sails set; depend upon it, sir, that she's been drifting out with the tide a bit, and the wind so off shore, as it is now, she'd be up towards the mouth of the cove. we ought to have thought of the wind and the change of the tide; it will be well if she's not out to sea." "oh, no fear of that!" exclaimed aleck, joyfully, "because i myself put the harbour-bar across this morning when i sailed her first;" and so saying, he bounded off along the rocks towards the mouth of the cove, the rest of us following almost as fast. one hasty glance and i knew that what i had expected had taken place; the ring which tightened the rope across, so as to constitute a barrier, was now under water--the rope, it must be understood, being arranged to lie along the bottom when not specially adjusted--the channel out to sea was perfectly unimpeded, and there was no trace of the little vessel which, an hour and a half before, had been sailing so merrily upon the water. "o george!" exclaimed aleck, "see the rope is down; it must have gone out to sea; it _can't_ be gone!" but aleck's face of sad conviction belied his words. "it can't be gone!" he repeated; and yet the tears of disappointment were forcing themselves into his eyes, though he battled up bravely against his trouble, and tried to believe still that there was some mistake. then we betook ourselves to searching in every nook and corner of the cove, exploring impossible places amongst the rocks, and once again returning to look through the boat-house; i, hypocritically, as active as others, lest there should be any suspicion raised. "master willie," said groves at last, as if a bright thought had struck him, "i know what it must be, sir. you're up to a prank sometimes--in fact, rather often--and you've hidden away the yacht, for there's been no one else in the cove but you; though where you can have put it i'm puzzled to say, seeing there's not a place fit to hide a walnut-shell i haven't looked in, not to say a schooner yacht drawing half a foot of water." all faces looked relieved by the idea--the three other faces i mean. but as its tendency was to fasten a certain measure of responsibility upon myself, i thought it better to become indignant. "i don't know why you say i must have done it," i answered hastily. "i never touched the boat; what should i touch it for, it wasn't mine; you didn't make it for me. i told aleck i hadn't touched it." "master willie, master willie," expostulated groves, "don't be angry; i only thought you might have been up to a bit of fun, and i was mistaken." "then, george--o george!" exclaimed my cousin, grasping him by the arm, "she _must_ have gone out to sea;" and he tried hard to gulp down his feelings; "you know the harbour-bar is down." "and i should like to know how it came to be down," said george, severely. a new idea evidently passed all in a moment through my cousin's mind. with a fiery flashing in his eyes that i had never seen in him before, he turned suddenly upon me. "you naughty, wicked boy," he said. "you didn't touch the boat you say; but you didn't like my having it; you didn't like its being mine, because it was better than yours, and had two masts; and so you let down the bar, and--and she's got out to sea and is lost!" and so saying he burst into a passionate fit of tears. it is difficult to say which of us was the most surprised by this unlooked-for accusation of aleck's. i had never seen my cousin in such a temper before, but was far too conscious of the wrong part i had acted to be able at once to answer with a protest of innocence. so that in the very short space of time which was occupied by george telling aleck the case was not hopeless, and the vessel might be found yet, and that he'd be sorry for the wrong words he had said to me, a rapid controversy passed silently between me and my conscience somewhat in this wise:-- _conscience._--"you know that what he said is true about your not liking his having the schooner, and you know you wanted it to get lost." _answer._--"but i can say with perfect truth that i did not touch it _or the rope_." _conscience._--"you know if you had called off frisk the schooner would not have been lost." _answer._--"but i never _saw_ frisk unloose the ring; and i can say, with truth, that until just now i did not _know_ that it was not safe." _conscience._--"that will be a lie all the same. you have often been told that what makes a lie is the intention to deceive, and not the words only." _answer._--"what's the use of telling now that i really am very sorry it has happened. it's not any good confessing to aleck that i might have prevented it. after all, it was frisk who did it, and i did not even see frisk do it. and aleck's in such a towering passion; i could never face him and have him know the whole." _conscience_, more feebly.--"that's bad reasoning; you ought simply to find out what is right, and do it." _answer._--"and now that i come to think of it, it's a great shame that aleck should fly out so at me, and i won't stand it." and at this point the voice of conscience became perfectly silenced, and, turning defiantly to my cousin, i exclaimed,-- "i don't know what you mean, aleck, by accusing me of it; i never touched the rope, and i never touched the boat; i'm quite certain that i did not, and it's a lie of yours to say that i did." "o master willie, master aleck," gasped old george, in consternation. "young gentlemen, these words are not fit to come from such as you; what would your parents say?" but our brows lowered angrily, and we made no response; whilst george continued, abandoning in his dismay the usual form of address, and speaking as from age to youth, "my boys, children, have you not been taught of him 'who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not.' christian boys should try to be like their master, and such words as passed between you should never be heard amongst them. you've forgotten yourselves, young gentlemen, and you'll be very sorry soon for what you have said to each other. master aleck, you're wrong, sir, to say that master willie did it when he denies it. i've known master willie since he was born, and he speaks the truth. he's told me with the greatest of honestness when he's done things which was wrong, and no one else knowed of; as, for instance, when he ate the cherries and swallowed the stones, and when he got the cat's tail all over pitch--i can remember a score of things he's told me of, quite frank and open, and i'm sure he's spoken the truth now." i felt somewhat self-condemned whilst george thus enumerated the instances of my candour in simple unconsciousness of the fact that confessions of scrapes were generally received by him with such indulgence that it required the smallest possible amount of moral courage to make them. "shake hands, young gentlemen," he added, after another pause, "and be friends, and let us all do what we can to find the schooner--she's cost me many an hour's work." and at this moment, for the first time, it flashed upon me painfully how great the disappointment was to george as well as to aleck, and i was sorry, more sorry than i had hitherto felt. the pair of small chubby hands that met in the old sailor's rugged palm were unused to so ceremonious a meeting, and their owners were somewhat solemnized at being treated like grown-up gentlemen. but a fierce look of suspicion still lingered in aleck's face, and i doubt not a glow of anger and excitement in mine, which showed that groves's peacemaking had not been thoroughly effectual--we _felt_ still as we had _spoken_ before. chapter vii. the missing ship. in the meantime ralph had been busy getting all the things ready for our sail; so we took our places in the boat, and stood out to sea. the wind being steadily off shore, our progress was rapid; we bounded lightly over the water, and had soon placed some distance between us and the cove. george sat at the helm, keeping a keen look out in every direction; whilst aleck, ralph, and i, strained our eyes in fruitless efforts to discover the tiny white sail we were longing to see. the glorious sunshine dancing and sparkling on the water seemed to mock the gloomy heavy-heartedness that was darkening the hours of our long anticipated holiday. aleck and i were almost entirely silent. when we spoke, it was to ralph, or george, as convenient third parties; not a word would we say to each other. old george did his best, with clumsy kindness, to make lively remarks from time to time; but the responsive laugh was wanting; and, after experiencing two or three signal failures, he struck his colours and yielded to the spell that had fallen upon us. the whole braycombe coast for many miles is deeply indented with creeks and coves, and diversified with outstanding rocks and promontories, about the most picturesque and the most dangerous part of our southern shores. old george decided that probably the object of our search had been driven in by the fitful wind amongst some of the near rocks and creeks, and might, perhaps, be recovered by a careful search. so, warily steered by our experienced sailor, we set ourselves to the work, having scanned, to the best of our ability, the open sea beyond with a pocket telescope. what with the tackings frequently necessary, and the taking down sail in one place, and then putting it up in another, the time passed on rapidly; and we were quite surprised, as we finished the exploration of one of the little inlets, to hear groves remark that it was "nigh upon two o'clock, and that we'd all be the better of a little food." for the first time in our lives we had forgotten to be hungry. it was decided that we should spread the luncheon on a broad flat stone, near which our boat was now curtseying listlessly on the water, and take our repast ashore. george and ralph lifted out the hamper, and spread the cloth, and arranged the various good things we found inside. "and don't let us forget," said old george, reverently, lifting his hat, "the thanks we owe to our father, which art in heaven, for his bounties provided for us." the train of thought thus started seemed to go on in his mind, after we had set to the serious business of luncheon. "you see, young gentlemen," he presently continued, "we're to remember that all the good things he sends us come from the same hand that sends us our disappointments too; and though we don't always see it, it's true that the troubles and trials are amongst the _good_ things. many a time i've kept a-thinking of that verse which says, 'he that spared not his only-begotten son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not, with him, also freely give us all things'--the _all things_ there meaning, you see, the troubles and losses as much as the gains, and successes, and pleasures. and i think it's the same with children as with grown people; _their_ trials, which are small to grown-up people, are great to _them_, and they don't come by chance. and, when we are able to feel this way, young gentlemen, it's easier to bear up when the wind seems dead against you, and to say, when things go wrong, and there's a deal of beating about, and a shipping of heavy seas, as you're taught to say in the lord's prayer, 'thy will be done.'" i forget what was said after george finished this homely, but practical and excellent children's sermon; but i can remember that aleck's face looked somewhat lighter; the words seemed to have touched some inner chord, and to have met _his_ troubles more than they did _mine_. _my_ load, on the contrary, lay all the more heavily on my conscience; as i realized that i was entirely shut out from such consolations as george tried to offer, so that i became _more_ rather than _less_ gloomy. the old man resumed the thread of conversation soon again. "it seems strange now," he said, "to think how we're grieving over this bit of a toy ship, and then to think of how one's felt seeing, as i did once, a good ship with her crew, men and boys, clinging to the rigging, and going down before your eyes, and you not able to help them, though they kept a-screeching out and a-calling to you all the while." "couldn't you do anything?" we both exclaimed, our interest now fully awakened; "did you try to help them?" "oh yes, sir," george answered, and i could see the tears standing in his eyes; "god be praised, we didn't see 'em go down without doing what we could for them; and i'm glad to think of it, though my life didn't seem worth the having for many a long day afterward." "oh, why?" asked aleck, eagerly; and i, in spite of our being upon terms of not speaking, caught myself whispering to him, "don't you know?--ralph's father was drowned." but george went on, with his eyes fixed on the water, as if the great sea which had swallowed up his dead were a book, and he were reading from it. "his father"--and with a turn of the head he indicated ralph--"was with me; he was but four-and-twenty, and as handsome as handsome; a young fellow such as there was not many to be seen like him; and he was a good son--a good son to his mother and to me--and a child of god, too, heaven be praised! 'father,' says he, 'we must try to save them;' and, with the sound of those poor creatures' cries ringing in my ears, i dared not say no, though the odds were fearful against us, and i was careful over _him_, though i'd not have minded for myself. well, sir, two others joined us, and we succeeded in getting off; but just before we reached the sinking vessel, a heavy sea struck us, and in a moment we were all struggling in the water. i thought i heard ralph--_he_ was ralph too--i thought i heard him just say, 'god have mercy on my poor betsey!'--she as you know, master willie--and then i knew nothing until i woke up in a room where some kind people were rubbing me with hot flannels, and offering me hot stuff to drink. so soon as i could speak, 'where's ralph?' i says, looking round for him; and then i saw in their faces how it was; and they came round me, treating me quite tenderly like a child, though they were rough sailors. and one of 'em, a god-fearing man, who had spoken a bit to us many a time when we'd no parson, was put forward by them, and he comes and whispers to me, 'you'll see him again, george, when the sea shall give up its dead. you'll meet before the throne of god and of the lamb.' well, sir, i was but a poor frail mortal, and my senses left me again, and i was long of coming round. but ever since then, as i look at the wide water, i seem to hear a voice saying, the sea shall give up its dead, and we'll meet some day before the throne of god and of the lamb. yes; i'm not afraid of the open book for him, poor boy, for long afore that day i knew he'd taken his sailing orders under the great captain. 'father,' he's said to me, 'i know jesus christ has _died_ for me; i must _live_ for him.' and when the poor body was washed ashore, there was his little testament in his pocket, all dripping with the sea water. i dried it, and found it could still be read, and even some of his marks; there's not another thing i prize so much." old george took the little unsightly-looking volume from his pocket, and gave it reverently to us to look at, and aleck and i bent over it together, and deciphered on the title-page, in crooked lines of round handwriting, the name, _ralph groves_--_his book_; and underneath was a verse of a hymn, evidently remembered and not copied, which must have been one of those sung amongst the methodists on that part of the coast where, as george told me, ralph used to attend their meetings. "lord jesus, be my constant guide, then when the word is given, bid death's dark stream its waves divide, and land me safe in heaven." "you see, young gentlemen," resumed george, when we had given him back the little book, "things which seem hard to bear--ay, and _are_ hard to bear now--are but little things after all, and will be as nothing in that day when all wrong words and tempers will seem great things, far greater than we sometimes think." aleck and i had listened with full hearts to groves's touching account of his son's death, and it was in a subdued quiet manner that we rose up from our meal and settled ourselves again in the boat. there was evidently an inward struggle going on in my cousin's mind, and i almost feared that he was going to ask my pardon, which i should have disliked, knowing myself to be so much the most in the wrong. it was quite a relief to find that in this i was mistaken; he only remained, as before, very silent; and i, too, was silent, and found myself, with eyes fixed on the water, thinking of george's son, and of the opened book, and wondering concerning the things written therein, and whether all that had happened this day would be found there; whilst old george's words seemed to repeat themselves over in my mind, and i kept saying to myself, "the loss of the ship will be a very little thing then, whilst all wrong words and tempers will seem greater than we think." we had not resumed our search very long, when aleck declared that he saw something white in the distance which he thought was the little vessel. we all eagerly turned our eyes in the direction indicated, and although no one felt very sure that we had at last discovered the object of our search, there was sufficient uncertainty to make us eager in pursuit. we had to tack frequently, but at last reached the little white thing which inspired our hopes, and, alas! discovered that it was only a whitened branch of a tree washed out from shore, on which the wet leaves glistened and shone in the afternoon sun. it was a fresh disappointment to us all, and the time our chase had occupied prevented the possibility of any further research. even as it was, we were quite late in reaching the cove, and found that my father had been on the watch for us with his telescope, and had been greatly perplexed by the erratic character of our movements. of course he was instantly told the tragical history of our day. aleck, whose sorrow had been renewed by our fruitless search, did not hesitate to lay emphasis upon the fact that i had been left alone at the cove; and i was quite startled by the quick abrupt manner in which my father turned round to me and said,-- "willie, did you meddle with the ship or the rope whilst aleck was away?" but, thankful that the inquiry took this form, i was able to answer unhesitatingly,-- "no, papa, i did not touch the boat once, or the rope either, this morning, and it's very, very wrong of aleck to say that i did." whilst aleck, the dark angry look flashing once again from his eyes, exclaimed,-- "i know he hated my having the yacht; i'm sure he wanted me to lose it." mr. gordon, although as much shocked at this outburst as george had been, was not disposed to treat the matter quite as he had done. that both of us were guilty of wrong temper there could be no doubt, but he saw also that there was still something to be cleared up; and instead of quenching the subject by telling us we had both behaved badly, and deserved to be unhappy, as is the self-indulgent custom of many grown-up people in the matter of children's quarrels, he forbade any further recrimination, and after dinner was over, calmly and quietly inquired into every particular of our story, with as much care as if he had been on his magistrate's bench in court, and this were a case of great importance; first questioning aleck, and then myself. as my examination drew to a close, however, aleck once again burst in with the determined assertion that i knew more than i had said. my mother, who was present, was indignant at his persistency, saying that in all my life i had never told a lie, and it was unpardonable thus to speak of me; whilst my father simply said, "since you are not able to conduct yourself with propriety, aleck, you must go to bed." and my cousin left the room accordingly, whilst i was subjected to the moral torture of a further cross-examination; from which, however, strong in the distinct assertion that i had not touched either rope or boat, i came off clear. one step, indeed, my father gained, in the course of his inquiry, towards the truth. in answer to one of his questions, i used the pronoun _we_. "who's _we_?" asked my father, quickly. "frisk and i, papa." "then you had frisk with you, and i suppose as playful as usual?" "yes, papa." "did frisk get at the ship or the rope, do you think?" "i never saw him touch the ship; i don't think he could touch it; but then i went to the meadow to fly the kite." "did frisk get near the rope?" "yes, papa, just before i came away; but i didn't see him slip off the ring, though now i think he must have done so." "you think so because you saw him going near the rope?" "yes, papa; but i can't tell you any more. i went to fly my kite, and frisk came up quite panting soon after, having run hard because i had happened to leave him behind." "it was the dog did it," said my father quite decidedly, turning to my mother. "willie, you should have been more careful; you might have known it was not safe to leave frisk in the cove; but i quite believe your word, and that you had no hand in the matter." then the subject was dismissed: i played a game of chess with my mother, and finally went up to bed at the usual time, to receive, before going to sleep, the never-omitted visit, which was the peaceful closing to so many peaceful days. my mother stayed but for a moment on this evening, going on almost at once to my cousin's room. i heard all about that visit afterwards, so that i am able to tell what passed almost as well as if i had been present. my mother found aleck lying wearily and restlessly in bed, with tearful eyes and hot flushed face, that told of sleep being by no means near. she sat down beside him and said, "it was a sad disappointment for you, aleck, to lose your pretty new boat; and i daresay you feel it hard not to have your own dear mamma to tell all about it." aleck tried to answer, but failed, bursting into tears instead, and my mother talked on in her gentle loving way until the sobs grew less frequent, and my cousin became at last quite calm. she told him that i had always spoken the truth--she little knew--and that she could not doubt my word, and that my father had become quite convinced it was the mischievous work of the dog that had brought about all this trouble; and then she made him feel how wrong it was to have accused me, instead of believing my word; so that, before she left the room, he had told her he was very very sorry for what he had said, and he hoped she and his uncle would forgive him, and that he meant to ask my forgiveness also. i know that my mother told him of a higher forgiveness that must be obtained before he could feel at peace with his conscience, and spoke to him somewhat in the same manner that george had, about trials great or small being kindly and lovingly permitted by a heavenly father. i was almost asleep when my door opened, and the pattering of shoeless feet announced a visitor. aleck was groping in the dark, and, guided by my voice, reached the bottom of my bed, discovered the mound raised by my feet, felt his way along the ridge of my person, and having arrived at my head, flung his arms around my neck, and kissing me warmly--in my eye by mistake--said he could not sleep until he had told me how sorry he was for having behaved so badly, and suspected me, and called me bad names. he was quite sure now that frisk had done the mischief, and he hoped i would forgive him, adding that there was still just a chance of finding the vessel, and that he meant to be up very early, and out by six o'clock the next morning, to have a good look down in the white-rock cove. "i daresay i shall find it after all, willie, and if not--why, i must finish the old thing we've been working at so long. but i once found a knife of mine after i had lost it a week in a hay-field; so you see i'm lucky." he kissed me again and went back to his bed, whilst i lay tossing and wakeful, full of shame and self-reproach, and yet more than ever built up in my determination that i would not, and could not, confess the whole truth; it would be too great a shame and humiliation after having so fully committed myself, and when my parents had expressed such perfect confidence in my truthfulness. chapter viii. another search. half-past eight o'clock in the morning. the gong had sounded, and we had all assembled in the library for prayers. all but aleck, who, for the first time since he had been with us at braycombe, was not in his usual place. my father missed him, and turned to ask me where he was. "i expect he has gone out, papa," i replied; "he meant to go down to the shore to look for his boat." "if you please, sir," said bennet the footman, "i saw master gordon quite early this morning, maybe about six o'clock; he telled me he was going down to look after the ship." family prayer was concluded and breakfast began, and still aleck did not appear. as he had no watch, it was not surprising that he should mistake the time to a certain extent; but we all wondered he should be so very late, and at last my father began to feel uneasy. "he must have been a long way off not to have heard the eight o'clock bell," he said; "yet he's a careful boy; it seems unlikely he should come to any harm." "run out on the lawn, willie," suggested my mother, "and take a good look round; perhaps he may be in sight." but although i put a liberal interpretation upon the direction, and not only ran out upon the lawn, but also down the drive for a little way, and up the overhanging bank, from which we could got a sight far off towards the white-rock cove, i could see nothing of my cousin, and returned breathless to the dining-room without the tidings that my parents expected. the post had come in whilst i was out, and my father was engaged in the perusal of a letter from uncle gordon, reading little bits of it aloud to my mother as he went on. "just starting for the pyrenees ... need send no letters for a fortnight ... address poste restante, marseilles, after this; the constant change of air has done wonders," &c. &c. when the letter was finished, i saw there was one enclosed for aleck, which according to custom i laid upon his plate, repeating, at the same time, that i had looked in every direction, but could see nothing of my cousin. "he must have gone down to the lodge, and perhaps groves kept him, finding it was late, and gave him something to take," said my mother. whereupon my father rung the bell, and desired bennet to go down at once to the lodge and inquire whether master gordon had been there, whilst in the mean time i finished my breakfast, and was sent to the school-room to get my lessons ready for mr. glengelly. it was not long before my father came to me. "willie," he said, "i can't understand what has kept aleck, and i fear he may have hurt himself, and not be able to make his way home; so i am going out at once to look for him, and you must help me." there was something rather dignified in being thus spoken to by my father, and, had it not been for the secret load, of which i dared not tell him, but which already began to weigh with additional heaviness on my heart, i should have felt somewhat elated at finding myself of importance. my father continued in a quick, decided manner: "leave your lessons, and run off at once to the lodge. if you find ralph anywhere about, so much the better, he can go with you; in any case you and george could manage to get the little boat round to the white-rock cove, keeping in shore as nearly as george thinks safe, and keep a sharp look-out all the way along for your cousin.--stay; on second thoughts rickson shall run down to the cove too, in case ralph is not to be found; you will want another hand." i did not need twice telling, but was off in an instant, and, breathless with excitement, reached the lodge a few minutes after. my story was soon told, and george lost no time in getting out the smallest of our boats, and with ralph, who happened, as george said, to be fortunately "handy" on the occasion, we started upon our search. i could not help thinking of the morning before, and its search, but the excitement now kept up my spirits; it was something so new to be thus suddenly dismissed from lessons, and trusted to help in what was evidently considered a matter of some anxiety; _why_ they should be so anxious i did not trouble myself to reflect, having little idea but that aleck had wandered further than he intended, and perhaps experienced some difficulty on his way home. we glided along quickly and pleasantly enough, past the first inlet, and the second, from our own cove, scrutinizing all the banks, and rocks, and shady nooks, so familiar through many a wild exploring of ours; to reach the third we were obliged to stand out a considerable distance to sea, as the promontory bounding the white-rock cove on this side stretched far beyond the other rocky buttresses, making one of the most prominent land-marks in that part of the south coast. it was underneath its shelter that we had lunched the day before, and as we passed by the broad, flat stone in the little creek, the conversation we had had there repeated itself again and again in my mind. it was about half-past eleven o'clock when we had cleared this point, and george gave the order to haul down sail. "it's best to take to the oars now, master willie; we'd be a long while at it if we tacked--now, ralph, pull steady--you'll be about right if you keep her head straight for the white-rock, master willie"--i was at the helm--"ease her, ease her a bit; more to port, sir, more to port--now steady again--now ship oars--the tide's running in pretty fast, and will carry us in." george's commands, thus given at intervals as we doubled the promontory and made for the cove, alone broke silence, until, having shipped oars, there was nothing particular for him to do, and then all at once his tongue seemed unloosed. "poor boy," he said, "it would be a sad day to us all if aught has happened amiss to him, and his parents too off in foreign parts. how cut up he was about his bit ship yesterday, but it matters little if he is safe to-day. i mind now he told me just afore we parted yesterday, that he thought it was quite possible our little ship might have driven ashore here. but i hope he hasn't been rash in trying to climb where it's dangerous even for an active boy like him." "he told me last night," i said, "that he meant to look all along the shore as far as this. papa said we were to come here just in case--" we were getting close into shore now, and ralph, standing up in front of me, held his oar to push us off from the rocks until we reached our usual place for landing. george sat facing me, so that ralph was the only one who was able to see well ahead at the moment. there was something in his manner which startled me, as he bent down all at once and simply said, "grandfather!" george turned round in a moment, and his short ejaculation and smothered "oh!" confirmed me in a terrible fear they had made some discovery, and almost at the same instant, leaning forward, i could see my cousin lying prostrate on the beach just by the white rock, at the bottom of a steep part of the cliff, and scarcely a foot from the water's edge. i felt my knees shaking, as i tried to rise and could not; tried to speak, and the words died on my lips; then, for a moment, buried my face in my hands, and gasped out presently, "he's dead." i thought for a moment that i should die too, the sense of utter, hopeless, unbearable misery seemed so terrible. [illustration: the discovery.] george only answered, "please the lord, master willie, it may not be so bad as that;" and hastily drawing in the boat to the rocks, he leapt ashore, and made his way, in less time than it takes to relate, to where my cousin was lying. ralph and i got ashore also, but my knees trembled so that i could not stand, but sunk down upon the rock. ralph flung the rope to me. "keep her from drifting, master," he said, "and i'll run and help grandfather." it was a moment of terrible suspense. groves knelt at aleck's side, bent his cheek down to his lips, then listened for the beating of his heart--he might have heard mine at that minute--and then turning towards me he exclaimed, "he's still alive!" i had courage to move now, and fastening the rope, i came and stood by groves, as he knelt on the beach beside aleck. i could scarcely believe it was not death when i looked at the colourless face and closed eyes, and needed all groves' reassurance to convince me that he had not been mistaken when he said my cousin was still alive. "thank god, master willie, we came when we did!" he added reverently, and pointing to the waves as they washed up to our feet; "ten minutes more, and the tide will be up over this place where he's lying. we must move him at once--but he's deadly cold. off with your jacket, ralph and put it over him, and--oh! see here!" he pointed to the arm which hung down heavily as he gently raised the unconscious form,--"the arm's broken." the question now was how we were to get him home. by land it would not be more than an hour's climb; but then a _climb_ it must be, and this was almost impossible under the circumstances; whilst, on the other hand, with the wind no longer in our favour, it would be a good two hours getting back by water, and there was the anxiety of not being able to let my father know. whilst george was anxiously deliberating with himself--for neither of us boys were in a state to offer any suggestions--we looked up, and saw my father rapidly descending the hill-side. in another moment he stood in the midst of our little group, and had heard how it was with my cousin. "i feared so," he said, "when i saw you all standing together. thank god, the child is still alive!" there was no longer any questioning of what was best to be done. my father was always able to decide things in a moment. "it would be too great a risk to carry him without any stretcher. we must take him round in the boat. how's the wind, george?" "not favourable, sir; we must trust more to the oars." "then you and ralph must row. willie, i think i can trust you, but remember a great deal may depend upon your carrying your message correctly. run home as quickly as you can by the lower wood, it's quite safe that way; tell mamma that aleck is hurt, and that rickson must go off for dr. wilson in the dog-cart at once; if dr. wilson cannot be found, he must bring mr. bryant; and james must bring down the carriage to wait for us at the lodge. don't frighten your mamma; tell her as quietly and gently as you can. if you meet mr. glengelly, tell him first, and he will break it to mamma. do you quite understand?" "yes, papa," i replied, thankful to have something given me to do, and yet feeling as if i were in the midst of a terrible waking dream. after my father had taken the precaution of once again repeating his directions, i sped off up the steep hill-side, by way of the lower wood, towards home, whilst he gently lifted up my cousin and carried him to the boat. i shall never forget that walk home--_walk_ i call it, though, wherever running was possible, i _ran_. the feeling of misery and terror that was upon me, seemed to be mocked by the gay twittering of the birds, and the dancing of the sunbeams through the leaves, and the familiar appearance of the laden blackberry bushes, and copses famous for rich returns in the nutting season. everything in nature looking so undisturbed and unaffected by what was filling me with grief, appeared to add to my wretchedness. all the way along, i had the vision of my cousin's pale face before my eyes. true, he was not dead; but, child that i was, i had sufficient sense to know that often death followed an accident which was not immediately fatal, and _if_ he died it would be almost as though i had murdered him. i can remember trying hard to fancy it was a dreadful dream, and that i should wake up, as i had done on the preceding night, to find that my fears were all unreal; and as every step, bringing me nearer home, made this increasingly impossible to imagine, i changed the subject of my speculations, and took to remembering all the dreadful things i had ever read in history or story-books, of people dying of broken hearts, or living on and never smiling again, and fancying it was going to be the same with me; and i grew quite frightened, and trembled so much that i scarcely knew how to climb up the steep bits of the path. i was still about a quarter of a mile from the house when i met mr. glengelly, who was also on the search for aleck. it was a wonderful relief to have some one to speak to after the long silence of the past hour, and to be cheered up by his assurance that a broken arm was no very formidable accident after all, and that a little severe pain, and a few weeks invalidism, sounded very alarming, but would in reality pass quickly by. "then you think, perhaps aleck won't die," i faltered, struggling to get breath, for the haste in which i had come had made speaking difficult. "die!" echoed my tutor cheerily; "why, willie, people don't die of a broken arm! i broke my arm when i was a little boy of twelve, and you see i'm alive still." i smiled faintly; it was so much better than anything i had expected to hear. "it's true," added the tutor, "that there may be more than the broken arm, but we must hope for the best. in the meantime, willie, you have had enough running, you are quite out of breath, and had better come the rest of the way quietly; i will go on and carry out your father's directions." when i reached home every one seemed in a bustle, and too busy to take any notice of me. my mother indeed spared time to tell me i had been a good brave boy to come home so fast with the message, and that i had better go and sit quietly to rest in the school-room; but she hurried away immediately to finish her preparations, and i found she was getting the spare room next to her own ready for aleck, instead of the little room next to mine. i had a lingering hope that mr. glengelly might appear in the school-room, but he had gone down with bennet to the lodge to see if he could be of use when the boat came in, so that i was quite alone, and could only watch from the half-open door the doings of the servants as they passed to and fro, all seeming in a flutter, and as if it lay upon them as a duty to move about, and run hither and thither, without any particular object that i could discover. after about an hour, the sound of wheels on the drive announced the approach of the carriage. i sprang to my post of observation, and saw aleck, still deathly pale, and unconscious, carried carefully in by my father and mr. glengelly, and my mother on the first landing of the stairs, looking terribly anxious but perfectly composed, beckoning them up, as she said to my father,-- "everything is ready, dear, in the room next to ours." then they all went up-stairs, and i saw nothing more until, a few moments later, mr. glengelly looked in and told me i was to go to dinner by myself, as he was going to drive to elmworth at once, and my parents could not come down-stairs. it seemed strange and forlorn to go into our large dining-room, and sit at the table all by myself, whilst james stood behind me and changed my plate, and handed me the dishes all in their proper order, as if i had been grown up. i was hungry, or rather, perhaps, stood in need of food, after the morning's exertions, but i felt quite surprised at my own utter indifference as to _what_ i had to eat, when i had the opportunity of an entirely free selection. i took my one help of tart, and a single peach, without the shadow of a desire such as is common to children, and which i should in happier times unquestionably have shared, to improve the occasion by a little extra allowance. i had scarcely finished when my mother came in for two or three minutes. "mamma," i said, running eagerly to her, "do tell me, will aleck die?" "my darling," she answered, "we cannot say how much he is hurt until the doctor comes;" and she stooped down to kiss away the tears that came to my eyes when i noticed the sad, quiet voice with which she spoke, so unlike mr. glengelly's cheerful, re-assuring manner. "you must pray to god, my child, that if it be his will he may recover, and try to cheer up, because there is still hope the injury may not prove very serious; we must hope for the best. i am going to bring papa up a glass of wine and a biscuit; will you carry up the plate for me?" just as we were going up-stairs, she added, to comfort me,-- "willie, my child, how thankful i feel that you had nothing to do with the loss of the ship." at which, observation--from her point of view, consolatory; from mine, like a dagger-thrust--i became so convulsed with sobs, that my mother slipped into the room where aleck was, laid down the plate and the wine-glass, and returning again, took me down to the school-room, and simply devoted herself for some minutes to soothing me back into composure. she rose to go, but i clung to her dress; "mamma, mamma," i entreated, "don't leave me, please don't leave me." "i _must_ leave you, willie," she answered, "and you must try to bear up bravely for my sake, and for aleck's. you will do what you can to help in this sad time of trouble, and not add to my distress by giving way like this. you are over-tired, i think, and had better take a book, and stay here for the present, and lie down on the sofa and rest. afterwards, if you like, you can go in the garden." i preferred remaining in the school-room; i could see the hall-door, and up the first flight of stairs, and could hear the opening and shutting of doors up-stairs, and occasional remarks from passers through the hall, so that i felt less lonely than i knew i should feel in the garden. frisk came and sat with his fore-paws on my lap--he seemed aware that something had gone wrong--and wagged his tail, not merrily, but slowly and mournfully, as if to express, after his fashion, how truly he sympathized in our distress. at last, once again there was the sound of wheels; it was the dog-cart this time, and frisk threw back his head, pricked up his ears, and, with a quick bark, darted off to sanction the arrival of the doctor with his presence. my father, too, was at the hall-door in an instant. "i am thankful to see you," he said, as the doctor sprung from the dog-cart; "you have heard the circumstances?" "i have," answered dr. wilson, following my father quickly up-stairs. "is he still unconscious?" the answer was lost to me; but all at once, as i thought of dr. wilson, and how much depended upon his visit, the recollection of my mother's words came back to me, "we must pray god, willie, if it be his will aleck may get better;" and with a sudden impulse i jumped up, shut the door, and kneeling down, with my head pressed upon my hands, i prayed with a sort of intensity i had never known before: "o lord, make aleck well, do make aleck well, don't let him die,"--repeating the words over and over again, and getting up with some dim sense of comfort in my mind, as i thought that god had the power as much now as when in our human nature he walked upon this world, to heal all that were ill; and had he not said, "ask, and you shall receive?" why was it that the verse which i had repeated that morning to my mother, after breakfast, came back so often to my mind? "_if i regard iniquity in my heart, the lord will not hear me._" generally my mother explained my daily text, but this morning, owing to the anxiety about aleck's disappearance, there had not been the usual time, and she had simply heard the verse, and sent me off, as before-mentioned, to the school-room. now i took to explaining it for myself. what business had i to pray with that iniquity hidden in my heart, of which no one knew but god? how could i get forgiven? what was i to do? conscience took courage and put in the suggestion, "confess boldly to your parents the sin that is lying so heavily upon you." but then the thought that, if aleck never got better, they would think me his murderer, took possession of me, and i took pains to convince myself, against my own reason, that after all, i had not actually been guilty of falsehood, since the real manner in which the ship had been lost was actually guessed by my father; that it would do no good if i were to give them the pain of knowing that i had allowed it to happen, having it in my power to prevent it; that, after all, it would be enough to confess to god and get forgiven. but the reasoning, though for a time it silenced the promptings of conscience, did not give me peace of mind; and a sense that i could not pray--that, at least, my prayers would do no good--took from me the only comfort that was worth thinking of. i was so taken up with these reflections, that i never heard steps upon the stairs, and started with an exclamation almost of fright when the door opened rather quickly, and my father and dr. wilson came in. "why, willie, there's nothing to be frightened at," exclaimed my father. "here's dr. wilson come to cheer us up about aleck, who is to get quite well by-and-by, we hope." "yes, yes, little man," said dr. wilson, kindly chucking me under the chin, after a fashion which i have noticed prevails amongst grown-up tall people who are amiably disposed towards children; "we shall soon hope to bring him round again. with all your monkey-like ways of climbing about the rocks, my only wonder is i've not had you for a patient long ago!" something seemed to strike him in the face he was holding up by the chin, and releasing me from a quick glance of inspection, he asked presently whether i had seen aleck, and listened to the account i had to give of how ralph had first noticed him lying at the foot of the rock. then he and my father stepped out by the window, and walked up and down on the lawn; and i heard dr. wilson say to my father, "any one can see the boy has had a shock; take care he does not get frightened." from the fragments of conversation which reached me,--sitting as i did in the open window, whilst they passed by, walking up and down on the lawn outside,--i gathered that they were discussing the possibility of communication with uncle and aunt gordon; and as they came in again through the school-room, my father said, "you are sure that the crisis will be over by that time?" "quite sure. there is nothing for it now but perfect quiet, the administration of the medicines and cordials i have prescribed, when possible, and close watch of all the symptoms. i can assure you i am not without hope. you may look for me again by ten o'clock." and so saying, dr. wilson drove rapidly off, and my father went back again to aleck's room. i think it must have been his planning, that nurse soon afterwards came down to the school-room and bestowed her company upon me for quite a long time, entertaining me at first, or meaning to entertain me, by a wearisome narration about a little boy who lived nowhere in particular a long time ago; but she wakened up all my interest when at last, unable to keep off the subject as she had intended, she gave me a detailed account of my cousin having been put into the bed in the spare room; and how he had lain so still, she could scarcely believe her senses he was not dead; and how, when dr. wilson set his arm, the pain of the operation seemed to waken him up for a moment from the stupor, but he had gone back again almost immediately. "the doctor said," she added, "that it was the injury to the head that was of the greatest consequence--the arm was nothing to signify, a mere simple fracture; as if a broken arm were a mere nothing. i should like to know whether, _if his own_ were broken, he would call it a simple fracture, and say it didn't signify!" and nurse looked righteously indignant, and as if she would be rather glad than otherwise for dr. wilson to meet with an accident, and learn, by personal experience, the true measure of insignificance or importance attaching to a broken limb. remembering, however, at this point, the inconvenience which might result to ourselves from such a catastrophe, she retreated from the position, and took to speculating what the doctor's views were likely to be with reference to his night accommodation; whether he would go "between sheets," or merely lie down on the sofa, and what motives might be likely to influence him towards either decision; reasoning it all out to me as if i had been grown-up. in fact, one of the peculiar sensations which are stamped upon every recollection of that long sad day, was that of being treated as though i were a "person," and not a child, by almost every member of the community; a sensation bringing with it a dim sense of glory--that might have been--but which my guilty position kept me back from enjoying. both my parents came down to a sort of dinner-tea, which we had together at about seven o'clock, and my mother stayed a little while with me afterwards, and then sent me off, rather earlier than usual, to bed, upon the plea of my being weary with the long, anxious day. chapter ix. sorrowful days. to bed; but not to my usual peaceful sleep; for all the night through one terrible dream seemed to succeed the other, until, in the act of landing at the white-rock cove, and calling for help, i woke at last to find myself standing somewhere in the dark, i could not at first make out where, though it turned out to be in aleck's room, to which i had made my way in my sleep. i began to cry with fright, and my father came running up to see what was the matter. he was quite dressed, and brought a candle with him, and looked so natural and real that he chased away all spectral frights. after he had put me back to bed, and sat with me a little, i fell into a quieter sleep than i had had before; and slept on, indeed, quite late, for nobody called me the next morning, and i did not come down until prayers were over, and breakfast just about to commence. only my father and dr. wilson were in the room. my father looked very anxious; but dr. wilson spoke to me cheerily enough. "so this is the young gentleman," he said, drawing me towards him, "that is not content to walk by day, but must needs walk by night also!" and he looked straight at me, as if he could read me through and through; whilst i, knowing the dreadful story hidden in my heart, felt quite alarmed lest he might read _that_ there; and i could feel the beatings of my heart, as if a steam-engine were at work, as i tried not to meet the glance of those keen, piercing eyes. he released me after a moment, and presently afterwards said to my father,-- "close your lesson-books for a while; the boat and the saddle will be the best lesson-books, or you may have more trouble than you think of." i felt sure what he said had something to do with me, and wondered what he meant,--finding the explanation in mr. glengelly's strange indisposition to give me anything but a drawing-lesson that morning, and taking me off for a long ride before dinner, contrary to all established customs. aleck grew no better all through the day, and the next night he was worse. on saturday morning, two other doctors came to consult with dr. wilson; and i could read in the grave faces around me that the worst was apprehended. but i saw scarcely anything of my father or mother, or even nurse, so that all tidings from the sick-room came through remote channels--servants who had taken something up to the room, or mr. glengelly, who had seen one of the doctors for a moment, and whom i suspected of keeping back the full gravity of the verdict. if i could only have seen my father or mother alone quietly, without their being in a hurry, i thought i should have told them everything; but no opportunity presented itself, and another weary day wore by without any unburdening of my conscience, or relief to my gloomy anticipations. sunday morning! such a happy day generally! for my parents contrived to make it really, and not nominally, the best of all the seven; but now, how dreary was the awakening to a sunday which i expected to be only the melancholy repetition of the preceding days, if not far sadder! the weather had turned chilly, and the servants, to make things look a little brighter, made this the excuse for a fire in the dining-room, by which i crouched down on the rug, after breakfast, with a sunday story-book in my hand, wondering whether i should go to church, or what would happen in a state of things so different from what was usual; and why it was i was told i need not prepare my repetition lesson from the bible, according to custom. by-and-by my father came in and told me to get ready to go with him to church; he thought he might safely leave aleck for a little while, and would like to have me walk with him. we had not far to go, for the church stood but a quarter of a mile from our house, and there was a direct pathway to it through the woods. i thought perhaps i should muster courage to open my heart to my father as we went along. but first we met one person and then another, anxious to know the last report from the sick-room, so that we had no time alone, and i had to reserve my confession until we should come home after church. aleck was to be prayed for in church, my father told me; and he added that i was to think of uncle and aunt gordon too, in the litany, for it would be a sore trouble to them to have been away from their only child in such a time as this. and then he spoke to me of childish fears about death, and said that, for those who were safe in jesus, death was a friend, and not an enemy; and that i must pray that, if it pleased god aleck should never get well, he might go to the beautiful home prepared for all the children of god: and the firm grasp of my father's hand, and his clear, unhesitating voice, conveyed to my timorous, troubled heart, a sort of belief in a calm, sheltered haven, that might succeed in time to the outside tossings on stormy waters, and i felt comforted, though i scarcely knew how. mr. morton, our clergyman, was away for a month's holidays, and it was a stranger who performed the service. when i heard the prayers of the congregation requested for "alexander ringwall gordon, who was dangerously ill," it seemed almost more than i could bear, the long formal enunciation of his name sounding so terribly like a death-warrant. if ever i tried to _pray_ the church prayers, and not merely say them, it was that morning; and it seemed to me quite wonderful how much of them agreed with my own feelings, how many things there were in the service that were exactly what i wanted. hitherto the singing had appeared the only attractive portion of divine worship; but now that, for the first time in my life, i knew what it was to have a really sin-burdened conscience, the sweetest music seemed as nothing in comparison with the assurance that a broken and contrite spirit would not be despised of god, or to the comfort of ranking myself unreservedly amongst the miserable sinners in the litany--concerning whom i had hitherto only wondered, were they so miserable after all?--and pleading alike with voice and heart for god's mercy, of which i felt myself to stand so sorely in need. the commandments were being read when the little door leading into our large family-pew was opened, and rickson softly came in and whispered to my father, who in his turn leant over and whispered to me. a message had come from the house, he said, and he must go back at once; he knew i could be trusted to stay by myself and walk home afterwards. he and rickson quietly slipped out, and i was left sole tenant of the large square pew, with its high partition, and ponderous chairs, and fire-place, and table, just like a small room, as is the custom in old-fashioned churches. very lonely indeed i felt, as i stood up by myself, and tried to join in the hymn, and wished that i were not so small or the pew not so lofty; it seemed so strange to be joining in singing with people of whom no single individual could be seen--it had never struck me before, with my own dear parents always at my side. presently the clerk appeared opening the door of the pulpit--that at all events i could see--to the strange clergyman, who seemed to me to look with a searching glance of inquiry straight down into my solitary domain, as if he meant to call me to account for being there all alone. having nobody to look at as an example, i sat myself timidly upon a corner of one of the chairs after the hymn was over, and then, suddenly remembering i had made a mistake, knelt down with the colour mounting to the very roots of my hair, and a terrible sense of the congregation all looking at me and taking notes of my behaviour. we smile at our childish embarrassments as we look back upon them, but they are very serious and real troubles whilst they last. when i rose from my knees, i was far too shy to place myself comfortably, but sat, as before, upon a little corner of a chair, and hoped the congregation wouldn't take any notice, whilst mentally i prepared myself for unrestrained meditation on the all-engrossing subject of my thoughts, in place of the many speculations with which i was wont to beguile sermon-time in general. for here i must pause to observe that mr. morton's sermons were usually entirely beyond my childish understanding, and attention to them on my part was practically in vain; so that after learning the text by heart, which i was always expected to repeat perfectly afterwards, i used to spend a great part of the time remaining to me in a minute survey of all objects falling within the limited range of my observation, including especially the monumental tablets, of which there were many on the church walls; those on the right being for the most part to the memory of the grants of braycombe; those on the left to the successive rectors of braycombe parish, who had lived and died after what seemed to me boundless periods of ministry amongst their attached flock. two of these tablets in particular had supplied much food for consideration in my early days.--i used to look back upon early days even at ten years old with a sort of affectionate patronage.--these tablets exactly corresponded with each other in size and position, and were both beyond the range of complete legibility, only words in capitals coming out distinctly. but these very words in capitals were the cause of my anxious meditations. for on the one hand i read the name of the "rev. joseph brocklehurst, rector," with, a line or two further down, "mary, wife of the _above_;" whilst on the other, which was to the memory of my grandfather, my own name at full length, "william preston grant," was underneath the only other word i could distinguish, and that word was "_below._" many a sunday did i ruminate upon the unpleasant contrast which, to my mind, was suggested by the two prepositions between the present condition of the rev. joseph brocklehurst and that of my grandfather; and it was not without some hesitation that i revealed my perplexity to my father at last, by the abrupt inquiry, one day on our way home from church, whether my grandfather had been a _very_ wicked man. greatly surprised were both my parents at this unlooked-for question, and i believe not a little amused at the train of reasoning which had led me to it; but they took an early opportunity of taking me into the church, not on a sunday, and permitting me to go near to the tablets, pointing out the connecting words which were not legible, and which supplied a full explanation of all that i wanted to know, and showing me that the _below_ referred to the position of the family vault under the church, and the _above_ to the relative position of the rev. j. brocklehurst's name to that of his wife. often after that explanation i thought, as i looked at the tablets, of the words my father said to me at the time: "willie, there are many things in god's dealings with his children that are hard to understand _here_; by-and-by, when we see things nearer, in the light of eternity, we shall find out that our difficulty has just been because here we see in part--as you did the inscriptions--but _then_ we shall see face to face, and know even as we are known." there was another monumental tablet about which i thought a great deal, which preached to me a silent sermon as often as i looked at it. under the name and date of birth and death of the person it commemorated were the words, "_prepare to meet thy god._" i spent a long time looking for them in my bible, and thought a great deal about the verse when i had found it; wondering whether the young midshipman, son of one of the rectors, upon whose monument it had been engraved, had thought about them too, or whether it was a sort of warning because he had _not_ prepared. it was upon this latter train of thought, with reflections concerning aleck and myself woven into it--_i_ clearly not prepared, and wondering whether aleck was prepared--that i found myself starting as i settled shyly upon my little corner of the chair, and looked timidly for my bible in order to find the text. what was my surprise when psalm lxvi. was given out, and the well-known words, so often repeated to myself, were repeated slowly and impressively by the stranger clergyman from the pulpit--"if i regard iniquity in my heart, the lord will not hear me." it seemed to me so wonderful and so strange that he should have fixed upon the very passage that i had thought of so often within the previous two days, that at first i almost fancied i was dreaming. but i felt still more surprised when, after anxiously attending to what was said for a few minutes, i found the sermon was as easy to understand as my mother's conversation after a bible reading: all inattention was gone, and for the first time in my life i was listening with interest deep and anxious, whilst the clergyman, in simple language, explained the text so clearly that not one in the church need have gone away uninstructed. _the_ great question that i wanted to hear answered was, whether, in my circumstances, with an unconfessed sin lying heavily on my heart, it was of any use for me to pray to god for aleck?--what was the exact meaning of _regarding iniquity_ in my heart? the very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of the question. "unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier between our souls and our god." and presently afterwards he referred us to isaiah lix. : "your iniquities have separated between you and your god, and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear;" and to a long passage in the st chapter of isaiah, finishing with the words, "when ye make many prayers, i will not hear: your hands are full of blood." then he spoke to the congregation of the many sundays during which they had come together to worship, whilst in the case of many of them their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in seven only, not for the whole week;--they loved their sins and would not give them up on any account, hoping to square their account with god by an outward attendance on divine worship. it was all put in very simple language; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives to find out whether we were _fighting against_ sin as an enemy, or _cherishing_ sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants of satan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that our prayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of god, that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who were the servants or slaves of sin. then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wished for forgiveness, and i felt i belonged to that class, and listened with increasing eagerness. was it for them to say, "i must then reform my ways and make myself better before i can go to christ for pardon?" oh, no! the prayer of the publican, "god be merciful to me a sinner," was heard and answered. christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and _heavy laden_, "come unto _me_." he died to take our punishment instead of us; and those who, instead of cherishing sin, felt it a burden too heavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot of the cross, and find rest to their souls. there followed a few words about sins _forgiven_ being sins _forsaken_. any person who had been in the habit of dishonest dealing would adopt habits of rectitude, and would make restitution when possible. those who had uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, but would speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. and all this would be because christ _had_ forgiven them, and not in order to _obtain forgiveness_. i do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at the end there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the great barrier gone:--just as when a little child, conscious of some wrong action, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and is conscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usual home happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice, whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble that lies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embrace of forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has found peace at the foot of the cross; the barrier of separation is no more; the way into the holiest is made manifest by the blood of the atonement; and the promise is written in letters of gold, "_if ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you._" before i left the church, and took my solitary walk home through the wood, i had made up my mind to confess all to my parents at the very earliest opportunity; and with this determination there was already a sense of relief. but the opportunity did not occur so soon as i had expected; for i found a solitary dinner awaiting me, and the whole of that long afternoon, except for the servants, who brought a message once or twice from the sick-room to the effect that my parents dared not leave even for a minute, i was quite alone, either sitting on the hearth-rug by the fire, or standing at the door listening for any footstep on the passage up-stairs, or even the opening or shutting of doors. at last, at about five o'clock, i heard my father coming softly down-stairs, and sprang to meet him. "papa, papa, tell me, is aleck better?" "i fear not, my child," answered my father gently. "i think, willie, that god is going to take him to himself. but he is conscious just now, and wants to see you. he has asked that he may wish you good-bye. you must be very quiet indeed, and speak very gently." i felt the tears coming hot and fast, and there was a terrible choking in my throat; but it was impossible to hold out one moment longer, and, struggling through my sobs, i gasped out, "oh, papa, i have killed him!--it's all my fault!--oh! what shall i do?" and i clung, terror-stricken, to the hand which he had placed on my shoulder. my father sat down, and tried to soothe me, putting his arm around me, and saying kind, comforting words, evidently at a loss to understand the purport of my broken utterances, whilst i tried, and tried in vain, to control my sobs, and regain sufficient composure to explain. at last he said firmly,-- "this agitation would do aleck grievous harm; i must not take you to him until you are quite calm, willie, and yet the moments are precious: keep what you have to say until another time, and try to stop crying; i shall have to go up-stairs without you, unless you can be ready soon." then he gave me a glass of water, and still telling me not to speak, waited until i had mastered my emotion and was tolerably calm, then led me by the hand up to aleck's room. "wish me good-bye," i said over and over to myself. such a long good-bye, how could i bear it! there was no one else in the room at the moment but my mother, who sat at the foot of the bed with something in her hand for aleck. it was not until i had advanced nearly to the bed that, with tear-blinded eyes, i could distinguish my cousin's face. it was so deadly pale that i started at the sight; but though pale and wan he was perfectly conscious, and as i drew near he whispered softly,-- "i'm so glad you've come, willie--i wanted to see you, and wish you good-bye." there was a pause, and then more faintly he continued,--"i want to be quite sure you've forgiven me, willie;--jesus has; i've asked him." i bent forward and kissed the white face that lay so quiet and still, struggling to keep down my sobs, though i felt as if my heart would break, and longing to be able to say but one word, that aleck might know it was i who asked his forgiveness, but longing in vain. "you forgive me quite, willie," murmured aleck again. [illustration: willie at aleck's bed side.] but at the first attempt to speak, i broke down utterly, with such a burst of pent-up grief, that to control it was impossible, and i was hurried quickly out of the room, lest my emotion should be injurious to aleck; my mother herself almost carrying me down-stairs, and sorely divided between the desire to stay and comfort me, and at the same time to remain at her post up-stairs with my cousin. for a few minutes, however, she remained with her arm around me, and my head resting on her shoulder; and when, by degrees, i grew a little more calm, though it cost a fearful effort, i contrived to sob out my confession, and let her know how wicked i had been, and also how miserable. i could see it was a terrible shock to her when she grasped my meaning, and she did not attempt to disguise the pain it cost her. for the first time in my life i saw my mother shed tears. but the knowledge of my guilt seemed to add to her pity for me. "my poor little willie," she said; "you have indeed had a terrible load upon your heart; your punishment has come more quickly upon you and more heavily than sometimes happens: but remember there is one whose blood cleanses from all sin--the heavenly father's ear is open to you, willie, through jesus, and you must get forgiveness where those who really seek it are never turned away." "i wanted to tell aleck, mamma, too; but i couldn't." "there is no need to trouble aleck about that now," said my mother sorrowfully: "the ship seems a little thing to him now, willie; his thoughts are on the great things of eternity. it might agitate him, and it would not make him happier to know about it; but if you like i will tell him that you love him dearly, and are very sorry for everything you have ever done that may not have been kind." even this message, vague as it was, seemed better than none, and i thankfully endorsed it. "but oh, mamma," i added, "do tell me that you think it just possible he may get well again. i think it will kill me if he does not." "he is in god's hands, willie," answered my mother, "and with god all things are possible; but i fear there is little hope of his getting any better. dr. wilson does not say there is _no_ hope, but the other doctors quite gave him up. i do not hide it from you, my child, because it is easier to know the worst than to be in doubt and suspense; and god will help you--help us all--to bear it." there were tears in my mother's eyes and a tremble in her voice as she said this, and as it rushed upon me all at once how greatly it must add to her trouble to know that i was the cause of it, my own grief seemed rekindled. she gently unclasped my hands, which were tightly locked around her. "i must leave you now, my poor child," she said; "i cannot stay a minute longer away from aleck;" and stooping down, she kissed me in spite of my wickedness, and went away up-stairs; whilst i, throwing myself upon the sofa, buried my head in my hands, and wept until, from sheer exhaustion, i seemed to grow quiet at last, whilst the day-light faded away, and the faint flickering of the fire-light produced mysterious shadows on the ceiling, and made the things in the room assume to my fevered imagination weird and fanciful shapes. but there was a species of dim comfort in watching the fire; and a comfort, too, in spite of my misery, in the recollection that i had confessed my sin--that it was no longer a dread secret in my own sole keeping, but was shared by the strong, tender hearts, of my parents: and it seemed to come soothingly to my mind that now the barrier of sin might be taken away, and my heart rose once again in earnest prayer to god for forgiveness. then i began to think about the great things of eternity my mother had spoken of; and of the meeting-time for those who were parted on earth, of aleck, and of old george, and his son--ralph's father; and of what groves said about the open book; and then came the recollection of the sea-stained little testament, and the quaint verse at its beginning, and the young sailor's profession of faith, "father, he died for me, i must live for him." my mind travelled from one thought to another, whilst ever and anon a struggling sob for breath seemed like the subsiding of a tempest. shaping themselves into more or less definite plans, came thoughts, too, of the future before me in this world:--i should never be quite happy any more, i thought; but i would try to keep on, like ralph's father, living for christ in some way, and grow up to be very good--perhaps i should be a missionary--i was not quite sure on the whole what sphere of life would be the most trying or praiseworthy--and then at last aleck and i would meet in heaven. this i believe to have been the last point of conscious reflection, for more and more vague and desultory became my thoughts afterwards. nature would have her revenge for all the restlessness and anxiety of the past few days. i fell into a profound sleep. chapter x. sunday evening. where i was, why i was where i was, and what time of the day or night it might happen to be--were questions which presented themselves to my mind in hazy succession, as, roused from my slumbers by the hum of voices, i woke slowly to the consciousness that, though i had been asleep, i was not in bed. it was only by a very gradual process of recollection that the past came back upon me almost like a fresh story, and i was at least a minute rubbing my eyes, and collecting my thoughts, before i took in all the familiar objects in the room, from the sofa on which i found myself reposing, to the fire-place at which, with their backs turned to me, my father and dr. wilson were in close conversation. my father's voice was low and serious, and at the moment when, having finished the process of awakening, i was going to speak, his words came slowly and distinctly to my ears, and sank down into my heart:-- "the thought of his parents' grief on hearing of the death--such a death, too!--of their only child, has been almost more than i could bear." aleck was dead!--there was no hope left! i thought; and with a piteous exclamation of grief, i turned round and hid my face in my hands, leaning up against the sofa. in another moment my father was at my side. i felt his arm encircling me as he drew me towards him, and bending down, whispered softly,-- "it is no time for grief now, willie; i was speaking of what _might_ have been; let us give god thanks, for the danger is over--aleck is spared to us." i slowly drew back my hands from my face. the relief was so great i could scarcely believe in it; and i must have appeared--as i certainly felt--utterly bewildered, whilst i tried to find words, and only at last succeeded in repeating my father's mechanically: "the danger is over--aleck is spared to us." "to be sure he is," said dr. wilson, in his cheeriest tones. he had got up from his chair, and was standing with his back to the fire looking at us. "yes, he'll be quite well again by-and-by; and all the more prudent, we'll hope, for the trouble he's been putting us in during these last few days. he's had a lesson that ought to last for some time to come; but boys never learn their lessons, do what one will to make them." there was a moment's pause after this discouraging general statement with reference to boys; and then the doctor added, as if thinking to himself, in quite a different tone: "poor boy! poor boy! it's been a very near thing. by the help of god, we've brought him through. may it be a life worth the saving--a life given back to god!" "amen!" ejaculated my father, earnestly; and then, at his suggestion, we knelt together, and, in a few heartfelt words, he offered thanks to the heavenly father for his goodness to us, and turned kind dr. wilson's aspiration into a prayer, that the life given back to my cousin might be by him given back to god. i knew, as i knelt there by my father's side, for the first time in my life, the feeling of a deep and speechless thankfulness, for which all words would be too poor. it was very late--past ten o'clock--but i was not allowed to go up to bed at once. supper was ready, my father said, and i should come into the dining-room, and have it with him and dr. wilson. accordingly, in spite of all remonstrances of nurse, who put in her appearance, and thought fit to reflect upon the utter impropriety of such late hours, i went to supper; and felt, moreover, greatly refreshed and strengthened by it, sitting there close by my father's side, and rejoicing every moment of the time in the feeling as of a great deliverance. so it came to pass that my second night did not begin until eleven o'clock. chapter xi. the white-rock cove again. aleck was a long time getting well. he had to be nursed and taken care of all through that winter, only gradually making little steps towards recovery. it was quite a festival when he was first carried down-stairs; and then again when he was taken out in the carriage for a drive, lying at full length upon a sort of couch which we erected for him, and to which he declared, in my anxiety to make him comfortable, i had contributed all the sofa cushions in the house. the subject of the lost ship was forbidden for a long while; and i grew to thinking of it as a sort of formidable undertaking, though one upon which i was firmly bent--the confession to aleck himself of my guilt in the matter. but when at last i was permitted to approach the subject, i could only feel surprised that i had been for so long afraid of it. aleck received my confession so quietly, instead of getting angry, and spoke so kindly and gently, that i could scarcely believe it was the same aleck whose look of fiery indignation on that eventful morning of the th of september had so startled me. in one way, indeed, he was _not_ the same; for the accident, and illness consequent on it, seemed in some peculiar manner to have rendered him far more lovable and thoughtful than he had been formerly; a trifle graver, perhaps--at least i thought so, until, when he grew quite strong again, his merry laugh would ring out as cheerily as ever--and more serious in his way of looking at things, but not less happy. that i was sure of; for all through the long weeks of confinement there was not a brighter place in the house than the place at the side of his couch--he was so uniformly cheerful, and seemed so thoroughly to enjoy every little plan that we were able to form for his amusement. i told him i was quite surprised that he received my confession so gently; it would have been so natural if he had got angry. i remember his answer very well:-- "why, you see, willie, it seems quite a little thing to me now. i don't think i can exactly put what i mean into words; but you know when i thought i was dying, and eternity seemed quite near, everything else seemed so little--only, the wrong words i had used to you seemed much worse than i had thought they could. old george's words came back to me so often, about the loss of the ship being a very little thing; whilst wrong words and angry feelings would appear more terrible than we ever fancied possible. i was dreadfully frightened until i felt quite sure i was forgiven. you can't think how glad i was when i got your message." "i wanted to tell you," i said, "when i came into your room that time; but i couldn't speak, though i nearly choked in trying to stop crying." "well since then," resumed aleck, "the feeling doesn't seem to have gone off. i don't mean i don't care for things, because you know i like everything very much--our games, and the books, and madrepores; but i feel as if before my accident god and heaven and the bible were all being put by, and got ready, for the time when one was old and grown up, and i've felt so different since then. it was when i felt so frightened at the thought of what a naughty boy i was, and of all the bad things i had done, and began to tell jesus about it--in my heart, you know, for i couldn't speak--and remembered he was so good and kind he never turned any one away, and so felt sure he had heard me, that i began to think so differently." at this point of aleck's narration i broke in impetuously with-- "oh, aleck! for _you_ to be feeling like that--you, who had only felt angry--what would you have done if you had been me?" and then i proceeded, with feelings of unconcealed horror, to tell him of my misery during the few days succeeding the loss of the boat; the terrible walk home that morning; the lonely terrors of the nights; and my feelings at church with that verse always sounding in my ears, "if i regard iniquity in my heart, the lord will not hear me." before i had finished my story aleck had got hold of one of my hands, and was stroking it as if he had been a girl. "you see," i said, "i was feeling rather like you, only i couldn't know i was forgiven, with that dreadful sin that no one knew of." "we had both done wrong," aleck replied; "it doesn't much signify which of us was worst. willie, do you know i want us always to do something together that we haven't done before." "what is it?" i inquired. "i should like us to read a little bit of the bible together every day, quite for our own selves; not like a lesson, you know, nor even having auntie to explain it to us, but just for our own selves, like when i have one of papa's or mamma's letters to read. i think it would help us to remember the really great things better, like auntie's text in my room." i need scarcely say that the habit--afterwards continued, whenever practicable, through our school-life--was at once begun. in fact, aleck's merest wish was a law to me; for all through the winter months every opportunity of rendering him any service was hailed with delight. i could never forget that his weakness and suffering were the result of my wicked behaviour, and could only comfort myself by doing all that in me lay to make his confinement as little wearisome as possible. knowing his active, restless nature, i could fully appreciate what the trial must be, even with every alleviation, and often wondered he was able to bear it so cheerfully. but when i ventured to express to my cousin these speculations of mine, he would laugh them off merrily. "why, willie, how can i help being thankful and happy? not to speak of uncle and aunt, who seem to be doing something for me every hour of the day; nor of old george, who toils up every morning to see me, though he used to tell me that it made his old bones ache--a fact he will never allow now; nor of frisk, who sits upon my feet for hours, on purpose to keep them warm; i should like to know how i could help being cheerful, with your own dear old self giving up the greater part of your play-time to chess, or carpentry, or madrepores, and spending every penny of your pocket-money--no; it's of no use your stopping me to deny it. i've counted up, and you've spent every penny of your pocket-money--just as i was saying--in buying books, or tools, or things for me; waiting upon me, too, as if i were a prince and you my slave. why, i'm perfectly afraid of admiring anything you have, lest i should find it done up in a parcel, and sent to me, like the illustrated copy of 'robinson crusoe' the other day!" in this sort of grateful spirit, making much of all my little trifling acts of kindness, aleck scarcely allowed us to feel that he was under-going any deprivation during the months that he lay on the sofa. once only i remember noticing a little cloud, that vanished again almost as soon as it appeared. one morning, after lessons were over, i came running into the study with my latin exercise. "papa, mr. glengelly was so pleased with my exercise, he has sent me in to show it to you." my father looked over it, reading little bits aloud, and finding with surprise that, difficult though it was, there were no mistakes. from my father's table i flew to the sofa on which aleck was lying, with frisk at his feet as usual, the open copy-book in my hand. but in an instant i could see there was some trouble in my cousin's face. "aleck, dear aleck," i whispered anxiously, "what is it? have i done anything?" "no--nothing at all," replied my cousin with a great effort, and hastily brushing away his tears. "let me have a look at it too. i'm ashamed of myself, willie. i believe i was making myself unhappy at thinking that i shall just have gone back as much as you've gone forward. i didn't know i cared so much for being first in my lessons." after that i avoided ever talking of my lessons when aleck was in the room; but he noticed this, and insisted on introducing the subject, speaking often to mr. glengelly about my progress, and looking over my exercises from time to time, whilst he would playfully remark that "we should be about equal when he was allowed to begin lessons again, and better companions than ever before." sometimes he wondered at my getting on so much faster than formerly, not knowing the spirit of resolve and determination that had grown out of all the sad time of trouble, when i had found out for the first time what a poor sinful child i was, and had learned to seek and find for myself the sure refuge and strength--not for times of trouble only, but for the whole of life's journey. from the circumstance of my play-time being in great part spent with my cousin, at least such part of it as was not taken up in rides or drives with my parents, it came to pass that my visits to the cove were far less frequent than they had been at any previous time. but though old george growled and grumbled at seeing so little of me, he always encouraged me not to desert my cousin. now and then, however, i found my way down the zig-zag to the lodge, and it was upon one of these occasions that i unburdened my mind to my old friend of a desire, which grew and strengthened upon me, in some way to provide for aleck a boat which should be quite equal to the one he had lost. i knew it was worth a great deal more than i should be able to save in pocket-money, and a vague idea of the possibility of bartering some of my possessions had been dismissed as impracticable. to part with the "fair alice" without old george's sanction would not be right, but if he would make no objection, it seemed to me that this would be on the whole the easiest mode of reparation, and i took him into consultation on the subject accordingly. "i know it's your present to me, george," i said, feeling sadly alive to the delicacy of the request; "but if you'll give me leave, i think it's the only thing i have that would do to give aleck. i can't think of any other way. i know it took you a tremendous time to make, and i care for it more than for anything. but i would rather give it to aleck." old george chuckled rather provokingly, and seemed to be taken up with some abstruse calculation. "well, i won't be against it, master aleck," he said, "unless--no--i'm not sure--" (the old man seemed to grow quite composed in his uncertainty), "i think--i may show you." and so saying he led the way into the work-shop. i started with surprise--another little schooner-yacht was in course of construction, precisely similar to the one that had been lost. "o george, how kind!" "no; it's not a bit kind," responded george, "for i'm being paid for it. i meant to have done it without, but your papa, sir, has insisted upon it being his order, and i've been obliged to cave in." it was to be a secret from aleck, however. how hard it was to keep that secret, when, every time there was a talk of aleck's being able to get down to the cove, i was on the point of letting out what he was to see there! i did contrive to keep it, however; and when at last february was ushered in with a burst of warm weather that tempted all the little buds to unfold themselves with a perfectly reckless disregard of the cold that was sure to follow, and primroses and violets to start into blossom as though they could not lay the bright carpet for spring's advance too soon, dr. wilson decreed that nothing would do his little patient more good than a couple of hours of the freshest sea breezes, caught and partaken of on the spot, a mile off from shore;--which meant that aleck had leave to go to the cove once more, and out upon the sea for a sail. of course i had a whole holiday for the occasion; and i had satisfaction in observing that i was not the only one unable to settle down into quiet occupation. the carriage was nearly ready to drive my parents and aleck down to the lodge, when i started off by way of the zig-zag, to the cove. there was the new yacht, already decked from bow to stern with the tiny flags which i had been collecting for weeks past. all the sails were set, but a little anchor--also my addition to the furniture of the new vessel--kept her safely moored; and as she curtsied upon the water, every sail and flag reflected as in a mirror, i thought i had never seen anything so pretty. perhaps aleck thought so too, for when he arrived a few minutes after, leaning on my father's arm, he seemed as if he could not speak, and had to sit down quite quietly in the boat whilst he drew the yacht close up to the side, and looked at it all over. then he turned to my father, and said something about not being able to thank--and at this point broke down in a manner that was so singularly infectious, that no one was found able to break the silence at first. my father said presently, however, "you must carry him off to sea, george; and i shall call you to account if those pale cheeks don't gather roses from the crests of the waves." then we drew up the anchor of the little yacht, and pushed off from the shore. a basket of provisions had been placed in the boat, and before we had been very long out at sea, george insisted upon its being unpacked, threatening aleck that he should be reported as insubordinate unless he consumed precisely the quantity of wine and the whole amount of cold chicken dealt out to him. "willie," whispered my cousin to me, after dutifully doing his best at the luncheon, "i want very much indeed to go to the white-rock cove--do you think george will let us?" certainly i did _not_ think so, but aleck wished it, and that was quite enough to make me join earnestly in his entreaties that we should turn the boat's head round in the direction he wished. groves consented at last, but not without many misgivings, the white-rock cove being, he said, about the last place he'd have thought of taking us to; and sentiments to the same effect were respectfully echoed by ralph, who, in my private belief, had held the place in superstitious horror ever since the th of september. all of us, however, yielded as a matter of course when it was found aleck had set his mind upon it; and the wind being favourable, we were not very long in rounding braycombe headland. once in the cove, my cousin asked me to land with him, requesting george and ralph to leave us ashore a little while. "it must have been almost exactly here, i think," said aleck, leading the way to the spot which i remembered only too vividly, and glancing round to assure himself that our companions were out of sight. "willie, i want us to thank god here, on the very spot--there's no one to see us--let us kneel down." we knelt together at the foot of the white rock; aleck, who was still very weak, leaning against me for support. they were only a few childish words he said, but they came from a full heart; and i never remember in later life any liturgical service in church or cathedral that stirred my feelings more deeply than that simple thanksgiving. nor even now, after the lapse of many a long year, can i visit that little retired nook in the dear braycombe coast, and hear the plash of the ripple, and the flap of the sea-gulls' wings, and the echoing murmurs of the sea in the caverns, without being carried back by a rush of tender recollection to that day when all nature's sweet voices seemed to be uniting in one hymn of praise, taking up and beautifying and repeating the utterance of two little thankful hearts-- "we praise thee, o god." the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) six little bunkers at cousin tom's by laura lee hope author of "six little bunkers at grandma bell's," "six little bunkers at aunt jo's," "the bobbsey twins series," "the bunny brown series," etc. illustrated [illustration: they steamed on down past the statue of liberty. _six little bunkers at cousin tom's._ _frontispiece_--(_page_ )] new york grosset & dunlap publishers * * * * * books by laura lee hope mo. cloth. illustrated. cents per volume. the six little bunkers series six little bunkers at grandma bell's six little bunkers at aunt jo's six little bunkers at cousin tom's six little bunkers at grandpa ford's six little bunkers at uncle fred's the bobbsey twins series the bobbsey twins the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore the bobbsey twins at school the bobbsey twins at snow lodge the bobbsey twins on a houseboat the bobbsey twins at meadow brook the bobbsey twins at home the bobbsey twins in a great city the bobbsey twins on blueberry island the bobbsey twins on the deep blue sea the bunny brown series bunny brown and his sister sue bunny brown and his sister sue on grandpa's farm bunny brown and his sister sue playing circus bunny brown and his sister sue at aunt lu's city home bunny brown and his sister sue at camp rest-a-while bunny brown and his sister sue in the big woods bunny brown and his sister sue on an auto tour bunny brown and his sister sue and their shetland pony the outdoor girl series the outdoor girls of deepdale the outdoor girls at rainbow lake the outdoor girls in a motor car the outdoor girls in a winter camp the outdoor girls in florida the outdoor girls at ocean view the outdoor girls on pine island the outdoor girls in army service * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york copyright, , by grosset & dunlap * * * * * six little bunkers at cousin tom's contents chapter page i. sammie's story ii. treasure hopes iii. on the boat iv. a mix-up v. margy's crawl vi. at cousin tom's vii. digging for gold viii. rose's locket ix. the sand house x. the pirate bungalow xi. going crabbing xii. "they're loose!" xiii. in the boat xiv. violet's doll xv. the box on the beach xvi. caught by the tide xvii. marooned xviii. the marshmallow roast xix. the sallie growler xx. the walking fish xxi. the queer box again xxii. the upset boat xxiii. the sand fort xxiv. a mysterious enemy xxv. the treasure six little bunkers at cousin tom's chapter i sammie's story they were playing on the lawn of aunt jo's house--the little bunkers, six of them. you could count them, if you wanted to, but it was rather hard work, as they ran about so--like chickens, mrs. bunker was wont to say--that it was hard to keep track of them. so you might take my word for it, now, that there were six of them, and count them afterward, if you care to. "come on!" cried the eldest bunker--russ, who was eight years old. "come on, rose, let's have some fun." "what'll we do?" asked rose, russ' sister, who was about a year younger. "i'm not going to roll on the grass, 'cause i've got a clean dress on, and mother said i wasn't to spoil it." "pooh! clean grass like aunt jo's won't spoil any dress," said russ. "anyhow, i'm not going to roll much more. let's get the pipes and see who can blow the biggest soap bubbles." "oh, i want to do that!" cried vi, or violet, who was, you might say, the third little bunker, being the third oldest, except laddie, of course. "what makes so many colors come in soap bubbles when you blow them?" she asked. "the soap," answered russ, getting up after a roll on the grass, and brushing his clothes. "it's the soap that does it." "but soap isn't that color when we wash ourselves with it," went on vi. "and what makes bubbles burst when you blow 'em too big?" "i don't know," answered russ. like many an older person, he did not try to answer all vi's questions. she asked too many of them. "let's blow the bubbles," suggested rose. "then maybe we can see what makes 'em burst!" "come on, margy and mun bun!" called vi to two other and smaller bunkers, a little boy and girl who were digging little holes in a sandy place in the yard of aunt jo's home. "come on; we're going to blow bubbles!" these two little bunkers left their play and hastened to join the others. at the same time a boy with curly hair and gray eyes, who was violet's twin, dropped some pieces of wood, which he had been trying to make into some sort of toy, and came running along the path. "i want to blow some bubbles, too!" he said. "we'll all blow them!" called rose, who had a sort of "little mother" air about her when the smaller children were with her. "we'll have a soap-bubble party!" "shall we have things to eat?" asked mun bun. "'course we will," cried margy, the little girl who had been playing with him in the sand. "we always has good things to eat at parties; don't we, rose?" "well, maybe we can get some cookies from aunt jo," said rose. "you can run and ask her." off started margy, eager to get the good things to eat. it would not seem like a party, even with soap bubbles, unless there were things to eat! all the six little bunkers felt this. while margy was running along the walk that led to the kitchen, where aunt jo's good-natured cook might be expected to hand out cookies and cakes, another little bunker, who was walking beside violet, the one who had been trying to make something out of pieces of wood, called out: "nobody can guess what i have in my mouth!" "is that a riddle, laddie?" asked russ. for laddie was the name of the gray-eyed and curly-haired boy, and he was very fond of asking puzzle-questions. "is it a riddle?" russ repeated. "sort of," admitted laddie. "who can guess what i have in my mouth?" "oh, it's candy!" cried violet, as she saw one of her brother's cheeks puffed out. "it's candy! give me some, laddie!" "nope. 'tisn't candy!" he cried. "you must guess again!" nothing pleased laddie more than to make his brothers and sisters guess his riddles. "is it a piece of cake?" asked mun bun. "nope!" "then 'tis so candy!" insisted violet. and then, seeing her mother coming down the side porch, she cried: "mother, make laddie give me some of his candy! he's got a big piece in his mouth, and he won't give me any!" "i haven't any candy!" declared laddie. "i only asked her if she could guess what i had." "'tis so candy!" insisted violet again. "no, 'tisn't!" disputed laddie. "children! children!" said mrs. bunker softly. "i don't like my six little toadikins to talk this way. where's margy?" she asked as she "counted noses," which she called looking about to see if all six of the children were present. "margy's gone to get some cakes, 'cause we're going to have a soap-bubble party," explained russ. "what makes so many pretty colors come in the bubbles, mother?" asked violet. "it is the light shining through, just as the sun shines through the water in the sky after the rain, making the rainbow." "oh," said violet. she didn't understand very well about it, but her question had been answered, anyhow. "and now what's laddie got in his mouth?" she went on. "make him give me some, mother!" "i can't, 'cause it's only my tongue, and i can't take it out!" laughed laddie, and he showed how he had thrust his tongue to one side, bulging out his cheek, so it really did look as though he had a piece of candy in his mouth. "that's the time i fooled you with a riddle!" he said to violet. "it was only my tongue!" "i don't care! when i get some real candy i won't give you any!" cried violet. "here comes margy with the cakes!" exclaimed rose. "now we'll have the soap-bubble party." "but don't get any soap on your cake, or it won't taste nice," warned mother bunker. "now play nicely. has the postman been past yet?" "not yet, mother," answered russ. "do you think he is going to bring you a letter?" "he may, yes." "will it be a letter asking us to come some other place to have a good time for the rest of the summer?" rose wanted to know. for the six little bunkers were paying a visit to aunt jo in boston, and expected to leave shortly. "i don't know just what kind of letter i shall get," said mrs. bunker with a smile, "but i hope it will be a nice one. now have your party, and see who can blow the largest bubbles." "let's eat our cake and cookies first," said russ. "then we can't get any soap on 'em." "why not?" asked violet, who seemed especially fond of asking questions this day. "'cause they'll be inside us--i mean the cookies will," explained russ. "oh, that would make a good riddle!" exclaimed laddie. "i'm going to make up one about that." the children went out to the garage, where there was a room in which they often played. there they ate their cookies and cakes, and then russ and rose made some bowls of soapy water, and with clay pipes, which the little bunkers had bought for their play, they began to blow bubbles. they made large and small ones, and nearly all of them had the pretty colors that violet had asked about. they took one of the robes from aunt jo's automobile, and, spreading this out on the grass, they blew bubbles and let them fall on the cloth. the bubbles bounced up, sometimes making several bounds before they burst. "oh, this is lots of fun!" cried laddie. "it's more fun than making riddles." "i wondered why you hadn't asked one," said russ with a laugh. "oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, for he had happened to laugh just as he was blowing a big bubble, and it burst, scattering a little fine spray of soapy water in his face. margy giggled delightedly. "i like this!" said mun bun, as he put his pipe down into the bowl of water and blew a big string of little bubbles. just then a voice called: "hey, russ! where are you?" "back here! come on!" answered russ, laying aside his pipe. "who is it?" asked rose. "it's sammie brown, the boy we met the other day when we went to nantasket beach," russ explained. "he lives about two blocks from here, and i told him to come over and see us. here he is now!" and he pointed to a boy, about his own age, who was coming up the walk. "hello, sammie!" greeted russ. "want to blow bubbles?" "yes," was the answer, and a pipe was found for sammie. he seemed to know how to use it, for he blew bubbles bigger than any one else. "what's inside the bubbles?" asked violet, who simply had to ask another question. "is it water?" "no, it's air," said sammie. "if you could blow a bubble big enough to get inside of you could breathe the air, just like outside. only when it was all breathed up you'd have to get more." "would you, really?" asked rose. "sure," sammie answered. "how do you know?" violet questioned. "'cause my father's a sea captain, and he takes divers out on his boat and they go down after things that sink. the divers have air pumped to them, and they wear a big thing on their heads like a soap bubble, only it's called a helmet. this is pumped full of air for the diver to breathe." "oh, tell us about it!" begged laddie, laying aside his pipe. "did your father ever go down like a diver?" asked russ. "yes, once or twice. but now he just helps the other men go down. he's been a sea captain all his life, and once he was shipwrecked." "what's shipwrecked?" asked margy. "it's when your ship hits a rock, or runs on a desert island and sinks," said sammie. "then you have to get off if you don't want to be drowned. and once my father was shipwrecked on a desert island that way, and they found a lot of gold." "they did?" cried russ. "sure! i've heard him tell about it lots of times." "oh, is it a story?" asked rose. "no, it's real," said sammie. "tell us about it," demanded laddie. "well, i don't 'member much about it," sammie said. "but if you come over to my house, my father'll tell you about it. only he isn't home now 'cause he's got some divers down in the harbor and they're going to raise up a ship that's sunk." "couldn't you tell us a little about it?" asked russ. "did your father dig gold on the desert island?" "yes, he dug a lot of it," said sammie. "he's got one piece at home now. it's yellow, just like a five-dollar gold piece." "where was the island?" asked violet. "maybe we can go there," suggested laddie. "that is, if it isn't too far." "oh, it's terrible far," said sammie. "it's half-way around the world." "that's too far," said russ with a sigh. "maybe we could dig for gold here," suggested rose. "there's nice sand in one part of aunt jo's garden, and i guess she'd let us dig for gold. we could give her some if we found any." "i don't guess there's any gold here," said sammie, looking the place over. "this isn't a desert island." "we could pretend it was," said laddie. "let's do that! i'll go for a shovel." he ran to where the garden tools were kept, but, on the way, he heard the postman's whistle and stopped to get the mail. this he carried to his mother, and, when she saw one letter, she cried: "oh, this is from cousin tom! i hope it has good news in it!" quickly she read it, while laddie wondered what the good news was about. then mrs. bunker said: "oh, laddie! we're going on another nice trip! cousin tom has invited us all down to his seashore cottage! won't that be fine? we must soon get ready to leave aunt jo's and go to cousin tom's!" chapter ii treasure hopes laddie bunker looked up at his mother as she finished reading the letter. then he shook his head and said: "we can't go to cousin tom's!" "can't go to cousin tom's!" repeated his mother. "why not, laddie, my boy?" "'cause we're going to dig for gold here. sammie brown's father is a sea captain, and he has divers. he knows a lot about digging gold on desert islands, sammie's father does, and we're going to make believe aunt jo's back yard is a desert island, and we're going to dig for gold there." "but there isn't any," replied mrs. bunker, wanting to laugh, but not doing it, as she did not want to hurt laddie's feelings. "well, we're going to dig, just the same," insisted laddie. "we can go to cousin tom's after we find the gold." "oh, i see," said mrs. bunker with a smile. "well, don't you think it would be nice to go to the seashore? there is plenty of sand there, and perhaps there may be a desert island, or something like that, near cousin tom's. couldn't you dig for gold and treasure at the seashore?" "oh, maybe we could!" cried laddie. "i guess that would be nice, mother. i'll go and tell the others. we're going to cousin tom's! we're going to cousin tom's!" he sang joyously, as he raced back to where he had left sammie brown telling his story, and the other little bunkers who wanted to dig for gold. "i think it will be just lovely for the children at cousin tom's," said mrs. bunker to her husband, who came out to see if there were any letters for him. "they can play in the sand and never get a bit dirty." "yes, they can do that," said mr. bunker. "so cousin tom wrote, did he? well, i suppose that means we will soon be leaving aunt jo's." "i shall be sorry to see you go," said aunt jo herself--miss josephine bunker, to give her complete name and title. she was daddy bunker's sister, and had never married, but she had a fine home in the back bay section of boston, and the six little bunkers, with their father and mother, had been spending some weeks there. while mr. and mrs. bunker are talking about the coming trip to the seashore, and while laddie is hurrying back to tell his brothers and sisters the good news, there will be a chance for me to let my new readers hear something about the children who are to have the largest part in this story. this book is complete in itself, but it forms one of a series about the six children, and the first volume is called "six little bunkers at grandma bell's." in that i introduced the boys and girls. first there was russ, aged eight years. he had dark hair and eyes, and was very fond of whistling and making things to play with, such as an automobile out of a soap box or a steamboat out of a broken chair. rose, who was next in size, was seven years old. she often helped her mother about the house and looked after the younger children. and that she was happy when she worked you could tell because she nearly always sang. rose had light hair and blue eyes. vi, or violet, was six years old. as you have noticed, she was very fond of asking questions, and she looked at you with her gray eyes until you answered. laddie, her twin brother, was as persistent in making up queer little riddles as vi was with her questions, and between the two they kept their father and mother busy. margy, or margaret, was five years old, and almost as dark as a little gypsy girl. margy and mun bun usually played together, and they had a great deal of fun. lest you might think "mun bun" was some kind of candy, i will say that it was the pet name of munroe ford bunker, and it was shortened to mun bun as the other was too long to say. mun bun was rather small, even for his age of four years. he had blue eyes and golden hair and looked almost as i have an idea fairies look, if there are any real ones. so there you have the six little bunkers. when they were at home, they lived in the town of pineville, on the rainbow river. mr. bunker was a real estate dealer, whose office was about a mile from his home. in the first book of the series i told you of a trip the bunkers took to grandma bell's at lake sagatook, in maine. grandma bell was mrs. bunker's mother, and in the maine woods the children had so many good times that it was years before they forgot them. they had quite an adventure, too, with a tramp lumberman, who had a ragged coat, but i will not spoil that story by telling it to you here. before the bunkers left grandma bell's they received an invitation to visit aunt jo in boston, and they were at her back bay home when the present story opens. there had been adventures in boston, too, and the pocketbook which rose found, with sixty-five dollars in it, was quite a mystery for a time. but, finally, the real owner was discovered, and very glad she was to get the money back. "well, we have had good times here at aunt jo's," said mrs. bunker to her husband, when they had read all the letters that had come in the mail. "and now it is time for us to go. i think we shall enjoy our stay at cousin tom's." "it will be fine for the children," said their father. "yes, they are already counting on digging gold out of the sand," said mrs. bunker with a laugh. "sammie brown has been telling them some story about buried treasure his father found." "well, i believe that is a true story," said mr. bunker. "i heard my sister say something about mr. brown having been shipwrecked on an island once, and coming back with gold. but if we go to cousin tom's we shall have to begin packing soon, shall we not?" he went on. "yes," agreed his wife. "we are to leave about the middle of next week." "we have been doing a great deal of traveling so far this summer," went on mr. bunker. "here it is about the middle of august, and we have been at grandma bell's, at aunt jo's and we are now going to cousin tom's. i had a letter from grandpa ford, saying that he wished we'd come there." "and my brother fred is anxious to have us come out to his western ranch," said mrs. bunker. "if we accept all the invitations we shall be very busy." so mr. and mrs. bunker talked over the time of leaving, what they would need to take, and the best way of going. meanwhile laddie had run back to tell his brothers and sisters the good news. "we're going to the real seashore!" he exclaimed. "it's down to seaview where cousin tom lives, and we can dig for treasure there!" "can we really?" asked violet. "what's treasure, russ? is any of it good to eat? and look at that robin! what makes him waggle his tail that way? and look at the cat! what's she lashing her tail so for?" "wait a minute, vi!" cried russ with a laugh. "you mustn't ask so many questions all to once." "treasure isn't good to eat!" said laddie. "but if you find a lot of gold you can buy ice-cream sodas with it." "maybe the robin is flitting its tail to scare the cat," suggested rose, who remembered violet's second question. "well, i know why the cat is lashing her tail," said russ. "cats always do that when they think they're going to catch a bird. this cat thinks she's going to catch the robin. but she won't!" "why not?" asked rose. "'cause i'm going to throw a stone at it--at the cat, i mean," explained russ. he tossed a pebble at the cat, not hitting it, and the furry creature slunk away. the robin flew off, also, so it was not caught, at least not just then. "i know a riddle about a robin!" said laddie. "only i can't think of it now," he added. "maybe i shall after a while. then i'll tell it to you. go on, sammie. tell us more about how your father got the gold on the desert island." "he dug for it," sammie answered. "he and the other sailors just dug in the sand for it." "with shovels?" "no, they used big shells. it's easy to dig in the sand." "is sand the best place to dig for gold?" rose wanted to know. "i guess so," answered sammie. "anyhow there's always sand on a desert island, like that one where my father was." "there's sand down at cousin tom's," put in laddie. "i heard my mother say so. i'm going to dig for gold, and if i get a lot, sammie, i'll send you some." "i hope you find a big lot!" exclaimed the visiting boy with a laugh. they talked over their hopes of finding treasure in the seashore sand, forgetting all about the soap bubbles they had been blowing. "i'll be lonesome when you go away," said sammie to russ. "i like you bunkers." "and we like you," said russ. "maybe if we dig for gold down at cousin tom's, and can't find any, you'll come down and help us." "sure i will!" exclaimed sammie, as if that would be the easiest thing in the world. "i'll ask my father the best way, and then i'll come down." "could you bring a diving suit?" asked laddie. "maybe the gold would be down on the bottom of the ocean, and we'd have to dive for it. would your father let you take a diving suit?" "no, i don't guess he would," said sammie, shaking his head. "they are only for big men, and you have to have air pumped down to you all the while. it makes bubbles come up, and as long as the bubbles come up the diver is all right." "did a shark ever bite your father?" asked rose. "no, i guess not," sammie answered. "anyhow he never told me about it. but i must go now, 'cause it's time for my lunch. i'll come over after lunch and we can have some more fun." sammie said good-bye to the six little bunkers and started down the side path toward the front gate of aunt jo's home. hardly had he reached the sidewalk when russ and the others heard him yelling: "oh, come here! come here quick, and look! hurry!" chapter iii on the boat "what is it? what's the matter?" cried rose, as she hurried after her brother, who started to run toward sammie brown. "i don't know," russ answered. "but something has happened!" "maybe sammie found the treasure," suggested laddie. "oh, wouldn't that be great? then we wouldn't have to dig for it down in the sand at cousin tom's!" "pooh! there couldn't be no treasure out in front of aunt jo's house," exclaimed violet, not being quite so careful of her words as she should have been. by this time russ and rose were in the front yard, but they could not see sammie, because between the yard and the street were some high bushes, and the shrubbery hid sammie from sight. "what's the matter?" asked rose. "what happened?" russ wanted to know. "a policeman has arrested a big bear!" cried sammie. "come on and see it! the policeman has the bear, an' there's a man with gold rings in his ears, and he's got a red handkerchief on his neck, or maybe that's where the bear scratched him, and there's a big crowd and--and--everything!" words failed sammie. he had to stop then. "oh--a--a bear!" gasped rose. she and russ, followed by the rest of the six little bunkers, hurried out to aunt jo's front gate. there they saw just what sammie had said they would--a policeman had hold of a long cord which was fastened about the neck of a bear. and there was an excited man with a red handkerchief tied about his throat, and he had gold rings in his ears. he was talking to the policeman, and there was a crowd of men and children and a few women about the bear, the policeman, and the other man, who seemed to be the bear's owner. "what happened?" asked russ of a boy whom he knew, and who lived a few doors from aunt jo's house. "i don't know," was the answer. "i guess the bear bit somebody though, and the policeman arrested it." "no, that wasn't it," said another boy. "the bear broke into a bake shop and ate a lot of pies. that's why the policeman is going to take it to the station house." "here comes the patrol wagon!" some one else cried, and up the street dashed the automobile from the precinct station house, its bell clanging loudly. "get in!" the six little bunkers heard the policeman say to the man with the red handkerchief around his neck. "get in, you and the bear! i'll teach you to come around here!" "oh, maybe the bear bit the policeman," half whispered rose. "no, my dears," said aunt jo, who, with mother bunker, had come out to see what the excitement was about and why the six little bunkers had run so fast around the side of the house. "nothing much at all happened, my dears," said aunt jo. "but in this part of boston, at least, they don't allow performing bears in the streets. that is why the policeman is taking this one away. the man, who is an italian, led his tame bear along the street and started to have the animal do tricks. but we don't allow that in this back bay section." "will he shoot the bear?" asked mun bun breathlessly. "oh, no," said aunt jo with a laugh. "the poor bear has done nothing, and his master did not know any better than to bring him here. they will just make them go to another part of the city, where, perhaps, performing bears are not objected to. whether they allow them anywhere in boston or not, i can't say. but he will be taken away from here." the automobile patrol, with the bear and man in charge of the policeman, rumbled away. the crowd waited a little while, and then, as nothing more seemed likely to happen, it began to scatter. "i'm glad we saw it," said russ, as he turned back into the yard. "so'm i," added laddie. "it's 'most as much fun as digging for gold. say, russ, i hope we find some, don't you?" "i sure do! i wish we were at cousin tom's right now. i want to start digging for that treasure." "don't be too sure of finding any," said mother bunker, who heard what her two little boys were saying. "many persons dig for gold but never get any." "oh, we'll get some," declared russ, and if you read this book through you will find out that what russ said came true. after supper that evening, when they had finished talking about the bear that had been arrested, laddie and vi wanted to go out into the yard and start digging. "oh, no," said their mother. "you have been washed and dressed, and digging will get you dirty again. better wait until to-morrow." "i thought we were going to start to pack to-morrow to go to cousin tom's," remarked rose. "so we are, but i guess you'll have time to dig for a little gold," returned mother bunker with a laugh. "though that doesn't mean you will find any," she went on with another laugh. the next day laddie and vi did start to dig in a place where aunt jo said it would do no harm to turn over the ground. "though if there is a golden treasure in my yard i never knew it," she said. "but dig as much as you like." "i--i just thought of a riddle," said laddie, as he and vi started out. "let me hear it," suggested aunt jo. "what is it that's so big you can't put it in anything?" he asked. "that's the riddle. what is it that's so big you can't put it in anything in this world?" "the ocean," answered rose, who came along just then. "nope!" and laddie shook his head. "well, the ocean is terrible big," violet stated. "yes, it is," agreed laddie. "but that isn't the answer to my riddle." "do you mean the sky?" asked russ. "that's big, too." "that isn't the answer," said laddie. "i'll tell you, 'cause you never could guess it. it's a hole that you dig. you can dig one so big that you couldn't put it in anything. not even the biggest box that ever was. isn't that a good riddle?" "yes, it's pretty good," agreed russ; and he commenced to whistle a merry tune. "but you could fill a small box with some dirt, and dig a little hole in that, and you'd have a hole in a box," he added, after a moment. "yes, but the answer to my riddle is a _big_ hole," said laddie. "now come on out and dig!" "how big a hole are you going to dig?" vi wanted to know. "oh, not the kind in my riddle," replied her brother. "we'll just dig a little one and make believe we're after treasure." of course i need not tell you that laddie and violet did not find any. treasure doesn't usually grow in boston back yards. but the children had fun, and that was best of all. during the next few days there was much packing of trunks and valises to do, for the six little bunkers were getting ready to go to cousin tom's at seaview. this was a place on the new jersey coast, and none of the bunkers had ever been there. for cousin tom had been only recently married to a very pretty girl, named ruth robinson. cousin tom and his bride had stopped to pay a visit to daddy and mother bunker when the young couple were on their honeymoon trip, and then cousin tom and his wife had said that as soon as they were settled in their new seashore home the bunkers must come to see them. "and now we are going," said mother bunker, on the morning of the day they were to leave aunt jo's. the last trunk had been locked and sent away, and the family of travelers was soon to take the train from boston to fall river. there they would get on a boat that would take them to new york, and from new york they could go on another boat to atlantic highlands, in new jersey. then they would take a train down the coast to seaview. "well, i certainly shall miss you!" said aunt jo, as she kissed the big and little bunkers good-bye. "and i hope, children, that you find lots of treasure in the sand." "we'll dig deep for it," said laddie. "did you hear my riddle, aunt jo, about what's so big you can't put it in anything?" "yes, dear, i heard it." "the answer is a _big_ hole," went on laddie, lest his aunt might have forgotten. "i remember," she said with a laugh. the trip to fall river was not a very long one, and the six little bunkers, who looked out of the windows at the sights they saw, hardly realized it when they were told it was time to get off the train. "where do we go now?" asked rose, as she helped her mother by carrying a package in one hand and holding to margy with the other. rose was a real "mother's helper" that day. "we go on the boat now," said daddy bunker. "and i want you children to be very careful. we are going to ride on the boat all night, and we shall be in new york in the morning." "shall we sleep on the boat?" asked laddie. "yes, we'll have cute little beds to sleep in," said mother bunker. a half hour later they were on one of the big fall river boats that make nightly trips between new york and the massachusetts city. the bunkers were shown to their state-rooms. they had three large apartments, with several bunks, or beds, in each one, so there would be plenty of room. they had their supper on the boat, and then they went out on deck in the evening. there were many sights new and strange to the children, and they looked eagerly at each one. then it grew dark, and it was decided that the time had come for little folks to "turn in," and go to sleep. laddie, who with russ and his father shared a room together, was looking from the window of the stateroom, out into the dark night, when he suddenly cried out: "oh, there's going to be a big thunder storm! i just saw the flash of lightning!" "are you sure it was lightning?" asked mr. bunker with a smile. "i didn't hear any thunder." "there it is again!" cried laddie, and this time a ray of bright, white light shone in the window, full in laddie's face. chapter iv a mix-up "that isn't lightning," said russ, who had come to the window of the stateroom to stand beside his brother and look out. "'tis, too!" insisted laddie, as another flash came. "it's lightning, and maybe it'll set our boat on fire, and then we can't go to cousin tom's an' dig for gold! so there!" mr. bunker, who was opening a valise in one corner of the room, getting out the boys' pajamas for the night, had not seen the light shining in the window, but had seen the glare of it on the wall. "'tisn't lightning at all!" declared russ again. "how do you know it isn't?" asked laddie. "'cause lightning flashes are a different color," said russ. "and, besides, they don't stay still so long. look, daddy, this one is peeping right in our window like a light from aunt jo's automobile!" mr. bunker turned in time to see the bright flash of light come in through the window, and then it seemed to stay in the room, making it much brighter than the light from the electric lamps on the wall. "of course that isn't lightning!" said mr. bunker. "that's a search-light from some ship. come on out on deck, boys, and we'll see it." the bright glare was still in the room, but it did not flare up as lightning would have done, and there were no loud claps of thunder. "well, if it isn't a storm i'll come out on deck and look," laddie said. "but if it rains i'm coming in!" "it won't," said daddy bunker with a laugh. "we'll go out for a few minutes, and then we'll come in and go to bed. to-morrow we'll be at cousin tom's." out on the deck of the big fall river boat they went, and, surely enough, the light did come from the search-lantern of a big ship not far away. it was a united states warship, the boys' father told them, and it was probably kept near newport, where there is a station at which young sailors are trained. the warship flashed the light all about the water, lighting up other boats. "i thought it was lightning," said laddie. "it is a kind of lightning," said daddy bunker. "for the light is made by electricity, and lightning and electricity are the same thing, though no one has yet been able to use lightning to read by." mrs. bunker, who had left rose in charge of margy and mun bun, came out on deck with violet, and met her husband and the two boys. she was told about laddie's thinking the light was from a storm, and laughed with him over it. "i'm going to make up a riddle about the search-light to-morrow," said the little fellow eagerly. they stayed out on deck a while longer, while the boat steamed ahead, watching the various lights on shore and on other vessels, and occasionally seeing the glare of the search-beam from the warship. then, as it was getting late and the children were tired, mother bunker said they had better go to their beds. this they did, and they slept soundly all night. the morning was bright and fair, and the day promised to be a fine one for the rest of the trip to cousin tom's. as i have mentioned, they were to take a boat from new york city to atlantic highlands, and from there a train would take them down the new jersey coast to seaview, and to mr. thomas bunker's house on the beach. "are we going to have breakfast on the boat?" asked russ, as he helped his father gather up the baggage, whistling meanwhile a merry tune. "no, i think we will go to a restaurant on shore," said mr. bunker. "i want to telegraph to cousin tom, and let him know we are coming, and i think we shall all enjoy a meal on shore more than on the boat after it has tied up at the dock." so on shore they all went, and daddy bunker, after leaving the hand baggage at the dock where they were to take the atlantic highlands boat later in the day, took them to a restaurant. "shall we have good things to eat?" asked violet, as she walked along by her mother's side. "of course, my dear," was the answer. "that is what restaurants are for." "will they have as good things as we had at aunt jo's?" "well, yes, i think so." "will they have strawberry shortcake?" "you don't want that for breakfast!" laughed daddy bunker, turning around, for he was walking ahead with russ. "i like strawberry shortcake," went on violet. "it's good and mother said they had good things in a rest'ant. i want strawberry shortcake." "well, you shall have some if we can get it," promised mother bunker, for violet was talking quite loudly, and several persons on the street, hearing her, looked down at the little girl and smiled. "all right," said vi. "i'm glad i'm going to get strawberry shortcake in the rest'ant. what makes 'em call it a rest'ant, daddy? does an ant rest there? and why doesn't aunt jo come to one an' rest?" "i'll tell you about it when we get there," said her father. the restaurant was not far from where they were to take the boat for atlantic highlands, and, though it was rather early in the morning, quite a number of persons were at breakfast. there was a smell of many things being cooked, and the rattle of dishes, and of knives, forks and spoons made such a clatter that it sounded as though every one was in a great hurry. "are all these people going down to the seashore like us?" asked violet, who seemed to have many questions to ask that day. "oh, no," answered her father. "they are just hungry, and they want their breakfast. perhaps some of them have been traveling all night, as we were. but come, we must find a table large enough for all of us. i don't believe they often have a whole family, the size of ours, at breakfast here." a waiter, who had seen the bunkers come in, motioned them to follow him, and he led them to a quiet corner where there was a table with just eight chairs about it. "ho! i guess this was made specially for us," said russ with a laugh, as he slid into his seat. "yes, it just seems to fit," agreed mr. bunker. "now, mother," and he looked over at his wife, "you order for some of the children, and i'll order for the others. in that way we'll be through sooner." "have they got any strawberry shortcake?" asked vi. "i want some." "i don't see it down on the bill of fare for breakfast," replied her father, "but i'll ask the waiter." one of the men, of whom there were many hurrying to and fro with big trays heaped high with dishes of food, came over to the bunkers' table. "no, the strawberry shortcake isn't ready until lunch," he said. "but you can have hot waffles and maple syrup." "oh, i like them!" and violet clapped her hands. "i like them better than strawberry shortcake." "then you may bring some," said mr. bunker. it took a little time to get just what each child wanted, and sometimes, after the order was given, one or the other of the youngsters would change. but finally the waiter had gone back to the kitchen, to get the different things for the six little bunkers and their father and mother. "and now we can sit back and draw our breaths," said mrs. bunker. "my, i never saw such a hungry lot of children! now sit still, all of you, until i 'count noses.' i want to see if you're really all here." she began at russ, and went to rose, to violet, to laddie, and to margy, and then mrs. bunker suddenly cried: "why, you're not mun bun! where is mun bun? you are not my little boy!" and, surely enough, there was a mix-up. for in the seat where mun bun had been sitting was a strange little boy. he was about as big as mun bun, but he was not one of the six little bunkers. where was mun bun? chapter v margy's crawl mother bunker looked at the strange little boy. and the strange little boy looked at mother bunker. "where did you come from?" asked mr. bunker. "over there, and i'm hungry!" said the little fellow. "i'm terrible hungry, 'cause i didn't have no breakfast yet. has you got any breakfast?" and he looked at each plate in turn, for the waiter had put plates in front of each of the bunkers. "no, you hasn't anything to eat, either. i guess i'll go back," and he started to slip down from his chair. he was sitting between violet and margy. "wait a minute, my little man," said daddy bunker with a smile. "don't run away so fast. you might get lost. who are you and where do you live?" "i live away far off," answered the strange boy. "my name is tommie, and i come in a ship and i'm going out west, and i'm hungry!" "oh, maybe he's lost!" exclaimed russ. "i'm sure mun bun is!" said mrs. bunker. "oh, where can he be? he was in his chair a minute ago, and then i looked to see what else i wanted to order to eat, but when i looked up there was this strange boy, and mun bun was gone. oh, i hope he hasn't gone into the street!" and she looked toward the door of the restaurant. mun bun was not in sight, and mr. bunker got up from his chair to make a search. the strange boy who had said his name was tommie, looked about hungrily. just as mrs. bunker was going to call a waiter, and ask about mun bun, there came a cry from another table at the far end of the restaurant. it was the voice of a woman, and she said: "oh, that isn't tommie! where is he? where is tommie?" "i guess that explains the mystery," said mr. bunker with a smile. "the two boys are mixed up. we have tommie--whatever his other name is--at our table, and mun bun must have gone down there," and he pointed to the table where the woman had called for tommie. there were five children at this table, waiting for breakfast as the six little bunkers were waiting, and one of them was mun bun, as his mother could see. she ran down the long room. "oh, mun bun!" cried mrs. bunker. "what made you go away? why did you come over here?" and she hurried to his chair and took him in her arms. at the same time the boy who had called himself tommie, slipped out of his chair and hurried with mrs. bunker back to the table where the woman who had called him sat. "now i guess the mix-up is straightened out," said daddy bunker with a laugh. "mun bun slipped away, when we were not looking, and went to the wrong table. at the same time a little boy from that table came to ours. they just traded places." "like puss-in-the-corner," said rose, who had followed her mother and father to the other end of the room. "that's it," agreed daddy bunker. "i'm sorry you were frightened about your little boy," he went on to tommie's mother. "we didn't know we had him." "and i didn't know i had yours," she said with a smile. "i have five children, all girls but this one, and when i didn't see tommie in his place, but saw, instead, this strange little chap, i didn't know what had happened." "that's just the way i felt," said mrs. bunker. "i have six, and when we travel it keeps me and their father busy looking after them." "my husband isn't with me now," said the woman, who gave her name as mrs. wilson. "but i expect to meet him at the station. we are going to asbury park for the rest of the summer." "we are going to seaview," said mrs. bunker. "perhaps we may meet you at the shore." "i hope so," said mrs. wilson, as tommie slipped into the seat out of which mun bun slid. "now here comes your breakfast, children." "yes, and the waiter is bringing ours," said mr. bunker with a look over toward his own table. "come, mother, and mun bun. you, too, rose." they said good-bye to mrs. wilson, and soon the six little bunkers at one table were eating waffles and maple syrup, and at the other table the five little wilsons were enjoying their meal. "what made you go away, mun bun?" asked his mother, as she buttered another waffle for him. "i wanted to see if they had any shortcake down there," he explained. "i wanted some like vi did, and i went to another table to see. but there wasn't have any," he added, getting rather mixed up in his talk. "and when i wanted to come back i didn't know the way and i sat down and you weren't there, mother, and i was afraid and----" "but you're all right now," said mrs. bunker, as she saw mun bun's chin begin to quiver as it always did just before he cried. "you're all right now, and not lost any more. finish your waffle, and we'll soon be ready to go on the boat to cousin tom's." the children were eating heartily, for they were hungry after their night trip from fall river. laddie, who had had several helpings of waffles, at last seemed satisfied. he leaned back in his chair and said: "i know another riddle. when is mun bun not mun bun?" "he's always mun bun, 'ceptin' when mother calls him munroe ford bunker, when he's got himself all dirt," said vi. "i don't call that a riddle." "it is a riddle," insisted laddie. "when is mun bun not mun bun?" "is it when he's asleep?" asked russ, taking a guess just to please his small brother. "nope! that isn't it," went on the small boy. "it's awful hard, and you'd never guess it, so i'll tell you. mun bun isn't mun bun when he's tommie wilson. isn't that a good riddle?" he asked. "mun bun isn't mun bun when he's tommie wilson." "yes, that is pretty good," said mr. bunker. "but now we had better hurry, or we may be late for the atlantic highlands boat. are you all through?" they were; all but mun bun, who saw a little pool of maple syrup on his plate, and wanted to get that up with a spoon before he left the table. then once more the six little bunkers were on their way. the atlantic highlands boat left from a pier near one of the new jersey central railroad ferry slips on west street in new york city, and it was quite a long walk from the shore end of the pier to the end that was out in the hudson river. it was at the river end that the boat stopped, coming down from a pier farther up the stream. "now are we all here?" asked mother bunker, as she and her husband started down west street. "i don't want mun bun to change into some one else after we get started on the boat, for then it will be too late to change him back. are we all here?" they were, it seemed, and down west street they hurried. the way was lined with out-door stands, where it seemed that nearly everything from bananas and oranges to pocketbooks and shoes, were sold. west street is along the river front, where many boats land, and there are sailors, and other persons, who have no time to go shopping for things up town, or farther inland in the city of new york. so the stands on west street are very useful. you can buy things to eat, as well as things to wear, without going into a store. a big shed over the top keeps off the rain. as the bunker family hastened on, margy, who had been walking with rose, let go of her sister's hand and cried: "oh, look at the little kittie! i want to rub the little kittie!" a small cat had crawled out from under one stand and was walking along the street. margy saw it, and, being very fond of animals, she wanted to pet it. but the cat, young as it was, seemed to be afraid. as margy ran from rose's side and trotted after the furry animal, it gave a sudden scamper under another stand. but margy had chased kittens before, and she knew that once they got under something they generally stayed near the front edge, hoping they would not be seen. by stooping down, and reaching, she had often pulled her own kitten out from under her mother's dresser. "i can get you! i can get you!" laughed the little girl. paying no attention to her clean, white stockings, which her mother had put on her only that morning, margy knelt down on the sidewalk, and stretched her arms under the fruit stand, beneath which the half-frightened kitten had crawled. if the little cat had known that margy only wanted to stroke it softly and pet it i am sure it would not have run away. but that is what it did, and that is what caused all the trouble. for there was trouble. i'll tell you about it. "come on out, kittie!" called margy. "come on out! i won't hurt you! i like kitties, i do! come on out and let me rub you!" she stooped lower down to see under the edge of the fruit stand. by this time mrs. bunker had seen what had happened, and she called: "margaret bunker, get right up off your knees this instant. you'll spoil your clean white stockings! get up! we'll miss the boat!" but margy paid no heed. she could see the kitten now, back in a dark corner under the stand, and she wanted to get it out. "come on, kittie!" called the little girl. "come on out, and i'll take you to cousin tom's with us and you can play in the sand! come on, i'll rub you nice and soft!" "mew! mew!" said the kitten, but it did not come out. and then margy did a very queer thing. with a sudden wiggle and a twist she crawled all the way under the fruit stand, her little legs, in the white stockings, being the last to disappear. "oh, catch her! quick! catch her!" cried mrs. bunker. but it was too late. margy was out of sight under the fruit stand after the little kitten. chapter vi at cousin tom's when mr. bunker heard his wife calling as she did, he stopped and looked back, for he was walking on ahead with russ and laddie. then all the other bunkers stopped, too, and gathered around the fruit stand. all except mr. bunker and the two boys knew what had happened, for they had seen margy crawl under. the man who owned the stand, who had gone away from it a moment to talk to the man who kept a socks-and-suspender stand next to him, had not seen the kitten crawl under his pile of fruit, nor had he seen margy go after it. but when he saw the seven bunkers gathered in a group he at once thought they wanted to buy some apples, pears, or oranges. "nice fruit! nice fruit!" said the man, who was an italian. "very nice good fruit and cheap." "no, we don't want any fruit now," said mrs. bunker. "i want my little girl." "lil' girl? lil' girl!" exclaimed the italian. "no got lil' girls. only got fruit, banan', orange, apple! you want to buy? good nice fruit cheap!" "no, i want margy!" cried mrs. bunker. "where is she?" asked mr. bunker, who, as i have told you, had not seen where margy went. "she's under the stand," explained his wife. "she went to get a kitten," added rose. "no got kittens nor cats needer," said the italian. "only got fruit. nice fruit, cheap!" mr. bunker stooped down to look under the stand. "no fruit there!" the owner said. "all fruit on top. nice fruit, cheap!" "i am looking for my little girl," explained mr. bunker. "she crawled under there--under your stand--after a kitten." and just then could be heard a loud: "mew! mew! mew!" "oh, she's caught it! margy's caught the kittie," cried mun bun. "i can hear him holler." certainly something seemed to have happened to the kitten, for it was mewing very loudly. mr. bunker reached in under the fruit stand, and made a grab for something. he gave a pull and out came--margy! and as margy came into view, being pulled by one leg by her father, who found that was the only way he could reach her, it was seen that the little girl held, clasped in her arms, the kitten after which she had crawled. "i got it! i got it!" cried margy, as she sat down on the sidewalk in front of the fruit stand. the kitten was a soft, furry one, but it was rather mussed and bedraggled now, from the way margy had mauled it. and the little bunker girl was rather tousled herself, for there was not much room underneath the stand where she had crawled. "oh, my dear margy!" cried mrs. bunker. "you are such a sight!" "but i got my kittie!" said the little girl. by this time quite a crowd had gathered around the six little bunkers and their father and mother. margy still sat on the sidewalk, with the kitten in her lap, petting and rubbing it. "come! we must hurry!" exclaimed mr. bunker. "we may miss the boat. get up, margy. rose, you help your mother dust margy off, and then we must hurry." "can't i take the kittie?" asked the little girl. "no, dear," answered her mother. "it isn't yours. and besides, we never could take it to cousin tom's with us. put it down, margy, my dear!" "oh, oh, i don't want to!" cried the little girl, and real tears came into her eyes. "i got this kittie out of a dark corner, and it loves me and i love it! i want it." "but you can't take it," said daddy bunker. "the kittie must stay here. it belongs to the fruit stand. it's your cat, isn't it?" he asked the italian. "my keeten? no. i have no keeten. i sell banan', orange, apple! you buy some i give you keetie. me no want!" "no, and we don't want it, either," said mrs. bunker. "i was hoping it was yours so you could say you had to keep it here to drive the mice away. if margy thought it was yours she wouldn't want to take it away." "ah, i see!" exclaimed the italian with a smile. "all right, i keep the keeten," and he said the name in a funny way. "there, margy!" exclaimed her father. "you see you'll have to leave the kitten here to keep the mice away from the oranges." "can't i take it to cousin tom's with me?" "no. and you must put it down quickly, and hurry, or we shall miss the boat." margy started to cry, but the italian, who seemed to understand children, quickly offered her a big, yellow orange. then margy let go of the kitten, and the fruit man quickly picked it up and put it down in a little box out of sight. "she no see--she no want," he whispered to mrs. bunker. "i want an orange!" exclaimed mun bun, seeing margy beginning to eat hers. "i likes oranges!" "all right, we'll all have some," said mr. bunker. it seemed like disappointing the stand-owner to go away without buying some, after all that had gone on at his place of business. so mr. bunker bought a large bag of oranges, telling his wife they could eat them on the boat. margy forgot about the kitten, and, being dusted, for she was dirty from her crawl under the stand, the six little bunkers once more started off. this time their father and mother watched each one of the boys and girls to see that none of them did anything to cause further delays. russ and rose and laddie and violet were not so venturesome this way as were margy and mun bun. "now here we are at the dock, and all we have to do is to walk straight out to the end of the pier and get on the boat when it comes," said mr. bunker. "it is nearly time for it. i don't believe anything more can happen." and nothing did. there was a long walk, or platform, elevated at one side of the covered pier, and along this the children hurried with their father and mother. a whistle sounded out on the hudson river, which flowed past the far end of the dock. "is that our boat?" asked russ. "i hope not," his father answered. "if it is, we may miss it yet. but i do not think it is. there are many boats on the river, and they all have whistles." a little later they were in the waiting-room at the end of the dock, where there were a number of other passengers, and soon a big white boat, with the name "_asbury park_" painted on one side, was seen steering toward the dock. "here she is!" cried mr. bunker, and, a little later, they were all on board and steaming down new york bay. they steamed on down past the statue of liberty, that gift from the french, past the forts at the narrows, and so on down the bay. off to the left, daddy bunker told the children, was coney island, where so many persons from new york go on hot days and nights to get cooled off near the ocean. "is seaview like coney island?" asked vi. "well, it may be a little like it," her father answered; "though there will not be so many merry-go-rounds there or other things to make fun for you. but i think you will have a good time all the same." "we're going to dig for gold, like sammie brown's father," declared laddie. "if we find a lot of it we can buy a ticket for coney island." "what makes them call it coney island?" asked vi. "did they find some coneys there?" "i don't know," her father replied. "what's a coney, anyhow?" went on the little girl. "i don't know the answer to that question, either," said mr. bunker. "you'll have to ask me something else, vi." "maybe it's an ice-cream cone they meant," said russ, "and they changed it to coney." "did they, daddy?" vi wanted to know. "well, you have a questioning streak on to-day," laughed her father. "i'm sorry i can't tell you how coney island got its name." so the children looked, first on one side of the boat and then on the other as they steamed along. now and then vi asked questions. russ whistled and thought of many things he would make when he reached cousin tom's. laddie tried to think up a riddle about why the smoke from the steamer did not stack up in a pile, instead of blowing away, but he couldn't seem to think of a good answer. and, as he said: "a riddle without an answer isn't any fun, 'cause you don't know when people guess it wrong or right." finally the boat turned toward land and, a little later, daddy bunker said they were near atlantic highlands. then the steamer slowly swung up to a big pier, the gangplank was run out, and the six little bunkers, with their father and mother and the other passengers, got off, their tickets being taken up as they left the boat. a train was waiting at the pier, and soon, with the bunkers in one of the coaches, it was puffing down the track, along the edge of the water. above the train towered the high hills which gave atlantic highlands its name. on the heights, at a station called "highlands," are two big lighthouses. the highland light is as bright as ninety-five million candles, and on a clear night can be seen flashing for many miles. "could we come down and see the light some night?" asked russ, as his father told him about it. "yes, i think so," was the answer. "but get ready now. we shall soon be at cousin tom's place." the train rumbled over a bridge across the shrewsbury river, which flows into sandy hook bay, and then, after passing a few more stations, the brakeman cried: "seaview! seaview! all out for seaview!" "oh, now we're at cousin tom's!" cried rose. "won't we have fun?" "lots!" agreed russ. "and don't forget about digging for gold!" added laddie. they got off the train, and cousin tom, who was waiting for them, hurried up, all smiles. behind him came his pretty wife. "oh, i'm so glad to see you!" said cousin ruth. "are all the six little bunkers here?" cousin tom wanted to know, with a grin. "every one!" answered mother bunker. "but we nearly lost margy. she crawled under a fruit stand after a kitten. where is she now? margy, come back!" she called, for she saw the little girl running toward the train. "don't get on the cars!" cried mrs. bunker. the train was beginning to move. "come back, margy! oh, get her, some one!" but margy was not going near the train. suddenly she stooped over and caught up in her arms a little, white, woolly poodle dog. "look what i found!" she cried. "if i can't have a kittie cat, i can have a dog. he is a nice dog and he jumped off the train 'cause he likes me!" and, just as margy picked up the dog in her arms, a woman thrust her head out of one of the windows of the moving train and screamed. chapter vii digging for gold the dog began to bark, the engine of the train whistled, the woman with her head out of the car window kept on screaming, and the conductor, standing out on the platform, shouted something, though no one could tell what it was. "it sounded," said daddy bunker, afterward, "like that mother goose story, where the fire begins to burn the stick, the stick begins to beat the dog, the dog begins to chase the pig and the old lady got home before midnight." "what is the matter?" asked cousin tom, who had stopped greeting the six little bunkers to look at margy and the dog, and listen to the screaming of the woman on the train. no one seemed to know, but, suddenly, the engine whistled loudly once, and then the train came to a stop. out of the car rushed the woman, down the steps and toward margy. "my dog!" she cried. "oh, my pet dog! i thought he was killed!" "no'm, i picked him up," explained margy, as the woman took her pet animal. "i saw him, and he came to me, 'cause he liked me. i almost got a little kitten, but it went under a stand and when i pulled it out mother wouldn't let me keep it. now i can't have the doggie, either," and margy acted as if she were going to cry. "i'm sorry, little girl," said the woman, "but i couldn't give up my pet carlo. he is all i have!" and she cuddled the dog in her arms as she would a baby. "did you stop my train, lady?" asked the conductor, and he seemed rather angry. "yes," was the answer. "my carlo ran off, just as it started, and i saw the little girl pick him up. then i pulled the whistle-cord, and stopped the train. i just had to jump off and get my carlo!" "well, now that you have him, please get back on again," said the conductor. "we are late now, and must hurry." "i'm sorry i can't leave carlo with you, for i'm sure you would love him," said the woman to margy. "but i could not get along without him." margy did not have time to answer, as the woman had to hurry back to the train. the conductor was waiting, watch in hand, for the train had stopped after it had started away from the station, and would be a few minutes late. and on a railroad a few minutes mean a great deal. "oh, dear!" sighed margy. "i had a little kittie and then i didn't have it. then i had a little dog and now i haven't that, either! oh, dear!" "never mind," said cousin tom, as he patted the little girl on the head. "you can come down to the bungalow and play in the sand, and maybe you can find a starfish or something like that." "oh, are there fish down in your ocean?" asked russ. "lots of 'em, if you can catch 'em," said cousin tom, laughing. "and is there any gold?" laddie asked. "i never found any, if there is," was the answer. "but then i never had much time to dig for it. you may, if you like. but now are you all ready?" "all ready, i think," said mother bunker. "don't pick up any more stray dogs or cats, margy, my dear." "this one came to me," said the little girl. "i loved him, i did, but now he is gone." however there was so much new to see and talk about down at the seashore that margy soon forgot about her little troubles. there were some carriages and automobiles at the station, and, dividing themselves between two of these, the bunkers and cousin tom and his wife were soon driving down toward the ocean, for cousin tom lived on a street not far from the beach. he was the son of mr. ralph bunker, who had been dead some years, and mr. ralph bunker was daddy bunker's brother. so the children's father was cousin tom's uncle, you see. "did you have a nice trip?" asked cousin ruth, of mrs. bunker, as she rode beside her in the automobile. "yes, very. laddie thought a search-light was a thunderstorm, when we were coming down on the fall river boat, margy crawled under a fruit stand in new york to get a stray kitten, and mun bun got mixed up with another little boy. but we are used to such things happening, and we don't mind. i hope you will not be driven wild by the children." "oh, no, i love them!" said cousin ruth with a smile, as she looked over at the six little bunkers. "that's good," said their mother with a smile. "of course they get into mischief once in a while, but they are usually pretty good and don't give much trouble. they play very nicely together." "i'm sure they must. i shall love them all--every one! i wonder if they are hungry." "they generally are ready to eat," said mrs. bunker. "but don't fuss too much over them. they can wait until meal time." but the six little bunkers did not have to do this, for when they reached the bungalow, not far from the beach, where cousin tom and his wife lived, there was plenty of bread and jam for the hungry children--and hungry they were, you would have believed, if you could have seen them eat. cousin ruth seemed to think it was fun. "welcome to seaview!" cried cousin tom, when the children were eating and mr. and mrs. bunker had laid aside their things and the baggage had been carried to the different rooms. "now i want you all to have a good time while you're here. make yourselves right at home." "they seem to be doing that," said daddy bunker, for the children just then finished their bread and butter and jam, and began to run all around the house. cousin tom's bungalow was about a block from the ocean, and on a new street in seaview, so there were no other houses very near it. not far away was what is called an "inlet." that is, the waters of the ocean came into the land for quite a distance, making a place where boats could get in and out without going through the surf, or heavy waves. this inlet was called clam river, for toward the upper end, a mile or so from the sea, it was shallow and sandy, and many clams were found there. clam river was a harbor for fishing and lobster boats, and they could run into it and be safe from storms at sea. "i'm going out and dig in the sand!" cried mun bun. "i'll come, too," said margy. "well, don't pick up any stray dogs or cats," warned her mother. "perhaps you had better go with them, rose," she said to the oldest girl. "all right, mother. i'll look after them," was the answer, and rose became her mother's little helper again. vi and laddie seemed to be looking for something. they wandered about the big porch of the bungalow, and out in front, up and down. "what do you want?" asked cousin ruth, who saw them. "something we can use to dig for gold," answered laddie. "dig for gold!" exclaimed cousin ruth. "is that a riddle?" for she had heard that laddie was very fond of asking riddles. "no, this is real," answered the little fellow. "'tisn't a riddle at all. sammie brown's father dug for gold, and we're going to. there is always gold in sand." "oh, i'm glad to know that," answered cousin ruth. "we have so much sand around us that if it all has gold in it i'm sure we shall soon be rich. but i wouldn't be too sure about it, laddie. some sand may not have any gold in it. but you may dig all you like. you'll find some shovels and pails on the side porch. i put them there on purpose for you children." vi and laddie found what they wanted, and hurried down to the beach to dig. margy and mun bun went also, with rose, while russ, having found some bits of driftwood, began to whittle out a boat which he said he was going to sail on clam river, where the water was smooth. mr. and mrs. bunker sat in the bungalow talking to cousin tom and his wife, telling them about their trip and the visit to aunt jo's, from whose house they had just come. "i hope you can stay the rest of the summer with us," said cousin tom. "it is a lovely place," said mrs. bunker, "and we shall stay as long as you like to have us, for i think the children will like it here. and we are more than glad to be with you and cousin tom. but we have half promised to visit grandpa ford." "yes, and he surely expects us," added her husband. "is it all right for the children to play on the beach?" he asked his nephew. "oh, yes, surely. did you think anything could hurt them?" "well, i didn't know. it's so near the water----" "the beach is a very safe one, and the water is shallow, even at high tide," said cousin tom. "at low tide you can wade quite a distance out. the children will be all right. but do they really expect to find gold by digging?" "i believe they do. it's a story they heard," said mr. bunker with a laugh. "near aunt jo's lived a boy whose father was a sea captain, and who, i believe, did once find gold on an island. it set laddie and vi to thinking they might do the same. but, of course, there isn't any gold here." "of course not," said cousin tom. so mr. and mrs. bunker talked with cousin tom and his wife, while the children played outside. the sun was going down, and it would soon be time for supper, when mrs. bunker, who had gone upstairs to change her dress, heard rose calling: "come back, laddie! come back! you mustn't get into that boat!" "into a boat? oh, i should say not!" cried mrs. bunker, who could not see from her window what was going on. "what are you doing, laddie?" she called, as she hurried down. she heard her little boy's voice in answer: "i'm going off in the boat and dig for gold. no, i won't come back, rose. i'm going to dig for gold. come on, vi!" fearing that something was going to happen, mrs. bunker ran out on the porch, from where she could see the beach. chapter viii rose's locket mrs. bunker gave a quick glance about to see what was happening. she noticed margy and mun bun, well up on the beach, digging holes and making little piles of sand. but down near the inlet, where a boat was tied, rose was having trouble with laddie. the little boy who was so fond of asking riddles, and his sister violet, who liked to ask questions, had left the place where they first had begun to "dig for gold," as they called it, and laddie was about to get into the boat, calling to his sister vi to follow. "no, you mustn't go!" declared rose. "you mustn't get into the boat. mother told me to stay and watch you, and you've got to keep here on the beach and dig for gold!" "there isn't any gold here!" declared laddie. "i've dug all over, and we can't find any; can we, vi?" "nope, not a bit," and vi shook her curly hair. "so we're going out in the boat, like real sailors. that's what sammie brown's father did," went on laddie. "then we'll find gold." "but you mustn't get into the boat, laddie, unless daddy or cousin tom is with you!" said mother bunker. "do as rose tells you, and come away." laddie did not want to, but he always minded his mother, except when he was very bad, and this was not one of those times. so he went slowly away from the boat, which was tied to a little pier. "i was going after gold," he said. "we can't find any here," and he pointed to the holes he and his little sister had dug. "but if you went out in the boat alone, or with vi, you might fall into the water," said his mother. "never get into the boat unless some big person is with you, laddie. and i mean you, too, vi." "all right," said the two children. "we won't." "come on!" called rose to them, now that the dispute was over. "we will go farther down the shore and dig. and if we don't find any gold maybe we'll find some pretty shells, or a starfish." "does a starfish twinkle, mother?" asked vi. "no, i don't believe it does, my dear." "then what makes 'em call it a starfish?" the little girl wanted to know. "because it has five arms, or perhaps they are legs, and as a star, such as you see in our flag, has five points, they call the fish that name. it is shaped like a star, you see. it doesn't twinkle, and it eats oysters, so i have read." "how does it crack the oyster shells?" asked vi. "oh, now you are asking too many questions for a little girl, and some that i can't answer," said mrs. bunker with a laugh. "run along and play in the sand with rose. but don't go too far, for it will be time for supper soon. and don't forget about the boat!" "i hope we find a starfish," said laddie, glad he had something new to think about. "could i make up a riddle about one, mother?" "i guess so, if you tried hard." "i know a riddle about the sand," went on the little chap. "why is the sand like a boy?" "it isn't," said rose. "sand isn't at all like a boy." "yes, it is," went on laddie. "a boy runs and so does sand." "sand doesn't run," declared rose. "yes, it does," insisted her little brother. "i heard you say that some sand ran down into your shoe. so sand runs and a boy runs and that's a riddle." "yes, i guess it is," laughed mother bunker. "well, you run along and play." and rose and laddie and violet did. they went to where margy and mun bun were digging holes in the sand. "did you find any gold?" asked laddie. mun bun shook his head until his hair was in his eyes. "we found a lot of funny little white bugs that jump," he said. "they were awful nice little bugs, and they wiggled and wiggled in the sand," added margy. "oh, i want to see some!" cried vi, and then margy and mun bun dug until they found some "sand hoppers," for the other children. they are a sort of shore shrimp, i think, and very lively, jumping about, digging themselves holes in the sand in which they hide. margy and mun bun and laddie and vi became so interested in looking for the sand hoppers that they forgot about digging for gold, and it was almost time for supper when russ came whistling down the beach calling: "who wants to come and see me sail my boat?" "i do! i do!" cried mun bun and laddie, and the girls, rose also, said they would go. "i haven't got all the sails on yet," explained russ, "but i guess it will sail a little this way, and i can put some more sails on to-morrow." from an old shingle and some sticks russ had made a nice little boat, fastening to the mast a bit of cloth, which looked like a sail. followed by his smaller brothers and sisters russ took his boat to a place in the inlet where the water was not deep, and there he let the wind blow it about, to the delight of all. then came a call from the bungalow. "supper, children! come on in and get washed!" "oh, i'm so hungry!" cried rose. "so'm i," agreed russ. margy and mun bun didn't say anything, but they looked as if they could eat. "i thought of another riddle," said laddie, as he went along with russ. "it's about why does the sand run." "no! that isn't it!" laughed rose. "you've started it backward, laddie, and spoiled it." "oh, yes, now i know. why is sand like a boy?" "because they both run," answered russ. it was easy to guess the riddle after laddie had partly told it to him. "cousin tom said lobsters run backwards," put in violet, having heard rose say that laddie started his riddle backwards. "what makes lobsters go that way, russ?" "i don't know. i s'pose 'cause they like it." "do fish go backwards?" the little girl went on. "i never saw any," russ answered. "and can they stand on their heads?" went on the little girl. but no one could answer this question, and there was no time to do so, anyhow, as they were now at cousin tom's bungalow, and from it came the smell of many good things that had been cooked for supper. "my! you have a houseful with all of us bunkers," said the children's mother, as they gathered about the table. "yes. there wouldn't be room for many more," said cousin tom's pretty wife. "but i like company." "even if they eat so much it will keep you busy buying more?" asked daddy bunker. "oh, i guess they won't do that," replied cousin tom, laughing. "we're going to dig gold in the sand, and then we can buy our own things to eat," declared laddie. "well, until you do that i'll see that you get enough to eat," said his cousin. after supper they went for a ride on the inlet in cousin tom's big rowboat. "i think we had better go back," said mother bunker, after they had ridden about a bit. "it is getting late, and i see two of my little tots are getting sleepy." this was true, for margy and mun bun were nidding and nodding, hardly able to keep their eyes open, though it was hardly dark yet. but they had been up early and they had traveled far that day. back to the bungalow they went, and soon the four smaller children were in bed. "and it will be time for you, russ and rose, in a little while," said mrs. bunker. they were allowed to stay up a half hour longer than the others. while daddy bunker and cousin tom and the two mrs. bunkers were talking on the side porch, and watching the moon rise, as though it came right from the ocean, russ and rose sat down on the beach. they were within call from the bungalow, though about a block away from it, cousin tom's place being the first one up from the water. russ picked up a shell, and started to dig. "what are you looking for?" asked rose. "i was just wondering if there was any gold here," said her brother. "sammie brown said there was gold in sand, and there's lots of sand here; isn't there, rose?" "yes, but laddie and violet dug in a lot of places to-day, and so did margy and mun bun, and they didn't find any gold." "they didn't know how to look for it," declared russ. "you have to dig deep for gold." "i'll help," offered rose. "i like to dig in the sand." she found a clam shell, as large as the one russ had, and with those for shovels, the children began digging on the beach in the moonlight. they could look back and see the bungalow, and mr. and mrs. bunker could see the children from where they sat. the ocean surf made a loud noise. "doesn't it sound nice and scary-like?" asked rose, as she reached her arm down into the hole she was digging, and scooped up some damp sand. "yes. it's like the desert island sammie told about," agreed russ, listening to the boom and hiss of the waves as they broke on the beach. "have you found any gold yet, rose?" "no. have you?" russ shook his head. "i guess we've got to go deeper," he said. it grew later. the moon rose higher, and it became a little more "scary-like." presently mrs. bunker called: "come, rose! russ! time to go to bed!" "all right!" they answered. they were tired enough to want to go to sleep. they dropped their clam shells near the holes they had dug, and started up the beach. suddenly rose gave a cry. "what's the matter?" asked russ. "my locket! my gold locket that grandma gave me! it's gone! oh, i have lost my lovely gold locket!" chapter ix the sand house "what's the matter?" called mr. bunker from the bungalow porch. he had heard the sobbing voice of rose. "has anything happened?" he went on. "tell daddy what it is." "i have lost my lovely gold locket!" sobbed rose. "the one grandma gave me! i dropped it in the sand, i guess, when i was digging the holes for gold. i wish i hadn't dug!" "stand right where you are!" called daddy bunker. "i'll bring my electric flashlight and look around for your locket. it may have dropped on the sand right where you are. so don't move until i get there and can see the place. i'll find your gold locket, rose." the moon was bright, and, shining on the ocean and on the white sand, made the beach very light. but still, as rose looked about her and over to where russ stood, she could not see her gold locket. and she wanted very much to get it back, as it was a present from grandma bell, and rose liked it more than any of her other gifts. she did not often wear it, but on this occasion, coming on the trip from aunt jo's, rose had begged to be allowed to hang the ornament on its gold chain about her neck, and her mother had allowed her to do so. rose had promised to be careful, and she had been. she had noticed the locket after supper and when she came out in the evening to dig in the sand with russ. but now it was gone, and just where she had dropped it rose did not know. "and now my lovely locket is gone!" she sobbed. "never mind! i'll get it for you," said daddy bunker. russ and rose stood still as he had told them to do, and now they saw their father coming toward them waving his pocket electric light. he usually carried it with him to peer into dark corners. it would be just the thing with which to look for the lost locket. "did you remember where you had it on you last?" asked daddy bunker, as he came close to rose. "just before russ and i started to dig with the clam shells to find the gold," she answered. "where was that?" her father asked. russ and his sister pointed to where two little piles of sand near some holes could be seen in the moonlight. "that is where we dug for gold," said rose. "but we didn't find any," added russ. "you may now, if you dig--or to-morrow," said their father. "really?" inquired russ. "you may dig up rose's gold locket," went on mr. bunker. "i don't believe there is any other gold in these sands, even if sammie brown's father did find some on a desert island. but if rose dropped her locket here, there is surely gold, for the locket was made of that. now don't walk about, or you may step on the locket and bend it. i will flash my light as i go along, and look." daddy bunker did this, while rose, standing near her brother, looked on anxiously. would her father find the piece of jewelry she liked so much? it was hard to find things, once they were buried in the sand, rose knew, for that afternoon cousin ruth had told about once dropping a piece of money on the beach, and never finding it again. "and maybe my locket slipped off my neck when i was digging the deep hole," thought rose; "and then i piled up the sand and covered it all over." daddy bunker must have thought the same thing, for he flashed his light about the sand piles made by russ and his sister. he did not dig in them, however. "we won't do any digging until morning," he said. "we can see better, then, what we are doing. i thought perhaps the locket might lie on top of the sand, and that i could pick it up. but it doesn't seem to. you had better come in to bed, russ and rose." "but i want my locket," sighed the little girl. "and i thought i could find it for you," said mr. bunker. "i think i can, in the morning, when the sun shines. just now there are so many shadows that it is hard to see such a little thing as a locket." "will it be all right out here all alone in the night?" asked rose. "oh, yes, i think so," her father said. "as it is gold it will not tarnish. and as no one knows where it is it will probably not be picked up, for no one will be able to see it any more than i. and i don't believe many persons come down here after dark. it is rather a lonely part of the shore. i think your locket will be all right until we can take a look for it in the morning." "maybe a starfish might get it," said the little girl. "oh, no!" laughed daddy bunker. "starfish like oysters, but they do not care for gold lockets. i'll find yours for you in the morning, rose." this made rose feel better, and she went inside the bungalow with russ and her father. mrs. bunker, as well as cousin tom and his wife, felt sorry on hearing of rose's loss, but they, too, felt sure that the ornament would be found on the sand in the morning. i do not know whether or not rose dreamed about her lost locket. certainly she thought about it the last thing before she fell asleep. but she slumbered very soundly, and, if she dreamed at all, she did not remember what her visions of the night were. but she thought of her locket as soon as she awoke, however, and, dressing quickly, she ran down on the sand. her father was ahead of her, though, and, with a rake in his hand, he was going over the beach near the place where russ and rose had dug the holes. "is this the only place you children hunted for gold?" asked mr. bunker, as he saw rose coming along. "yes, daddy," she answered. "and we were right there when i didn't have my locket any more. can't you find it?" "i haven't yet," he answered. "i've raked over the sand as carefully as i could, but i didn't see the locket." "did you look down into the holes we dug, daddy?" "yes, and all around them. it's queer, but the locket seems to have disappeared." "maybe a starfish came up and took it down into the ocean with him." "no, rose. if the locket was dropped on the beach it is here yet. but it is rather a large place, and perhaps i am not looking just where i ought to. however i will not give up." daddy bunker looked for some little time longer, pulling the sand about with the rake, but no locket showed. then others looked, including the children, cousin tom, his wife and mother bunker. but they had no better luck. "well, we know one thing," said daddy bunker. "there is gold in this sand now if there was not before. rose's gold locket is here." "and i don't guess i'll ever find it," said the little girl with a sigh. "oh, dear!" "maybe it slipped off your neck in the house," suggested cousin ruth. "i'll look carefully, and you may help me." but this did no good either, and though the search was a careful one, and though the sand was gone over again, the lost locket was not picked up. "i'm going to dig every day until i find it!" said rose. "and i'll help!" added russ. "so will i!" said laddie; and the other children, when they knew what a loss had come to rose, said they, also, would help. if it had not been for this accident the visit of the six little bunkers to seaview would have been without a flaw. even as it was, it turned out to be most delightful. seaview was a fine place to spend the end of the summer, and cousin tom and his wife made the children feel so at home, and did so much for them, that russ and the others said they never had been in a nicer place. "if i only had my locket!" sighed rose, as the days passed. but it seemed it would never be found, and after a time, the thought of it passed, in a measure, from the little girl's mind. she did not speak of it often, though sometimes when she went down on the beach, near the holes she and russ had dug in the moonlight, rose looked about and scraped the sand to and fro with a shell or a bit of driftwood. but as the beach looks pretty much alike in many places, it is hard to know whether, after the first few times, rose dug in the right place. cousin ruth looked again all through the bungalow for the gold locket, and, whenever any one thought of it, he or she poked about in the sand. but the locket seemed gone forever. there was plenty to do at seaview to have fun. the children could go in wading and swimming, they could play in the sand, they could sail toy boats in the inlet and they could go out in a real boat with their father or cousin tom. more than once they were taken out on the quiet waters, and they sat in the boat while their father or his nephew fished. once russ held the pole and he caught a funny, flat fish, that seemed as if it had been put through the wringer which squeezed the water out of the clothes on wash day. "what kind of fish is that?" asked violet, when she saw it flapping about in the bottom of the boat. "it's a flounder," answered cousin tom. "is it good to eat?" "yes, very good." "maybe it swallowed rose's locket. do you think so, daddy?" asked the little girl. "oh, no, vi. now don't ask so many questions, please." "could i ask a riddle?" laddie wanted to know. "oh, i suppose so," laughed his father. "what is it?" "i haven't made it up yet," went on laddie. "it's going to be about a flounder and a wringer, but i got to think. when i get it ready i'll tell you." "don't forget!" laughed cousin tom. it was about a week after rose had lost her locket and it had not been found, that one day russ called to rose: "come on down to the beach. i know how we can have some fun." "what can we do?" asked his sister. "we'll build a house and have a play party," answered russ. "where?" "on the beach. we can build a house in the sand." so the children started off, with their shovels and sand pails. their mother watched them, thinking how nice it was that they could be at the shore in hot weather. it was about an hour after rose and russ had started down the beach together to make a sand house that mrs. bunker, who was just thinking of taking a walk and having another look for the lost locket, heard cries. "mother! mother! come quick!" she heard russ calling. "what's the matter?" cried mrs. bunker. "oh, come quick!" went on russ. "rose is in the sand house! rose is in the sand house!" not knowing what had happened, mrs. bunker set off on a run down the beach. chapter x the pirate bungalow the mother of the six little bunkers was used to having things happen to them. she did not have half a dozen children without knowing that, nearly every day, some one of them would fall down and bump a nose, cut a finger, get caught in a fence, or have something like that happen to make trouble. so, in a way, mrs. bunker was used to calls for help. "but this seems different," she said to herself, as she ran along. "i'm afraid something has happened to rose." and something had. as mrs. bunker came within sight of russ and his sister, where they had gone to dig their sand house, their mother saw her oldest boy dancing about on the beach. "where is rose?" called mrs. bunker. "what have you done with rose?" "i didn't do anything to her, mother!" answered russ. "but she's in the sand house and she can't get out!" mrs. bunker kept on running toward the children; at least toward russ. rose she could not see. "she can't get out of the sand house 'cause it fell down on her," explained russ. "i tried to pull her out, but i couldn't, so i hollered for you, mother!" "something dreadful must have happened! i wish i had stopped for daddy!" thought mrs. bunker. by this time she was close beside russ, who was capering about like an indian doing a war dance. but russ was not doing it for fun. he was just excited, and couldn't keep still. "where is your sister?" asked mrs. bunker. "there!" answered russ, pointing. then mrs. bunker understood why she had not seen rose before. it was because the little girl was hidden behind a pile of sand. but there was more than this the matter. for rose was down in a hole, and the sand had caved in on her feet and legs, covering her up almost to her waist. rose was held fast in a heap of sand, and, wiggle and twist though she did, she could not get out. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" sobbed the little girl, tears streaming down her cheeks. "i'm all fast and i can't get out!" "i'll get you out! there! don't cry any more," said mrs. bunker. "i'll soon have you out. get a shovel, and help me dig rose loose," she called to russ. "all right," answered the little boy. he had stopped jumping about now. "where are your shovels, russ?" asked his mother, looking about for something with which to dig. "we didn't have any. we used big clam shells," he answered. "here's one, and i'll get another." the large clam shells were pretty good to use as shovels, though mrs. bunker felt that she could have worked faster with a regular one. however, she had to do the best she could, and really the shell scooped the sand out very well. russ helped, and they both set to work to dig rose out of the hole in which she was partly buried. "it's a good thing the sand didn't slide in on you and cover your head," said mrs. bunker. "how did it happen, russ?" "well, we were digging a sand house--it was just a hole in the sand, you know," the little boy explained. "we were going to put some sticks across the top, when we got it deep enough to stand up in, and put some seaweed over the sticks for a roof. i saw some boys on the beach make a sand house like that yesterday. "but after we dug down a way," he went on, "rose got down in the hole so she could dig better. she scooped the sand up to me and i put it in a heap on the beach. and then, all of a sudden, a lot of the sand slid in on rose and she was held fast and--and----" "and i couldn't get out, but i tried like anything!" added rose, as her brother stopped for breath. "and then russ screamed for you and--and--oh, i'm so glad you came!" and rose leaned her head against her mother, who was busy digging out the sand with the clam shell. "i'm glad i came, too, my dear," said mrs. bunker. "after this don't dig such deep sand holes, or, if you do, don't get into them. sand, you know, is not like other dirt. it doesn't stay in one place, but slips and slides about." "but we want to have something to play in!" exclaimed russ. "well, we want you to have fun while you are here at cousin tom's, but we don't want you to get hurt," said mrs. bunker. "can't you make a little playhouse of the driftwood on the beach? that would be nicer to play in than a damp hole." "oh, yes, we could do that!" cried rose. "let's make a wooden house on the beach, russ! there's lots of wood!" "and then we can play pirates!" added the little boy. a little later rose had been dug out of the sand, and though her dress was a little damp, for the sand, as one dug down into it, was rather wet, she was not hurt. all along the sands at seaview, after high tide, were bits of planks and boards and chips, and after rose had been dug out of the sand house she and russ began gathering all the wood they could pick up to make what russ said would be a "pirate bungalow." mrs. bunker, after telling the children once more not to dig deep holes, left them on the beach to play, herself going back to cousin tom's bungalow. margy and mun bun, who had been gathering shells and stones down on the sand, had come up to play in front of the house, on a bit of green lawn. laddie and vi, who had walked up and down the beach, looking for some starfish, which they did not find, came to where russ and rose were getting ready to play. "what are you making?" asked laddie. "a pirate bungalow," answered russ. "want to help?" "yep," answered laddie. "and i will, too," said vi. "what are you going to put in it? will it be big enough for all of us, and what makes so much wood here, russ?" "now if you're going to ask a lot of questions you can't play!" said rose. "you just help pick up the wood, vi." "can't i ask just one more question?" "what is it?" asked russ, smiling. "what makes the ocean so salty?" vi asked this time. "i got some water on my hands and then i put my finger in my mouth and it tasted just like i'd put too much salt on my potatoes. what makes the ocean so salty?" "i don't know," said russ. "we'll ask daddy when we go up. but come on, and let's build the bungalow. i'll be a pirate, and we'll play shipwreck and everything." "i'll be a pirate, too," added laddie. "i know a good riddle about a pirate, but i can't think of it now. maybe i will after i've been a pirate for a while." "we'll be pirates, too," said vi. "no, girls can't be," said russ. "you can be our prisoners. pirates always have prisoners." "prisoners? what's them?" asked vi. "they're what pirates have," explained laddie. "i know, 'cause i saw some pictures of 'em in a book. pirates always keep their prisoners shut up in a cave." "i'm not going to be in a cave," said rose. "i was in the sand house when it caved in, and i don't like it." "but you get good things to eat," explained russ. "pirates always have to feed their prisoners good things to eat." "then i'll be one, 'cause i'm hungry," said vi. "so'll i," added laddie. "i'll be a prisoner. i guess i'd rather be a prisoner than a pirate, russ. you can be the pirate and get us all good things to eat." "all right, i will. now come on, we've got to get a lot more wood to make this pirate bungalow. get all the wood you can." "why don't you get some?" asked laddie, as he saw his brother sitting down on a pile of drift pieces that had already been gathered. chapter xi going crabbing russ bunker looked up at his brother laddie and smiled. still he made no move toward helping gather the driftwood for the bungalow they were going to make. "well, why don't you help get wood?" asked laddie again. "think we're going to do all the work and have you sit there?" "say, i'm a pirate, ain't i?" asked russ, not getting his words just right, though his brother and sisters understood what he meant. "didn't you say i was to be the pirate?" "yes, 'cause we don't want to be," retorted rose. "well, all right then, i'm going to be the pirate," went on russ. "but you've got to get us good things to eat," said vi. "we're the prisoners, an' you said they had good things to eat." "i'll get good things to eat if cousin ruth'll give 'em to me," promised russ. "but i'm the pirate, and pirates don't ever work. they just boss the prisoners. now come on, prisoners, and build me the bungalow!" and russ leaned back on a pile of sea weed and looked very lazy and comfortable. "don't pirates _ever_ work?" asked laddie. "nope! not the kind i ever heard mother read about in books," went on russ. "they just tell the prisoners what to do, 'ceptin', of course, when there's any fighting. pirates are 'most always fighting, but we won't play that part, 'cause mother doesn't like that. i'll be a good pirate, and i'll let you prisoners build the bungalow." "but you've got to get us something to eat," said vi again. "i'll do that," promised russ. "i'll go up now and ask cousin ruth for some, and you prisoners can be getting a lot of wood." the plans russ made came out all right. cousin tom's pretty young wife was very glad to give the children some crackers and cookies to take down on the beach to eat, and when russ got back with the bag of good things he found that rose, laddie and violet had collected a large pile of driftwood. "now we'll make the bungalow," decided russ. "i'll help work at that, 'cause the pirates want it made just so. but you prisoners have got to help." "can't we eat first, 'fore we make the bungalow?" asked violet. "i'm as hungry as anything!" "yes, i guess we could eat first. i'm hungry, too," returned the "pirate." then the "pirate" and his "prisoners" sat down on the sand together, as nicely as you please, leaning against bits of driftwood covered with seaweed, and ate the lunch cousin ruth had given them. it did not take very long. probably you know what a very short time cookies last among four hungry children. "well, now we'll start to build," said russ, when the last cookie and cracker had been eaten. "first we'll stick up four posts in the sand, one for each corner of the bungalow." the children had made playhouses before, not only at their home in pineville, but while they were at grandma bell's house, near lake sagatook, maine; so they knew something of what they wanted to do. of course the bungalow was rather rough. it could not be otherwise with only rough driftwood with which to make it. but then it was just what the children wanted. when the four posts were set deep in the sand, in holes dug with clam shells, the children placed boards from one to the other, sometimes making them fast, by driving in, with stones for hammers, the rusty nails which were found in some pieces of the wood. other boards or planks they tied together with bits of string. over the top they placed sticks, and on top of the sticks they spread seaweed. "we don't want the roof very heavy," said russ, "'cause then if it falls in on us, as our snow house roof did once, it won't hurt us. all we want is something to keep off the sun." "won't it keep the rain out, too?" asked rose. "no, i don't guess it will," answered russ, as he looked up and saw several holes in the roof. "anyhow we won't play out here when it rains. mother wouldn't let us." the pirate bungalow was soon finished; that is, finished as much as the children wanted it, and then they began playing in it. russ pretended that he was the pirate, and that the others were his prisoners. he made them dig little holes in the sand, and bring in shells and stones as well as seaweed. this last he made believe was hay for a make-believe elephant. "do pirates have elephants?" asked violet. "sometimes maybe they do," her brother said. "anyhow i can make believe that just for fun." "are we going to eat any more?" asked laddie. "or is that only make-believe, too?" "i'll see if i can get some more from cousin ruth," promised russ. once more he made a trip up to the real bungalow, and cousin ruth, with laughter, filled another bag with cookies. this time margy and mun bun, tired of playing with the shells and pebbles, went down on the beach to the driftwood pirate bungalow. it was rather a tight squeeze to get all six of the little bunkers inside, and not have the place burst and fall apart. but they managed it, and then they sat under the seaweed roof and ate the cookies, having a fine time. "my, this is cozy!" cried cousin tom, as, with daddy bunker, he came down to see what the children were doing. "and you've had something to eat, too!" he went on, as he saw some crumbs scattered about. "yes, we had some," said russ, "but it's all gone now. but if you are hungry i can get some more," and he started from the bungalow. "oh, no!" laughed daddy bunker, who had been told by his wife of russ' two visits to cousin ruth's kitchen. "i guess we don't feel hungry now. anyhow dinner will soon be ready." the children played in the pirate bungalow all the remainder of the day, stopping only for dinner and supper. the seaweed roof kept off the hot august sun, and, as it did not rain, the holes in the covering did not matter. rose and violet took their dolls down and played with them there. russ, after a while, gave up being a pirate, and said his "prisoners" could all go, but they seemed to like staying around the driftwood house. "if we had a door on it we could stay in it all night," said vi. "why didn't you make a door, russ?" "too hard work," he answered. "anyhow we don't want to stay down here all night." "the waves might come up and wash us away," said rose. laddie, who had been smoothing the sand in one corner of the pirate bungalow, now stopped and seemed to be thinking hard. "what's the matter?" asked russ. "i have a new riddle," was the answer. "it's about a door." "is it why does a door swing?" asked violet. "'cause if it is, i can answer that one. i've heard it before. a door swings because it isn't a hammock." "nope! 'tisn't that," said laddie. "this is my new riddle. what goes through a door, but never comes into the room?" "say it again," begged russ, who had not been listening carefully. "what goes through the door, but never comes into the room?" asked laddie again. "it's a good riddle, and i made it up all myself." "does it go out of the room if it doesn't come in?" asked rose. "nope," answered laddie, shaking his head. "it doesn't do anything. it just goes through the door, but it doesn't come in or go out." "nothing can do that," declared russ. "if a thing goes through the door it's got to come in or go out, else it doesn't go through." "oh, yes, it does," said laddie. "do you give up?" "is it a cat?" asked vi. "nope." "a dog?" "nope." "a turtle?" guessed mun bun, who didn't quite know what it was all about, but who wanted to guess something. "nope!" said laddie, laughing. "i'll tell you. it's the keyhole!" "the keyhole?" cried russ. "no!" "to be sure!" answered his small brother. "doesn't a keyhole go all the way through the door? if it didn't you couldn't get the key in. the keyhole goes through the door, but it doesn't come into the room nor go out. it just stays in the door. isn't that a good riddle?" "yes, it is," answered rose. "i'd never have guessed it." "i thought it up all myself while you were talking about a door to this bungalow," said laddie. "what goes through the door but doesn't come in the room? a keyhole," and he laughed at his own riddle. the next day cousin tom went down to the beach, where once more russ, rose and the others were playing in the driftwood bungalow, and called: "how many of you would like to go crabbing?" "i would!" cried russ. "so would i," said rose. "what is it like?" asked vi, who, you might know, would ask a question the first thing. "well, it's like fishing, only it isn't quite so hard for little folk," said cousin tom. "come along, if you're through playing, and i'll show you how to go crabbing." "are daddy and mother going?" asked rose. "yes, we'll all go. come along." the six little bunkers followed cousin tom up the beach to the inlet. there, tied to a pier not far from cousin tom's bungalow, was a large boat. near it stood mother and father bunker and cousin ruth. cousin ruth had some peach baskets, two long-handled nets and some strings to the ends of which were tied chunks of meat. "are we going to feed a dog?" asked russ. "no, that is bait for the crabs," said cousin tom. "come, now, get into the boat, and we'll go for a new kind of fishing." chapter xii "they're loose!" "all aboard!" cried russ as he stood on the edge of the little wharf in the inlet, at which the boat was tied. "all aboard." "does he mean we must all get a piece of board?" asked violet. "no," answered her mother with a smile. "russ is saying what the sailors say when they want every one to get on the ship, take their places, and be ready for the start." the rowboat was a large one, and would hold the six little bunkers, as well as their daddy and mother and cousin tom. cousin ruth had intended to go, but, at the last minute, the woman living in the next bungalow asked her to help with some sewing; so cousin ruth stayed at home. "i'll get all ready to cook the crabs if you catch any," she said with a smile, as cousin tom and daddy bunker rowed the boat out into the inlet. "oh, we'll get some!" cried russ. "crabs bite, don't they?" asked violet, who seemed started on her questioning tricks. "well, they don't exactly bite; it's more of a pinch," said cousin tom. "but it hurts, i can tell you." "then i'm not going to catch any," declared violet. "i'll just watch you." "oh, a crab won't pinch you if you catch him in a net; and that's what i'll do," said her cousin. "we'll soon be at the place where there are lots of them, i hope." as cousin tom rowed along, he told the six little bunkers that the crabs swam up the inlet from the sea to get things to eat, and also for the mother crab to lay eggs, so little crabs would hatch out. "and when the big crabs swim up, which they do whenever the tide runs into the inlet, twice a day," said cousin tom, "we go out and catch them. of course you can catch them at other times, but the crabbing is best when the tide is coming in." "but i don't see any hooks on the lines," remarked laddie, who was looking at the strings in the bottom of the boat. on one end of each string was a short piece of wood, and on the other end a piece of meat, while on a few were some fish heads. "you don't need hooks to catch crabs," explained cousin tom. "all you need to do is to tie a piece of meat on the string." "and does the crab bite that?" asked russ. "no, but he takes it in his strong claws, to hold it so he can tear off little pieces with his smaller claws and put them into his mouth," said cousin tom. "a crab's mouth is small, and he has to tear his food into little bits before he can swallow it. he uses his big front claws for grabbing hold of what he wants to eat and holding on to it, and he likes old meat or fish heads best of all. "so, when we get to the place where i think some crabs are, we'll let down the pieces of meat. the crabs, swimming along, or crawling sideways on the bottom of the inlet, as they more often do, will smell the chunk of meat. they will take hold of it in their claws, and then one of us can reach down the net and scoop it under mr. crab. that's how we catch them." "but how do you know when one has hold of the piece of meat on the string?" asked rose. "you can feel him giving it little jerks and tugs," said cousin tom. "or, if the water is clear, you can see him as he takes hold of the chunk of meat. then you want to pull up on your string, very, very gently, so as not to scare the crab and make him let go. if you know how to do it you can lift your string up with one hand, and scoop the net under the crab with the other. but when you children have a bite, your daddy or i will use the net for you." "oh, it's going to be lots of fun," cried violet. "i like this kind of fishing." "and there aren't any sharp hooks to hurt the crab," added rose. "no, it doesn't hurt a crab to catch him this way," said daddy bunker. "and crabs are very good to eat after they are cooked. i like them better than fish." "is a crab a fish?" asked laddie, who was holding a little stick down in the water, watching the ripples it made as the boat was rowed along. "a crab is a sort of fish," said cousin tom. "why did you ask?" "oh, i am trying to make up a riddle about a crab and a fish," said laddie. "but i don't guess i can if they are pretty near the same. i guess i'll make up a riddle about a boat. i have one 'most thought up. it goes like this: when a boat goes in the water why doesn't the water go in the boat?" "it does, sometimes, if the boat leaks," replied cousin tom with a laugh. "i hope your riddle doesn't come true this trip, laddie!" "oh, well, i haven't got the riddle all made up yet," was the answer. "i can't think of a good answer. maybe i can after i catch some crabs." "why doesn't our boat sink?" asked violet. "'cause it's wood, and that floats," said russ. "well, once you made a little wooden boat, and it sunk when we put a lot of stones on it," said vi. "and my doll--a little one--was on the boat, and she got all wet." "well, if a boat is made of wood, an' it's big enough, it won't sink, will it, daddy?" asked russ. "no, i don't believe it will, if it doesn't get a hole through it so the water can get in. but sit still now, children. i think we are at the place where cousin tom is going to let us catch crabs. aren't we, tom?" asked mr. bunker of his nephew. "yes," said cousin tom, "this is a good place. there is plenty of seaweed on the bottom of the inlet here, and the crabs like to hide in that--especially the soft-shelled crabs." "are there two kinds?" russ inquired. "yes, hard and soft," was his cousin's answer. "like eggs," said russ with a laugh. "there are hard and soft boiled eggs. isn't that so, cousin tom? "yes," said cousin tom with a smile. "but the funny part of it is that sometimes the same crab is soft-shelled, and again it is hard-shelled. an egg can't be that way. once it is boiled hard it never can be boiled soft again." "what makes soft crabs?" rose wanted to know. "a soft-shelled crab is a hard-shelled crab with its old, hard shell off, and it is only soft while it is waiting for its new shell to harden in the salty sea water," explained cousin tom. "you see a crab grows, but its shell, or its house that it lives in, doesn't grow. so it has to shed that, or wiggle out of it, to let a larger one grow in its place. when it does that it is a soft-shelled crab for a time, and very good to eat. but you can't catch soft-shelled crabs on a string and a chunk of meat. you have to go along and scoop them out of the seaweed with a net. but now we will fish for hard-shelled crabs." cousin tom and daddy bunker had rowed the boat about a mile up the inlet, and now the anchor was tossed over the side, to keep the craft from drifting with the tide. "now each one of you take a string, and toss the meat-end of it over the side," said cousin tom. "keep hold of the stick-end, or tie that end to the boat. if you lose that you can't pull in your crab. each one of you keep watch of his or her string. when you see it beginning to be pulled, or when you feel a little tug or jerk on it, as if a fish were nibbling, then pull up very slowly and carefully. and look as you pull. don't pull it all the way to the top, or the crab, if there is one on it, will see you, let go, and swim away." the six little bunkers did as they were told. of course margy and mun bun were too little to know how to catch crabs, but they each had a line, and mother bunker said she would catch them for the small tots. "oh, i think i have one!" suddenly exclaimed russ in a whisper. "look at my line move!" "yes, you may have a crab on there," returned cousin tom. "pull up very gently." russ did so, while his cousin reached forward with the long-handled net ready to scoop it under the crab, if it should happen to be one. up and up russ pulled his line. every one was eagerly watching, for they wanted to see the first crab caught. and then, as the chunk of meat on russ's string came near the top of the water, rose, from the other end of the boat, cried: "oh, it's only a piece of seaweed!" and so it was! how disappointed russ was! the bit of green seaweed, catching on his line, had wiggled and tugged, as the tide swayed it, just as a crab would have done. "oh, i have one! i have one!" suddenly called laddie, from his end of the boat. "he's a big one! he's pulling like anything!" "well, don't get excited and fall overboard," said daddy bunker. "keep still, pull up slowly, and i'll get him in the net for you." slowly laddie pulled up. every one was watching. would his "bite," too, prove to be only seaweed? "yes, you have one!" said mother bunker in a low voice, so as not to frighten the crab. i don't really know whether loud noises frighten crabs or not, but generally every one keeps quiet when fishing. "yes, laddie has a crab," said daddy bunker. "wait, now, i'll get it in the net!" [illustration: the crab had hold of laddie's bait in both claws. _six little bunkers at cousin tom's._--_page _] laddie's father dipped the net down into the water, shoved it under the crab, chunk of meat and all, and lifted it suddenly out of the water. the crab had hold of laddie's bait in both claws, and before the creature could let go it had been caught. "oh, look at him wriggle!" cried rose. "now i'll dump him into the basket," said daddy bunker. he turned the net upside down over the peach basket. out dropped mr. crab, letting go of the chunk of meat, which laddie pulled out by the string. the crab crawled about sideways on the bottom of the basket, raising its claws into the air and clashing them together, at the same time opening and shutting the pinching part. "that's the way a crab fights," said cousin tom. "and sometimes two big crabs will fight so hard that one pulls a claw off the other. you have caught a fine, big one, laddie." "a dandy," agreed laddie. "and i've got one, too!" cried vi. "oh, he's pulling like anything!" she really had a crab on her line. cousin tom netted it for her, and it turned out to be larger than laddie's. "i think the crab fishing will be good to-day," said daddy bunker. and so it turned out. from then on each one began to catch the pinching creatures, the older folks using the net when the children had bites. once russ tried to use the net himself, but he was not quick enough with it, and the crab let go of the chunk of meat and swam quickly away. "he was a dandy big one, too!" said russ regretfully. mun bun and margy each one caught a crab, with the help of their mother, and rose, violet and laddie had good luck, also. cousin tom and daddy bunker, of course, caught the most. mother bunker helped the children land theirs in the net. and, after about an hour of fishing, the peach basket was full of the big-clawed crabs. "i think we have enough," said cousin tom. "we will take them home and cook them. then we can eat them cold-boiled with lemon juice on them, or they can be made into a salad." "catching crabs is lots of fun," said russ. "eating them is good, too," said his father. they rowed back home, and found cousin ruth waiting for them at the bungalow. "oh, you did have good luck," said cousin tom's wife. "a whole basketful! well, i'll soon have the water boiling and we'll cook them." the basket full of live crabs was set in the kitchen, and the six little bunkers and the others went out on the porch to rest and wait for the water to boil. russ, a little later, wanted a drink, and, going into the kitchen, he turned to go to the sink. he was barefooted, and suddenly he felt a sharp pain on one toe. "oh, i'm bit! i'm bit!" he cried. "something pinched me!" and then, as he looked at the kitchen floor, he cried: "oh, come quick! come quick! they're loose! they're all loose!" chapter xiii in the boat every one out on the porch of the bungalow jumped up on hearing russ's cries. "what's the matter?" asked mother bunker. "what happened?" daddy bunker wanted to know. "oh, they're all loose, and one of 'em bit me," wailed russ, and now came sounds which seemed to indicate that he was hopping about on one foot, and holding the other in his hands. and he really was doing this, as they found out afterward. "loose? they're all loose? what does he mean?" asked rose. "it's the crabs!" exclaimed cousin tom, as he made a run for the kitchen. "i guess some of them got out of the basket. they will do that once in a while." daddy and mother bunker, with cousin ruth, followed cousin tom to the kitchen, where russ was still hopping about and yelling: "oh, they're all loose! they're all loose, and one of 'em pinched me! oh, dear!" "don't cry, silly little boy!" called his mother. "a pinch by a crab can't hurt as much as that." "oh, but it hurts like anything!" yelled russ. "he 'most bit off my big toe!" by this time they were all in the kitchen. the rest of the six little bunkers had followed their father and mother. they saw a queer sight. crabs were crawling all over the floor. they had managed to wiggle out of the peach basket in which they had been put as they were caught from the boat. cousin tom had spread wet seaweed over the top of the basket, but this had not been enough to keep the crabs in. "look, they're chasing us!" cried rose, as a crab came sliding sideways over the oil-cloth, clashing its big claws. "they are only trying to get into the dark corners to hide," said cousin tom. "i'll pick them up." "will they pinch you?" asked laddie. "no, not if i pick them up by one of their back flippers," said his cousin. "there is a certain way to pick up a crab so he can't reach you with his claws." just then a crab came toward cousin tom. he put out his foot, and held it tightly on the hard shell of the crab's back. then, reaching behind the crab, and taking hold of one of the broad, flat swimming flippers, he lifted the crab up that way. the crab wiggled and tried to reach cousin tom with the pinching claws, but could not. "that's the way to do it," called out cousin tom, as he tossed the crab into the basket. "i can do it!" said laddie, who liked to try new things. "you'd better not," advised his mother. "look how the crab pinched russ." "my toe's bleeding," said the little fellow, and so it was. a big crab can easily pinch hard enough to draw blood. "i'll tie it up for you," said his mother. "perhaps you children had better not try to pick up crabs the way cousin tom did," she went on. "you might make a mistake and get badly pinched." "yes, let the children keep out of the way," agreed daddy bunker. "cousin tom and i will catch the crabs." russ was led away, hopping on one foot, though if he had tried, he could easily have stepped on his sore foot. he was more frightened than hurt, i think. and then the other children followed him, though the twins would rather have staid. it was not easy to catch the crabs, for there were so many of them, and they scurried around so fast. but cousin tom picked them up in his fingers, and daddy bunker soon learned the trick of this. as for cousin ruth, she took the crab tongs, which were two pieces of wood fastened together on one end, like a pair of fire tongs. in these the crabs could be picked up either front or back, or even by one claw, and they could only pinch the wood, which they often did. "there, i think we have them all," said cousin tom at last. "and now, as the water is boiling, we can cook them." so the crabs were cooked, and set aside to cool until morning, when the white meat would be picked out of the red shells, and made into salad. "what makes the crabs red?" asked violet the next morning as she saw the pile of cold, boiled creatures. "they were a sort of brown and green color when we caught them yesterday." "yes," said her father, "crabs, lobsters and shrimps, when they are boiled, turn red. just why this is i don't know. i suppose there is something in their shells that the hot water changes." "can they pinch my toe now?" asked mun bun, as he stood near his mother, looking at the basket full of cooked crabs. "nope! they can't hurt you now; they're cooked," laddie replied. "i'm not 'fraid!" and he picked up a big crab, holding it by one of the claws. vi then did the same thing. "go ahead and take one, mun bun," urged laddie. "no! i don't guess i want to," said the little fellow. "i know a riddle you could make up about a crab," said rose, who had come to the kitchen to watch cousin ruth clean the shellfish. "what is it?" laddie demanded instantly. "what color is a crab when it can't pinch?" sing-songed rose. "and the answer is it's red when it can't pinch." "yes, that is a pretty good riddle," said laddie, as, with his head on one side, he thought it over. "but i know how to make it better," he went on. "how?" asked his mother. "let me think a minute," he begged. "oh, i have it! why is a crab like a newspaper?" "'tisn't!" exclaimed russ who came along just then. he was limping a bit, for his toe was sore where the crab had pinched him. "yes, 'tis!" declared laddie. "that's the riddle. it's something like the one rose told. why is a crab like a newspaper?" "'cause it folds its claws when it doesn't want to bite you?" asked violet. "nope!" "tell us," suggested russ. "well, a crab is like a newspaper, 'cause when it's red it can't bite or pinch," laddie said. "see?" "huh! yes, i see," murmured russ. "a crab is like a newspaper because when it's red. oh, i know! you mean when a newspaper is r-e-a-d. that's a different red from reading. but it's a good riddle all right, laddie." "i didn't think of it all," said the little boy. "rose helped." "oh, well, you made a riddle out of it," his sister told him. "here comes cousin ruth. i'm going to watch her clean the crabs." it was quite a lot of work to take the sweet, white meat out of the crab-shells, but cousin ruth knew the best way to do it. in about an hour she had a large bowl full of the picked-out meat, and the children--all except mun bun and margy, who were too little to be allowed to eat any--said the crabs were better than fish. daddy and mother bunker liked them, too. "some of the crabs have awful big claws," remarked russ after dinner, as he looked at a pile of the legs and claws. "i guess they could dig in the sand with 'em, the crabs could. they could dig deep holes." "i wish one would dig down and find my lost locket," said rose with a sorrowful sigh. for, though they had all searched the sand near the bungalow beach over and over, there was no sign of the missing gold locket. "i guess we'll never find it," rose went on with another sigh. "not even if a crab could dig down deep." "well, i'll dig some more," promised laddie. "vi and i are going to make some holes in the sand to play a new game, and maybe we'll find your locket that way." but they did not, and rose, though she herself searched and dug in many places, could not find the ornament. there were many happy august days for the six little bunkers at cousin tom's. they played in the sand, went crabbing and fishing, wading and swimming. one hot afternoon, when it was too warm to do more than sit in the shade, mrs. bunker, who had been lying on the porch in a hammock reading, laid aside her book and looked up. "where has mun bun gone?" she asked rose, who was playing jackstones near by. "and did margy go with him?" "i don't know, mother," rose answered. "they were here a minute ago. i'll go and look for them." just as rose got up and as mrs. bunker arose from the hammock, a voice down near the shore of the inlet called: "come back. get out of that boat! mother, margy and mun bun are in the boat, and it's loose, and they're riding down the inlet and the tide's going out! oh, mother, hurry!" chapter xiv violet's doll you can easily believe that mrs. bunker did hurry on hearing what russ was calling about mun bun and margy. she almost fell out of the hammock, did mrs. bunker, she was in such haste. "daddy! daddy! come quick!" she called to her husband, who was in the bungalow, talking to cousin tom. "margy and mun bun are in a boat on the inlet and are being carried out to sea. hurry!" daddy bunker also hurried. mother bunker was the first to get down to the shore, where she could see what had happened. at first all she noticed was russ jumping up and down in his excitement, and, at the same time, pointing to something on the water. mrs. bunker looked at what russ was pointing to and saw that it was cousin tom's smaller rowboat, and, also, that in it were her two little children, mun bun and margy! and the boat was being carried by the tide down the inlet toward the sea. the inlet, when the tide was flowing in or out, was like a powerful river, more powerful in its current than rainbow river at home in pineville, where the six little bunkers lived. "oh, margy! mun bun!" cried mrs. bunker, holding out her hands to the children. "oh, what will happen to them?" went on mother bunker, as she reached russ standing near the edge of the inlet. she could see the boat, with margy and mun bun in it, drifting farther and farther away. "oh, i must get them!" mrs. bunker was just about to rush into the water, all dressed as she was. she had an idea she might wade out and get hold of the boat to bring it back. but the inlet was too deep for that. "wait a minute! don't go into the water, mother! we'll get the children back all right!" cried daddy bunker, as he ran up beside his wife and caught her by the arm. "how?" asked mrs. bunker, clinging to her husband. "we'll go after them in another boat," said mr. bunker. "here comes cousin tom. he and i will go after the children in the other boat. you sit down and wait for us. we'll soon have them back!" cousin tom had two boats tied at the pier in the inlet. one was the large one in which they had gone crabbing a few days before, and the other was the small one in which margy and mun bun had gone drifting away. daddy bunker, left his wife sitting on the sand and ran to loosen the large boat. but cousin tom cried: "don't take that. it will be too slow and too heavy to row." "what shall we take?" asked the children's father. "here comes a motor-boat. i'll hail the man in that and ask him to go after the drifting boat for us," cousin tom answered. "all right," agreed mr. bunker, as he looked up and saw coming down the inlet, or clam river, a speedy motor-boat, in which sat a man. this would be much faster than a rowboat. just then mrs. bunker, who had jumped up from the sand where she had been sitting for a moment, and who was running toward her husband, cried: "oh, see! the children are standing up! oh, if they should fall overboard!" margy and mun bun, who, at first, had been sitting down in the drifting boat, were now seen to be standing up. and it is always dangerous to stand up in a small boat. daddy bunker put his hands to his mouth, to make a sort of megaphone, and called: "sit down, margy! sit down, mun bun! sit down and keep quiet and daddy will soon come for you. sit down and keep still!" mun bun and his little sister did as their father told them, and sat down in the middle of the boat. "now we'll get them all right," said mr. bunker to his wife. "don't worry--they will be all right." cousin tom ran out on the end of his pier. he waved his hands to the man in the motor-boat, who was a lobster fisherman, going out to "lift" his pots. "wait a minute!" called cousin tom. "two children are adrift in that boat. we want to go after them!" the lobster fisherman waved his hand to show that he understood. the motor of his boat was making such a noise that he could not make his voice heard, nor could he tell what cousin tom was saying. but he knew what was meant, for he saw the drifting boat. with another wave of his hand to show that he knew what was wanted of him, the lobsterman steered his boat toward cousin tom's wharf. a few minutes later daddy bunker and cousin tom were in it, and were speeding down clam river after the drifting craft in which sat margy and mun bun. "how did it happen?" asked mr. oscar burnett, the lobster fisherman, as he steered his boat down stream. "i don't know," answered daddy bunker "all i know is my wife called to me to come out, and i saw the two tots drifting off in the boat." "they must have climbed in to play when the boat was tied to the wharf," said cousin tom. "then either they or some one else must have loosened the rope." "maybe it came loose of itself," suggested daddy bunker. "it couldn't," said cousin tom. "i tied it myself, and i am a good enough sailor to know how to tie a boat so it won't work loose." "yes, i guess you are," said mr. burnett. "the youngsters must have loosened the rope themselves. or some older children did it, for those two are pretty small," and he looked at margy and mun bun, for the motor-boat was now quite near the drifting rowboat. "all right, margy! all right, mun bun! we'll soon have you back safe!" called daddy bunker to them, waving his hands. both children were crying. up alongside the drifting rowboat went the lobster craft. cousin tom caught hold of the boat in which the children sat, and held it while daddy bunker lifted out margy and her brother. then the rowboat was tied fast to the stern of the other boat, which was steered around by mr. burnett, and headed up the inlet. "i've got time to take you back to your pier," he said to cousin tom. "i started out a bit early this morning, so i don't have to hurry. besides, the tide is running pretty strong, and you'd have it a bit hard rowing back." "it's a good thing you came along," said daddy bunker, as he thanked the lobsterman. "the children might have been carried out to sea." "oh, the life guard at the station on the beach would have seen them in time," returned mr. burnett. "but i'm just as glad we got them when we did." "what made you go off in the boat?" asked daddy bunker of margy. "we didn't mean to," answered mun bun. "we got in to play sail, and the boat went off by itself." and this was about all the two children could say as to what had happened. they had got into the boat, which was tied to the pier, and had been playing in it for some time. then, before they knew it, the boat became loose, and drifted off. russ, who had been playing on the beach not far away, had seen them, but not in time to help them. he had, indeed, called to them to "come out of the boat," but then it was too late for margy and mun bun to do this. there was already some water between their boat and the pier. then russ did the next best thing; he called his mother. it did not take long for the lobster motor-boat to make the run back to cousin tom's pier, pulling the empty rowboat behind. mrs. bunker rushed down and hugged margy and mun bun in her arms. "oh, i thought i should never see you again!" she cried, and there were tears in her eyes. "we didn't mean to go away in the boat," said margy. "we didn't mean to," repeated mun bun. and of course the children did not. they had been playing in the boat as it was tied to the wharf, and they never thought it would get loose. just how this happened was never found out. perhaps mun bun or margy might have pulled at the knot in the rope until they loosened it, and the tug of the tide did the rest. but the children were soon safe on the beach again, playing in the sand, and the alarm was over. "what makes the water in the inlet run up sometimes and down other times?" asked violet. "it's the tide," said russ, who had heard some fishermen talking about high and low water. "what's the tide?" went on the little girl. "the moon," added russ. "i heard mother read a story, and it said the moon makes the tides." "does it, daddy?" persisted violet. she certainly had her questioning cap on that evening. "yes, the moon causes the tides," said daddy bunker. "but just how, it is a bit hard to tell to such little children. the moon pulls on the water in the oceans, just as a magnet pulls on a piece of iron or steel. when the moon is on one side of the earth it pulls the water into a sort of bunch, or hill, there, and that makes it lower in the opposite part of the earth. that is low tide. then, as the moon changes, it pulls the water up in the place where it was low before, and that makes high tide. and when the tide is high in our ocean here it pushes a lot of water up clam river. and when the water is low in our ocean here the water runs out of clam river. that is what makes high tide and low tide here." "oh," said violet, though i am not sure she understood all about it. but after that margy and mun bun were careful about getting into the boat, even when they felt sure it was tightly tied to the pier. they always waited until some older folks were with them, and this was the best way. the happy days passed at cousin tom's. the six little bunkers played on the beach, and, now and then, they looked and dug holes to try to find rose's locket. "i guess it's gone forever," said the little girl as the days passed and no locket appeared. and she never even dreamed of the strange way good luck was to come to her once more. one warm day, when all the children were playing down on the sandy shore of the inlet, violet came running back to the house. "mother, make russ stop!" she cried. "what is he doing?" asked mrs. bunker. "he's taking my doll. he's going to take her out on the ocean in a boat. make him stop." "oh, russ mustn't do that!" exclaimed mrs. bunker. "of course i'll make him stop!" she went down to the beach with violet, and, just as they came within sight of the group of children, they heard rose say: "oh, russ! now you've done it! you have drowned vi's doll!" chapter xv the box on the beach "dear me!" exclaimed the children's mother, as she hurried along beside violet to help settle whatever trouble russ had caused. "oh! did you hear what rose said?" asked vi. "did you hear?" "yes, my dear, i did." "oh, my lovely doll is drowned!" cried the little girl, and there were real tears in her eyes, and some even ran down her nose and splashed to the ground. "i just knew russ would be mean and tease me, and he did, and now my doll is drowned and----" "well, it might better be a doll that is drowned and not one of my six little bunkers," said the mother. "though, of course, _i_ am sorry if any of your playthings are lost. russ, did you drown vi's doll?" she called to her oldest son. "i didn't mean to, mother," was the answer. "i was giving the doll a ride in a boat i made, and the boat got blown by the wind, and the wind upset the boat, and the boat went under water, 'cause i had a cargo of stones on it, and----" "what happened to vi's doll?" asked mother bunker. "why don't you get to that part of it, russ?" "i was going to," he said. "the doll fell off when the boat upset and sank, and the doll sank, too, i guess." "is my doll really, really, drowned?" cried violet. "i--i'm afraid i guess so," stammered russ. "but maybe i can fish her up again when the tide is low," he added hopefully. "do it now," sobbed the little girl. "the water's too deep now." "where did she get drowned?" asked violet, gazing through her tears at the waters of the inlet. "the boat upset out there in the middle," said russ, pointing. "oh, dear!" sighed violet. "if she was my rubber doll maybe she wouldn't be drowned. but she's my china doll, and they won't float, will they, mother?" "no, my dear, i'm afraid not. how did it happen, russ? why did you take violet's doll?" "'cause i wanted to give her a ride, and i didn't think she would care--i mean vi. course the doll didn't care." "she did so!" exclaimed the little girl, stamping her foot on the sand. "my dolls have got feelings, same as you have, russ bunker, so there!" "now children, don't get excited," said mrs. bunker gently. "russ, you shouldn't have taken vi's doll." "well, i wanted to see how much my boat would hold, and i was playing the doll was a passenger. i'll get it back for her. cousin tom will take me out in his boat to the middle, and i can scoop the doll up with a crab net." mrs. bunker went with russ and violet to find cousin tom, leaving laddie, rose, margy and mun bun playing with pebbles and shells in the sand. russ told cousin tom what had happened. the little boy had made a boat out of a piece of board, with a mast and a bit of cloth for a sail. he had loaded his boat with stones he had picked up on the beach of the inlet, and had started his craft off on a voyage. violet had been playing near by with her doll, and when she put it down for a moment russ had taken the doll and put it on his toy boat. then he gave it a shove out into the clam river, the wind blowing on the sail and sending his toy well out toward the middle of the inlet. there the accident happened. the boat turned over and sank. perhaps if russ had only laid the stones on, instead of tying one or two large ones fast, as he had, the boat might have floated, even though upset. for if the stones had not been tied on they would have rolled off and the boat would have righted herself and floated, being made of wood. but, as it was, she sank. "and my doll went down with it," said vi sadly. "please, cousin tom, can you get her back?" "i don't know, violet. i'll see," was the answer. "the tide is running out now, for it was high water a little while ago. if the boat sank down to the bottom, and stayed there, we may be able to get it when the water is low if we can see it." "the sail is white, and you can see white cloth even under water," said russ. "but i'm afraid the cloth won't stay white very long. the mud and sand of the inlet will cover it," remarked cousin tom. "did you tie the doll on the boat, too, russ?" "no, i just laid the doll down on top of the stones." "then when the boat upset the doll rolled off, and she probably sank in another place," said mr. bunker. "i don't believe we can ever find her, vi, i'm sorry to say, but i'll try at low tide." "would she be carried out to sea, like mun bun and margy 'most was?" the little girl wanted to know. "she might, if the tide current was strong enough," said cousin tom. "what kind of doll was she?" "china," answered vi. "she was hollow, 'cause she made a hollow sound when you tapped her. and she had a hole in her back, and sometimes i used to pour milk in there, and make believe feed her." "well, if your doll was hollow, and had a hole in her back, she probably filled with water when she sank," said cousin tom. "oh, dear!" sighed violet. that evening, when the tide was low, so there was not so much water in the inlet, cousin tom and daddy bunker, taking russ with them to show where his boat had upset, rowed out to the middle of clam river. it took them a little while to find the place where russ had last seen his toy boat, but finally they found it. then, looking down into the water, they peered about for a sight of the white sail. "there it is!" suddenly cried russ, as he leaned over the side of the boat. "i see something white." "yes, i see it, too," said daddy bunker. "perhaps that is the sail of the sunken toy boat, and perhaps the doll is near here." but when cousin tom put down the long-handled crab net and scooped up the white object, it was found to be a bit of paper. "oh, dear!" sighed russ. "i wish it was vi's doll!" he felt bad about the sorrow he had caused his little sister. "we'll try again," said his father, and, after rowing about a bit and peering down into the water, they saw something else white, and this time it really was russ's boat. cousin tom scooped it up in his crab net, and when the stones which were tied on deck, were loosed, the boat floated as well as ever, and the wind and sun soon dried the wet sail. but, though they scooped with crab nets all about the place where they had found the boat, they could not bring up vi's doll. "oh, didn't you find her?" asked the little girl, when her father, cousin tom, and russ came back in the rowboat. "no, dear, we couldn't find her," said daddy bunker. "oh, dear!" and vi cried very hard. "never mind, i'll get you another doll," said her mother. "they won't ever a doll be as nice as she was," sobbed vi. "i--i just lo-lo-loved her!" they all felt sorry for violet, and russ said she could have his new knife, if she wanted it. but she said she didn't; all she wanted was her doll. "never mind," said rose, trying to comfort her sister. "maybe when i find my gold locket, if i ever do, you'll find your lost doll. we've got two things to hunt for now--your doll and my locket." "but your locket is lost on land, and, maybe, if you dig in the sand enough, you can find it," sobbed violet. "but you can't dig in the water!" "maybe she'll be washed up on the beach with the tide, same as the driftwood and the shells and the seaweed are washed up," put in russ. "i'll look along the beach every day, vi, and maybe i'll find your doll for you." this comforted vi some, and she dried her tears. then laddie made them all laugh by saying: "i have a new riddle!" "is it about a doll?" asked rose. "no. it's about a cow." "how can you make a riddle about a cow?" russ demanded. "well, i didn't make this one up," said laddie; "and it isn't like the riddles i like to ask, 'cause there isn't any answer to it." "there must be some answer," declared violet. "all riddles have answers." "well, i'll tell you this one, and you can see if it has," went on laddie. "now listen, everybody." then he slowly said: "how is it that a red cow can eat green grass and give white milk that makes yellow butter?" no one answered for a moment, and then daddy bunker laughed. "that is pretty good," he said, "and i don't believe there is any answer to it. of course we all know a red cow, or one that is a sort of brownish red, does eat green grass. and the milk a cow gives is white and the butter made from the white milk is yellow. of course that isn't exactly a riddle, but it's pretty good, laddie." "and is there an answer to it?" the little boy asked. "i don't believe there is," answered his father. "it's just one of those things that happen. did you make that up, laddie?" "no. cousin tom told it to me out of a book. but i like it." vi still sorrowed for her doll, and, in the days that followed, she often walked along the beach hoping "sarah janet," as she called her, might be cast up by the tide or the waves. russ looked also, as did the others, but no doll was found. nor did rose find her gold locket, though many holes were dug in the sand searching for it. one morning, after breakfast, when he had gone down on the beach to watch the fishing boats come in, which he often did, russ came running back to the house, very much excited. "what's the matter?" asked his mother. "did one of the boats upset and spill out the fishermen?" "no'm, mother. but a box washed up on shore, and it's nailed shut, and it's heavy, and maybe vi's doll is in it! oh, please come down and see the box on the beach!" chapter xvi caught by the tide ever since they had come to cousin tom's, at seaview, the six little bunkers had hoped to find some treasure-trove on the beach. that is, russ and rose and vi and laddie did. margy and mun bun were almost too little to understand what the others meant by "treasure," but they liked to go along the sand looking for things. at first, when the children came to the shore, they had hoped to dig up gold, as sammie brown had said his father had when shipwrecked. but a week or so of making holes in the sand, and finding nothing more than pretty shells or pebbles, had about cured the older children of hoping to find a fortune. "instead of finding any gold we lost some," said rose, as she thought of her pretty locket, which, she feared, was gone forever. but now, when russ came running in, telling about a big box being cast up on the beach, his mother did not know what to think. the children had heard her read stories about shipwrecked persons, who found things to eat, and things of value, cast up on the sands, and she knew russ must imagine this was something like that. "hurry, mother, and we'll see what it is!" cried the little boy, and taking hold of her hand he fairly dragged mrs. bunker along the path toward the beach. "what sort of box is it?" the little boy's mother asked. "oh, it's a wooden box," russ answered eagerly. "well, i didn't suppose it was tin or pasteboard," said mrs. bunker with a laugh. "a tin box would sink, and a pasteboard box would melt away in the water. of course i know it must be of wood. but is it closed or open, and what is in it?" "that's what we don't know, mother," russ answered. "the box has a cover nailed on it, and it isn't so very big--about so high," and russ measured with his hands. "did you open the box?" asked mrs. bunker. "no'm," russ answered. "we were all playing on the sand when i saw something bobbing up and down on the waves. we threw stones at it, and then it washed up on the beach, and i ran down into the water and grabbed it. "maybe it's gold in it, laddie says," went on russ. "but i told him it wasn't heavy enough for gold." "no, i hardly think it will be gold," said his mother with a smile. "and vi thinks maybe it's her doll," went on the little boy. "oh, it hardly could be that. her doll is probably at the bottom of the ocean by this time. it could hardly have been got up and put in a box. i'm afraid you will find nothing more than straw or shavings in your treasure-trove, russ. don't count too much on it." "oh, no, but we're just hoping it's something nice," russ said. "you go on down where the box is and i'll go get a hammer from cousin tom so we can open the box." he led his mother to a little hummock of sand, from the top of which she could look down and see the children gathered on the beach about a square wooden box that had been cast up by the sea. then russ ran back to get the hammer. mrs. bunker looked at the box. there seemed to have been some writing on a piece of paper that was tacked on the box, but the writing was blurred by the sea water and could not be read. "oh, mother! what you s'pose is in it?" asked vi. "my doll, maybe!" "no, i hardly think so, little girl." "maybe gold," added laddie, his eyes big with excitement. "no, and not gold," said mrs. bunker. "candy?" asked margy, who had not one sweet tooth, it seemed, but several. "pop-corn balls!" said mun bun. "huh! candy and pop-corn balls would all be wet in the ocean," exclaimed laddie. by this time russ came running back with the hammer. behind him came cousin tom, cousin ruth and daddy bunker. "what's all this i hear about a million dollars being found in a box on the beach?" asked daddy bunker with a laugh. "well, there's the box," said russ, pointing. "please open it." "i wonder what can be in it," said cousin ruth. "oh, maybe nothing," replied her husband, who did not want the children to be too much disappointed if the box should be opened and found to hold nothing more than some straw or shavings for packing. "lots of boxes that are cast up on the beach have nothing in them," said cousin tom, as daddy bunker got ready to use the hammer on the one russ and the others had found. "there is something in this box, all right," said daddy bunker, as he lifted one end. "i don't believe this box is empty, though what is in it may turn out to be of no use. but we will open it and see." the six little bunkers crowded around to look. so did mother bunker and cousin tom and his wife. and then a very disappointing thing happened. all of a sudden a wave, bigger than any of the others that had been rolling up on the beach, broke right in front of the box resting on the sand. up the shore rushed the salty, green water. "look out!" cried mother bunker. "we'll all be wet!" daddy bunker, not wishing to have his shoes soiled with the brine, jumped back. so did the others. and, in jumping back, mr. bunker let go his hold on the box, which he was just going to open with cousin tom's hammer. and the big wave, which was part of the rising tide, just lifted the box up, and the next moment carried it out into the ocean, far from shore, as the wave itself ran back down the hill of sand. "oh! oh, dear!" cried rose. "grab it!" yelled russ. "i'll get it!" exclaimed laddie. he made a rush to get hold of the box again before it should be washed too far out from shore, but he stumbled over a pile of sand and fell. he was not hurt, but when he got up the box was farther out than ever. daddy bunker looked at the water between him and the box, and said: "it's too deep to wade and spoil a pair of shoes. and, after all, maybe there is only a lot of old trash in the box." "oh, i thought maybe my doll was in it," sighed violet. "can't you take your boat, tom, and row out and get the box?" asked cousin ruth. "yes, i could do that," he said. "i will, too! the water is calm, though i can't tell how long it will stay so." but before cousin tom could go back to the pier in the inlet, where the boat was tied, the box was washed quite a distance out from shore. then the wind sprang up and the sea became rough, and it was decided that he had better not try it. "let the box go," said daddy bunker. "i guess there was nothing very much in it." but the children thought differently. they stood looking out at the unopened box, now drifting to sea, and thought of the different things that _might_ be in it. each one had an idea of some toy he or she liked best. "well, we waited too long about opening it," said mr. bunker. "we should have pulled the box farther up on the beach, russ." "that's right," said cousin tom. "the tides are getting high now, as fall is coming on, and the tides are always highest in the spring and the autumn. but maybe we can get the box back, after all." "how?" asked russ eagerly. "well, it may come ashore again, farther up the beach," replied cousin tom. "then somebody else may find it and open it," russ remarked. "yes, that may happen," said his father. "well, we won't worry over it. we didn't lose anything, for we never really had it." but, just the same, the six little bunkers could not help feeling sorry for themselves at not having seen what was in the box. they kept wondering and wondering what it could have been. but a day or so later they had nearly forgotten about what might have been a treasure, for they found many other things to do. one afternoon margy and mun bun, who had been freshly washed and combed, went down to the wharf where cousin tom kept his boat. "don't get in it, though," warned their mother. "you were carried away in a boat once, and i don't want it to happen again. keep away from the boats." "we will!" promised mun bun and margy. when they reached the shore of the inlet mun bun said: "oh, margy, look how low the water is! we can wade over to that little island!" "yes," agreed margy, "we can. we can take off our shoes an' stockin's, an' carry 'em. mother didn't tell us not to go wadin'." and mrs. bunker had not, for she did not think the children would do this. so margy and mun bun sat down on the wharf and made themselves barefooted. then they started to wade across a shallow place in the inlet to where a little island of sand showed in the middle. and margy and mun bun did not know what was going to happen to them, or they never would have done this. chapter xvii marooned "that's a nice little island over there," said mun bun to margy as they waded along. "yes, it's a terrible nice little island," agreed his sister. "an' we can camp out there an' have lots of fun." "oh, mun bun, catch me! i'm sinking down in a hole!" "all right, i'll get you!" cried the little boy, and he grasped hold of his sister's arm. she had stepped into a little sandy hole, and the water came up half way to her knees. of course that was not very deep, and when margy saw she was not going to sink down very far she was no longer frightened. "but i was scared till you grabbed hold of me," she said to mun bun. "is it very deep any more?" "no, it isn't deep at all," the little boy answered. "i can see down to the bottom all the way to the little island, and it isn't hardly over your toenails." the tide was very low that day, and in some parts of the inlet there was no water at all, the sandy bottom showing quite dry in the sun. as cousin tom had said, toward the fall of the year the tides are both extra high and extra low. of course not at the same time, you understand, but twice a day. sometimes the waters of the ocean came up into the inlet until they nearly flowed over the small pier. then, some hours later, they would be very low. this was one of the low times for the tide, and it had made several small islands of sand in the middle of clam river. it was toward one of these islands that margy and mun bun were wading. they had seen it from the shore and it looked to be a good place to play. there was a big, almost round, spot of white sand, and all about it was shallow water, sparkling in the sun. the deepest water between the shore and the island was half way up to margy's knees, and that, as i think you will admit, was not deep at all. "we'll have some fun there," said mun bun. "maybe we can dig clams," went on the little girl. clam river was so called because so many soft and hard clams were dug there by the fishermen, who sold them to people who liked to make chowder of them. there are two kinds of clams that are good to eat, the hard and the soft. one has a very hard shell, and this is the kind of clam you most often see in the stores. but there is another sort of clam, with a thin shell, and out of one end of it the clam sticks a long thing, like a rubber tube. and when the clam digs a hole for himself down in the sand or the mud he thrusts this tube up to the top, and through it he sucks down things to eat. the six little bunkers had often seen the fishermen on clam river dig down after these soft-shelled fellows. the men used a short-handled hoe, and when they had dug away the sand there they found the clams in something that looked like little pockets, or burrows. "maybe we can dig clams," said margy. "we hasn't got any shovel or hoe," returned mun bun. "maybe we can dig with some big clam shells, if we can find some," his sister said. by this time they had reached the little island. just like the islands in your geography, it was "entirely surrounded by water," and it made a nice place to play, except that it was rather sunny. but mun bun and margy did not mind the sun very much. they were used to playing out in it, and they were now as brown as berries, or indians, or nuts, whichever you like best. they were well tanned, and did not get sunburned as many little boys and girls do when they go to the seashore for the first time. "we can take the clams to cousin ruth and she can make chowder and she'll give us some cookies, maybe," said mun bun. "i like clams better than cookies," remarked margy. "i mean i like to eat cookies, but i like to dig clams." "you can't dig cookies," said mun bun. "you could dig one if you dropped yours in the sand," returned his sister. "yes, you could do that," agreed the little boy. "but it would be all sand, and it wouldn't be good to eat." "i don't guess it would. we'll just dig clams. anyhow, we hasn't any cookies to dig or to eat." this was very true. and now the two little children began to hunt for clam shells to use for shovels in digging. they wanted the large shells of the hard clam, and soon each had one. then they began to dig, as they had seen their father and cousin tom do. for daddy bunker had once taken margy and mun bun with him and the other mr. bunker, when they went to dig soft clams. whether margy and mun bun did not know how to dig, or whether there were no clams in the sand of the island i do not know. but i do know that the two little bunkers did not find any, though they dug holes until their backs ached. then margy said: "let's don't play this any more." "what shall we play?" asked mun bun. "oh, let's see if we can find some wood and make little boats." so they walked about the island looking for bits of wood. but none was to be found. for wood floats; that is, unless it is so soaked with water as to be too heavy, and all the pieces of wood that had ever been on the island had floated away. "i don't guess we can build any boats," said margy. "let's go back to shore and get some wood, and then we can come back and sail boats." "that'll be fun," said mun bun. "we'll go." but when he and his sister started to wade back, they had not gone very far before margy cried: "oh, the water's terrible deep! look how deep down my foot goes!" mun bun looked. indeed the water was almost up to margy's knees now, and she had gone only a few steps away from the shore of the island. "let me try it," said her brother. "i'm bigger than you." he wasn't, though he liked to think so, for margy was a year older. but i guess mun bun was like most boys; he liked to think himself larger than he was. however, when he stepped out from the island, ahead of margy, he, too, found that the water was deeper than it had been when they started to wade from the shore near cousin tom's pier. "what makes it?" asked margy. "i--i don't know," answered mun bun. "i guess somebody must have poured more water in the river." "lessen maybe it rained," suggested margy. "don't you know how rainbow river gets bigger when it rains?" "it didn't rain," said mun bun, "or we'd be wet on our backs." "no, i guess it didn't rain," agreed margy. then she cried: "oh, look, mun bun! our island's getting awful little! it only sticks out of the water hardly any now! look!" mun bun turned and looked behind him. as his sister had said, the island was very much smaller. "what--what makes it?" asked margy. "i--i don't know," answered mun bun. "but it is getting littler, just like when you keep on sucking a lollypop." and that is just what the island was doing. what margy and mun bun did not know was that the tide had turned, that it was rising, and that it would soon not only make their island much smaller, but would cover it from sight, leaving no island at all! "oh, the water's getting deeper," said margy, as she took another step and found it coming over her little knees. "what are we going to do, mun bun?" "i--i guess we must go back to the middle of the island and stay there," said her brother. "oh, shall we ever get off?" margy asked, and her voice sounded as though she might cry before long. "i can't ever wade to shore when the water is so deep. what are we going to do?" "we'll call for daddy!" said mun bun. chapter xviii the marshmallow roast when anything happened to mun bun or his sister margy they always called for daddy or mother bunker. the other children did the same thing, though of course margy and mun bun, being the youngest, naturally called the most, just as they were the ones who were most often in trouble that needed a father or a mother to straighten out. "our island's getting terrible small," said margy; "and the water's gettin' deeper all around us." "yes," agreed mun bun, as he got in the middle of what was left of the circle of sand and looked about. "the water is deep. i guess i'd better call!" "i'll help you," said margy. the two children stood in the center of the sandy island that was all the while getting smaller because the tide was rising and covering it, and they called: "daddy! mother! daddy bunker! come and get us!" they called this way several times, and then waited for some one to come and get them. if you want to imagine how margy and mun bun looked, marooned as they were on an island in the middle of clam river, with the tide rising, just get a big, clean stone and put it down in the middle of your bathtub. if you try this you had better put a piece of paper under the stone, so it will not scratch the clean, white tub. then on the stone put two other little stones to stand for margy and mun bun. now put the stopper in the tub and turn on the water. you will see it begin to rise around the stone, and soon only a little of it will be left sticking out of the water. "daddy! mother! daddy bunker! come and get us!" now margy and mun bun did not have very strong voices, and, besides, though they were not far from one part of the shore, it was quite a distance to cousin tom's house, where their father and mother were at that moment. also, the wind was blowing their voices away, and over toward the other shore of clam river, where at this time no one lived. but the two little bunkers did not know this, and they kept on calling for their mother or father to come to get them. but neither daddy nor mother bunker answered. and the water kept on rising, for the tide was coming in fast, and it was going to be high. now it happened, just about this time, that mr. oscar burnett, the lobster fisherman, was coming up the inlet in his motor-boat. he had been out to sea to lift his lobster-pots and he had been waiting at the entrance of clam river for the tide to make the water deep enough for him to come up. on days when the tide was not so low he could come up all right, even at "slack water." but this time the channel was not deep enough for his motor-boat and he had to wait. and as he puffed up, steering this way and that so as not to run on sand bars, he heard, faintly, the cries of margy and mun bun. having good ears, and knowing the cries must be near him, mr. burnett looked about. he saw the place where the island was now almost hidden from sight because of the rising waters, and he saw the two children, margy and mun bun, standing there, their arms around each other, crying for help, and also crying real tears. for they were very much frightened. "well, i swan to goodness!" exclaimed the lobster fisherman. "there's those two children again, and this time they're marooned 'stead of being adrift! yes, sir! they're marooned!" i used that word once before and i forgot to tell you what it means, so i'll do so now. it means, in sailor talk, being left alone on an island without any way of getting off. sometimes pirates used to capture ships, take off the passengers and set them on an island without leaving a boat. and the poor passengers were marooned. they could no more get off than could margy and mun bun. "marooned! that's what they are!" said mr. burnett. "i'll have to go over and get 'em, just as i got 'em when they drifted down the inlet in the boat. i never saw such children for getting into trouble!" not that mr. burnett thought it was too much trouble to go and get margy and mun bun off the island where they were marooned. instead, he was very glad to do it, for he loved children. so he steered his motor-boat over toward what was left of the island--which was very little now, as the tide was still rising. then the lobster fisherman called: "don't be afraid, mun bun and margy! i'll soon get you! don't be afraid. just stand still and don't wade off into the deep water." [illustration: "don't be afraid! i'll soon get you!" said mr. burnett. _six little bunkers at cousin tom's._--_page _] the island was shaped like a little hill, high in the middle, and margy and mun bun had kept stepping back until they now stood on the highest part in the middle. all about them was the water, deeper in some places than in others. and you may be sure that the little boy and his sister did not try to get off the high spot. there the water was only over their feet, but if they stayed there much longer it might cover their heads. however no such dreadful thing happened, for mr. burnett steered his boat up to them until it grounded in the sand of the island that was now under water. "now you're all right!" said the kind man. he shut off his motor and jumped over the side of the boat. right into the water he stepped, but as he had on high rubber boots he did not get his feet wet. mr. burnett picked up margy and set her down in his boat. "oh, look at the big lobsters!" cried the little girl. "will they pinch me?" well might she ask that question, for the bottom of the boat was filled with lobsters with big claws, some of which were moving about, the pinching parts opening and shutting. "they won't hurt you," said mr. burnett with a laugh. "just keep up on the seat, margy, and you won't get pinched." the seats in the lobster boat were broad and high, and on one of them margy and mun bun, who was soon lifted off the island to her side, were safe from the lobsters, which mr. burnett had taken from his pots, some miles out at sea. "how did you come to go on the island when the tide was rising?" asked the fisherman, as he started his boat once more. "the water was low, and we waded out barefoot," explained margy. "we were goin' to dig clams," added mun bun. "but we couldn't find any," continued margy. "and then when we went to wade back home the water got deep and we were afraid." "i should think you would be!" replied the lobster fisherman. "well, i'm glad i heard you call. it wouldn't be very nice on your island now." the children looked back. their island was out of sight. it was "submerged," as a sailor would say, meaning that it was under the water. for the tide had risen and covered it. "will you take us home?" asked margy. "that's what i will," said the lobster fisherman. "i'll take you right up to mr. bunker's pier. i guess your folks don't know where you are, nor what trouble you might have been in if i hadn't come along just when i did." and this was true, for neither daddy nor mother bunker, nor cousin tom nor his wife, nor any of the other little bunkers had heard the cries of mun bun and margy. but as the motor-boat went puffing up to the little wharf the noise it made was heard by mr. and mrs. bunker, who ran down from the cottage to see it, as they wanted to buy a fresh lobster and they had been told that mr. burnett might soon come back from having gone to lift his pots. "well, i had pretty good luck to-day," said the old fisherman, as he stopped his boat at the pier, and pointed to margy and mun bun. "see what i caught!" "margy!" cried her mother, in great surprise. "mun bun!" exclaimed the little boy's father. "did you go out in a boat again?" asked mrs. bunker. "oh, no'm, we didn't do that!" said mun bun quickly. "we just waded over to the little island," said margy. "but somebody poured water in the river, and it got high and we couldn't wade back again." "they were marooned in the middle of clam river for a fact! that's what they were!" said mr. burnett. "but i heard 'em yell, and i took 'em off. here they are." "you must never wade out like that again," said the father of mun bun and margy. "this river isn't like ours at home. an island there is always an island, unless floods come, and you know about them. there is a tide here twice a day and what may seem a safe bit of sand on which to play at one time may be covered with water at another. so don't go wading unless you ask your mother or me first." "we won't," promised mun bun and margy. then mr. bunker thanked mr. burnett and after the lobster had been bought the fisherman puffed away in his boat, waving a good-bye to the children he had saved from being marooned on the island. mun bun and margy had to tell their story over again several times and they had to answer many questions from their brothers and sisters, about how they felt when they saw the water coming up. of course the two smallest of the six little bunkers had been in some danger, though if mr. burnett had not seen them and rescued them, some one else might have done so. but it taught all the little bunkers a lesson about the dangers of the rising tide, and if any of you ever go to the seashore i hope you will be careful. if you live at the shore, of course you know about the tides. as the august days went on, the children played in the sand and had many good times. often they would pretend to be digging for gold, as they had heard sammie brown tell of his father having done, but they had given up hoping to find any. "but we might find my locket," said rose. "and we might find that queer box the tide washed away before we could see what was in it," said russ. "i wish we could find that." often he would walk along the beach looking at the driftwood and other things cast up by the waves and hope for a sight of the mysterious box. "if we'd only seen what was in it we wouldn't feel so bad," said rose. "but it's like a puzzle you never can guess." one evening daddy bunker came home from the village with some round tin boxes. "what's in 'em?" cried violet, always the first to ask a question. "let's guess!" proposed laddie. "maybe i can make up a riddle about 'em." "i know what's in them," said russ. "i can read it on the box. it's marshmallow candies." "oh, are we going to have a marshmallow roast on the beach?" cried rose. "yes, that's what we are going to have," her father said. "oh, hurray! hurray! hurray!" cried the six little bunkers. chapter xix the sallie growler have you ever toasted marshmallow candies at the seashore beach? if you have you need not stop to read this part of the story. but if you have not, from this and the next page you may learn how to do it. in the first place you need three things to have a marshmallow roast, and you can easily guess what the first thing is. it's a box of the white candies. then you need a fire, and, if you are a little boy or girl, it will be best to have your father or mother or some big person make the fire for you, as you might get burned. then you need some long, pointed sticks on which to hold the marshmallow candies as you toast them. if the sticks are too short you will toast your fingers or your face instead of the candies. "have you got lots of marshmallows, daddy?" asked rose, as she and the other children gathered about their father. "plenty, i think," he answered. "we don't want so many that you will be made ill, you know." "i can eat a lot of 'em without getting sick," declared laddie. "i like 'em, too," said vi. "where do the marshmallow candies come from, daddy?" she asked. "from the store, of course!" exclaimed laddie. "no, i mean before they get to the store," went on the little girl. "does a hen lay the marshmallows, same as chickens lay eggs?" "oh, no!" laughed daddy bunker. "marshmallow candy is made from sugar and other things, just as most candies are." as the six little bunkers, with their father and mother and cousin tom and his wife, walked down to the shore of the sea, which was light from the beams of a silvery moon, laddie said: "i have a new riddle!" "is it about marshmallows?" asked vi. "no. but the candies made me think of it," replied her brother. "it's about a fire." "what is your riddle about a fire?" asked cousin ruth, who always liked to hear laddie ask his funny questions. "where does the fire go when it goes out?" laddie asked. "that's my riddle. where does the fire go when it goes out?" "it doesn't go anywhere," declared russ. "it just stays where it is." "part of it goes away," declared laddie. "where does it go? where does the hot part go when the fire goes out?" "up in the air," said rose. "off in the ocean!" exclaimed mun bun, who really did not know what they were talking about. "does it, daddy?" asked laddie. "why, i don't know," said mr. bunker. "it's your riddle; you ought to know what the answer is." "but i don't," admitted laddie. "i made up the riddle, but i don't know what the answer is. if some of you could think of a good answer it would be a good riddle." "yes, i guess it would," agreed mrs. bunker. "this is the time you didn't think of a good one, laddie. a riddle isn't much good unless some one knows the answer." perhaps some of you who are reading this story can tell the answer. down on the beach went the six little bunkers. there was a bright moon shining and here and there were other parties of children and young people, some going to have marshmallow roasts also, and some who only came down to look at the ocean shining under the silver moon. mun bun and margy, with violet and laddie, raced about in the sand, while russ and rose helped their father and cousin tom gather driftwood for the fire. there was plenty of it, and it was dry, for it had been in the hot sun all day. "what makes the sand so sandy?" asked vi, as she sat down beside her mother and cousin ruth and let some of the "beach dust," as daddy bunker sometimes called it, run through her fingers. "that's a hard question to answer," laughed mother bunker. "you might as well ask what makes the moon so shiny." "or what makes the water so wet," added cousin ruth. "oh, you are such a funny little girl, violet!" "what makes me?" asked vi. "i suppose one reason is that you ask so many funny questions," said cousin ruth. "but there, daddy has lighted the fire, and we can soon begin to roast the marshmallows." on the beach, near russ and rose, where they were standing with their father and cousin tom, a cheerful blaze sprang up. it looked very pretty in the moonlight night, with the sparkling sea out beyond. "can we roast 'em now?" asked laddie, as he got ready one of the long, pointed sticks. "not quite yet," said his father. "better to wait until the fire makes a lot of red-hot coals, or embers of wood. then we can hold our candies over them and they will not get burned or blackened by the blaze. wait a bit." so they sat about the fire, while daddy bunker and cousin tom piled on more wood. the boxes of the candies had been opened, so they would be all ready, and each of the ten bunkers had a long, sharp-pointed stick to use as a toasting-fork. "i guess we are ready now," said daddy bunker, after they had listened to a jolly song sung by another party of marshmallow roasters farther down the beach. "there are plenty of hot embers now." cousin tom poked aside the blazing pieces of driftwood and underneath were the hot, glowing embers. "now each one put a candy on a stick and hold the marshmallow over the embers," said daddy bunker. "don't hold it still, but turn it around. this is just the same as shaking corn when you pop it, or turning bread over when you toast it. by turning the marshmallow it will not burn so quickly." so, kneeling in a circle about the fire, the six little bunkers, and the others, began to roast the candies. but margy and mun bun did not have very good luck. they forgot to turn their marshmallows and they held them so close to the fire that they had accidents. "oh, mun bun's candy is burning!" cried rose. "and margy's is on fire, too!" added russ. "oh, that's too bad!" cried mother bunker. "never mind," she said, as she saw that the two little tots felt sorry. "i'll toast your candies for you. it's rather hard for you to do it." mrs. bunker's own candy was toasted a nice brown and all puffed up, for this is what happens when you toast marshmallows. so she gave mun bun and margy some of hers, and then began to brown more. the other children did very well, and soon they were all eating the toasted candies. now and then one would catch fire, for sugar, you know, burns faster than wood or coal. but it was easy to blow out the flaming candies, and, if they were not too badly burned, they were good to eat. "oh, look at the little dog!" cried rose, as she put a fresh marshmallow on her stick. "he smells our candy! may i give him one, daddy?" "yes, but give him one that isn't toasted. he might burn himself on a hot one. whose dog is he?" "he just ran over to me from down there," and rose pointed to some boys and girls about another fire farther down the beach, who were also roasting marshmallows. the dog seemed glad to be with rose and his new friends, and let each of the six little bunkers pat him. he ate several candies and then ran back where he belonged. "oh, he was awful cute!" exclaimed vi. "i wish we could keep him. couldn't we have a dog some time?" "maybe, when we get back home again," promised mother bunker. the marshmallow roast was fun, and even after the candies had all been eaten the party sat on the beach a little longer, looking at the waves in the moonlight. "now it's time to go to bed!" called mother bunker. "margy and mun bun are so sleepy they can't keep their eyes open. come on! we'll have more fun to-morrow!" "i'm going crabbing off the pier," declared russ. "there's lots of crabs now, mr. burnett says." "yes, august is a good month to catch crabs," returned cousin tom. "i'm going fishing," said laddie. "can you catch fish off your pier, cousin tom?" "oh, yes, sometimes. but don't catch any sallie growlers." "what's a sallie growler?" asked vi, before any one else could speak. "oh, you'll know as soon as you catch one," laughed her cousin. then he picked up mun bun, who was really asleep by this time, and carried him up to the house, while daddy bunker took margy, whose eyes were also closed. true to their promises russ and laddie went down to the little boat wharf the next morning after breakfast. russ had the crab net and a chunk of meat tied to a string. laddie had a short pole and line and a hook baited with a piece of clam, for that was what fishermen often used, cousin tom said. "now we'll see who catches the first fish!" exclaimed laddie, as he sat down on the pier. "i'm not fishing for fish, i'm fishing for crabs," said russ. "well, in this race we'll count a crab and a fish as the same thing," returned laddie. "we'll see who gets the first one." the boys waited some time. now and then russ would feel a little tug at his line, as if the crabs were tasting his bait, but had not quite made up their minds to take a good hold so he could pull them up and catch them in the net. and the cork float on laddie's line would bob up and down a little as though he, too, had nibbles. but neither of them had caught anything yet. suddenly laddie felt a hard tug, and he yelled: "oh, i got one! i got one! i got the first bite!" he yanked on his pole. something brown and wiggling came up out of the water and flopped down on the wharf. at the same time a little dog that had run up behind the two boys and was sniffing around, gave a sudden yelp. "what's the matter?" cried russ. "he's bit by a sallie growler! the sallie growler you caught bit my dog on the nose!" exclaimed another boy and he began striking at the brown thing laddie had caught, which was now fast to the nose of the dog that had been eating marshmallows the night before. chapter xx the walking fish laddie dropped his fishing-pole. russ let go of his crab-line, and they both stood looking at the dog and at the strange boy. the dog was howling, and trying to paw off from his nose a queer and ugly-looking fish that had hold of it. it was the fish laddie had caught and which the boy had called a "sallie growler." "cousin tom told us about them last night," thought russ. "i wonder why they have such a funny name, and what makes 'em bite so." but he did not ask the questions aloud just then. there was too much going on to let him do this. the dog was howling, and the new boy was yelling, at the same time striking at the fish on the end of his dog's nose. "take him off! take off that sallie growler!" yelled the boy. but the brown fish laddie had caught looked too ugly and savage. neither of the little bunkers was going to touch it and the new boy did not seem to want to any more than did russ or laddie. as for the dog, he could not help himself. the fish had hold of him; he didn't have hold of the fish. finally, after much howling and pawing, the dog either knocked the fish off his nose, or the sallie growler let go of its own accord and lay on the pier. "poor teddy!" said the boy as he bent over his pet to pat him. "did he hurt you a lot?" the dog whimpered and wagged his tail. he did not seem to be badly hurt, though there were some spots of blood on his nose. "i guess he'll be all right if the sallie growler doesn't poison him," said the boy. "how'd you come to catch it?" he asked, looking from laddie to russ. "i didn't want to catch it," said laddie. "i was fishing for good fish and i got a bite and pulled _that_ up!" and he pointed to the ugly brown fish that lay gasping on the boards. "is it a sallie growler?" asked russ. "it is," said the new boy. "and they can bite like anything. look how that one held on to my dog's nose." "i hope he isn't hurt much," put in laddie. "i didn't mean to do it." "no, i guess you didn't," said the other boy. "nobody ever tries to catch a sallie growler. they're too nasty and hard to get off the hook. 'most always they swallow it, but this one didn't. he dropped off just as you landed him and then my dog came along and smelled him--teddy's always smelling something--and the fish bit him." "do you live around here?" asked russ. "yes, we're here for the summer. i guess i saw you down on the beach last night roasting marshmallows, didn't i?" "yes, and we gave your dog some," returned laddie. "what's your name?" "george carr. what's yours?" "laddie bunker." "mine's russ," said laddie's brother. "oh, look! i guess i've got a crab!" he ran to where he had tied the end of his string to a post of the pier, and began to pull in. surely enough, on the end was a big blue-clawed crab, and, with the help of laddie, who used the net, the creature was soon landed on the pier. "here! you keep away from that crab!" called george carr to his dog teddy. "do you want your nose bit again?" and from the way the crab raised its claws in the air, snapping them shut, it would seem that the shellfish would have been very glad indeed to pinch the dog's nose. but teddy had learned a lesson. he kept well away from the gasping sallie growler, too. "what makes 'em be called sallie growler?" asked laddie, as he and russ looked at the fish. it was very ugly, with a head shaped like a toad, and a very big mouth. "i don't know why they call 'em sallie," said george; "but they call 'em growler 'cause they do growl. sometimes you can hear 'em grunting under the water. there goes this one now!" just as he spoke the fish did give a sort of groan or growl. it opened its mouth, gasping for breath. "they're no good--worse than a toad fish!" exclaimed george, as he kicked the one laddie had caught into the water. "are there many around here?" asked russ. "yes, quite a lot in the inlet," answered george. "they don't bite on crab-meat bait, but if you're fishing for fish they often swallow your hook, bait and all. i don't like 'em, and i guess teddy won't either after to-day." "was he ever bit before?" laddie wanted to know as the dog lay down on the pier and began to lick his bitten nose with his tongue. "not that i know of," answered george, who was a little older than russ. "once is enough. i wouldn't want one to bite me." "me, neither," added russ. "want to help catch crabs?" he asked george. "i have two lines and you can have one." "thanks, i will. i was out walking with my dog and i saw you two down on this pier. i came to see if you were the same boys that gave my dog marshmallows last night." "yes, we're the same," answered russ. "did he like the candy we fed him?" "oh, sure! he always eats candy, but he doesn't get too much at our house. teddy's always smelling things. that's how he came to go up to the sallie growler. i guess he'll let the next one alone." "i hope i don't catch any more," said laddie. "i don't like 'em." "nobody else does," said george. "we come to the seashore every year, and i never saw anybody yet that liked a sallie growler." laddie, russ and their new chum stayed on the pier for some time. russ and george caught quite a number of crabs, and laddie had fine luck with his fish-pole and line, landing three good-sized fish on the pier. he caught no more sallie growlers, for which he was thankful. i guess teddy was, too, for his nose was quite sore. for several days after that george came over each morning to play with the two older bunker boys. he brought his dog with him and teddy made friends over again with rose and violet and margy and mun bun, as well as with russ and laddie. "i guess he 'members we gave him candy," said margy, as she patted the dog's shaggy head. there were many happy days at seaview. the six little bunkers played in the sand, they went wading and bathing and had picnics, more marshmallow roasts and even popcorn parties on the beach. "i don't ever want to go home," said laddie one night after a day of fun on the beach. "this is such a nice place. it's so good to think up riddles." "have you a new one?" asked his father. "have you thought up an answer yet to where the fire goes when it goes out?" "not yet," laddie answered. "but i have one about what is the sleepiest letter of the alphabet." "what is the sleepiest letter of the alphabet?" repeated russ. "do you mean the letter i? that ought to be sleepy 'cause it's got an eye to shut." "no, i don't mean i," said laddie. "but that's a good riddle, too, isn't it? what's the sleepiest letter of the alphabet?" "do you know the answer?" rose wanted to know. "this isn't like the fire riddle, is it?" "no, i know an answer to this," laddie said. "can anybody else answer it?" they all made different guesses, and vi, as usual, asked all sort of questions, but finally no one could guess, or, if mother and daddy bunker could, they didn't say so, and laddie exclaimed: "the sleepiest letter of the alphabet is e 'cause it's always in bed; b-e-d, bed!" and he laughed at his riddle. "that is a pretty good one," said his mother. "you ought to say what are the three sleepiest letters in the alphabet," declared russ, "'cause there are three letters in bed." "oh, well, one is enough for a riddle," said laddie, and i think so myself. one day the children saw daddy bunker and cousin tom putting on long rubber boots, and taking down heavy fishing-poles and some baskets. "where are you going?" asked russ. "down to fish in the surf," answered his father. "want to come?" russ and laddie did. rose and violet were already trying to catch crabs further up the inlet. margy and mun bun had gone to take their afternoon nap. laddie and russ played about on the beach while their father and cousin tom began to fish, throwing the heavy sinkers and big hooks far out in the surf, trying to catch a bass. the men had to stand where the waves broke, and that is why they wore rubber boots. suddenly laddie, who had run down the beach to watch a big piece of driftwood come floating in, called: "oh, russ! come here, quick! here is a fish that's got legs! it's a fish that can walk! it's worse than a sallie growler! come and look at it!" chapter xxi the queer box again russ at first thought his smaller brother was playing a joke. "you can't fool me," cried russ. "i don't want to guess any of your riddles!" "this isn't a riddle!" declared laddie. "it's a real fish, and it's got real legs. come and look at it!" he was pointing to something on the beach, which seemed to have been washed in by the tide. "come on!" cried laddie again. "it isn't a riddle--honest! it's a fish with legs. i didn't see him walk, but it sort of--sort of stands up!" still russ was afraid of being fooled. so he called over to his father and cousin tom, who were fishing in the surf not far away. "daddy, is there a fish with legs? laddie says he's found one on the beach." "well, you might call 'em legs," answered cousin tom, as he flung his hook and sinker as far as he could out into the ocean. "i guess what laddie has found is a skate." "but he says it's a fish!" exclaimed russ. "now you call it a skate! i guess you're both trying to make up riddles." "no, russ," said his father, as he reeled in his line. "the fish laddie sees, and i can see it from where i stand, really has some long, thin fins, which are like legs. and the name of the fish is 'skate,' so you see they are both right. come, we'll go and look at it." and when russ got to where laddie was standing over the queer creature on the beach he had to laugh, for surely the fish was a very queer one. "isn't it funny?" asked laddie. "i should say so!" cried russ. "it's as funny as some of your riddles." and if any of you have ever seen a skate at the seashore i think you will agree with russ. imagine, if you have never seen one, a fish as flat as a flounder, with a flat, pointed nose sticking out in front. away back, under this nose, and out of sight from the top, or the back of the fish, is its mouth. and the mouth is rather large and has sharp teeth. fastened to the back of the skate is a long, slender tail, like that of a rat, only larger, and between the tail and the round, flat body on the under side, are two things that really look like legs. perhaps the skate may use them to walk around on the bottom of the ocean, as a horseshoe crab uses his legs for walking. but a skate can also swim, and in that way it comes up off the bottom, and often bites on the hooks of fishermen who do not at all want to catch such an unpleasant fish. the skate swims, using the things like legs as a fish uses its fins, and sometimes, when landed on the shore, the fish really seems to be standing up on these legs, so laddie was not so far wrong. on each side of the skate were thin, flat fins, which were something like wings. the skate had a humpy head and big, bulging eyes. "what's a skate for?" asked russ, as he looked at the queer creature. "and who gave it that name?" laddie wanted to know. "my! you two are getting as bad at asking questions as violet!" laughed mr. bunker. "well, i'll answer as well as i can. i don't know how the fish came to be called a skate unless it sort of skates around on the bottom of the ocean. though when a skate is dead its tail curls up and around like the old-fashioned skates once used in holland. it may get its name from that." "are they good to eat?" asked russ. "some kinds are said to be," answered cousin tom, "though i never tasted one myself. i have heard of fishermen eating certain parts of the skates caught along here. but i never saw any one do it. whenever i catch a skate i throw it back into the water. i can't see that they are good for anything." the skate which laddie and russ were watching, and which seemed to have been cast up on the beach by the waves, was flopping about, now and then raising itself on its queer legs, until, finally, the tide came up higher and washed it out into the sea again. "i guess it's glad to get back in the ocean," said russ. "yes," agreed his brother. "i'd have put it back in only i was afraid it might bite me." "no, i don't believe it would," said cousin tom. "there's heaps of funny things down at the seashore," said laddie, as he watched to see if the skate would swim back, but it did not. "lots of funny things," agreed russ. "the shore is a good place to make riddles," went on laddie. "and it's a bad place to lose things," said his brother. "look how rose lost her locket." "yes, that was too bad," said daddy bunker. "i'm afraid we shall never find that now. there is so much sand here." "we've dug holes and looked all over," said russ, "but we can't find it." "i wish we could find that box we had up on shore and that the waves came up and washed away," remarked laddie. "don't you 'member the box you were going to open, daddy?" "yes, i remember," answered mr. bunker. "i would like to know what was in that. but i don't suppose we ever shall." "and i guess we'll never get back vi's doll that i lost," said russ. "but when i get back home i'm going to save up and buy her another." "that will be a nice thing to do," replied mr. bunker. "of course violet has, in a way, forgotten about her doll, but i'm sure she would like to have you get her another." "and i will!" exclaimed russ. he did not even dream how soon he was to do this. "well," said cousin tom, after the skate had been washed out to sea, "i don't believe, daddy bunker, that we are going to have any luck fishing to-day. i think we might as well go back to the bungalow and see what they have to eat." "i hope they didn't count on us bringing some fish," said the father of the six little bunkers with a laugh. "if they did we'll all go hungry." "i don't want to be hungry," murmured laddie, with a queer look at his father. "oh, he's only joking," whispered russ. "i can tell by the way he laughs around his eyes." "yes, i'm only joking," said laddie's father. "i guess cousin ruth will have plenty to eat. we'll walk along the beach a little way and then go home." the two men reeled in their fish lines and, with the two little boys, strolled along the sand. laddie and russ were wondering what they could do to have some fun, and they were thinking of different things when cousin tom, who was a little way ahead, cried: "look! isn't that a box being washed up on the beach?" they all looked and saw something white and square being rolled over and over in the waves nearest the shore. it was quite a distance ahead of them, but cousin tom, handing his pole and basket to daddy bunker, ran and, wading into the surf with his high rubber boots, caught hold of the box. "it shan't get away from us this time!" he called to daddy bunker, russ and laddie as they hastened toward him. "i'll keep it safe this time, all right!" and he carried the box well up among the sand dunes, or little hills, well out of reach of the highest tide. "why do you say 'this time'?" asked daddy bunker. "did you ever pull in this box before?" "indeed i did, or, rather, one of us did. this is the same box the children found once before; don't you remember? this time we'll find out what is in this box for sure. and we won't wait for a hammer, either. i'll use a piece of driftwood." as daddy bunker and the two boys gathered around the box they saw that indeed it was the same one that had been cast up before by the waves. what could be in it? chapter xxii the upset boat cousin tom had said he was not going to wait for a hammer to open the box, and he was as good as his word. when he had carried the box well up on the beach, out of reach of even the highest waves, he looked about for a piece of driftwood that he could use in knocking the cover off the case. and while he was thus searching, daddy bunker, russ and laddie examined the box. "it looks just like the same one," said russ. "i'm positive it is," added his father. "i remember the size and shape of the other box and this is just the same. and there were two funny marks in the wood on top, and this has the same marks." "there was a piece of paper tacked on the other box," said russ. "that isn't here now." "that was soaked off in the water and washed away," said his father. "but you can still see the four tacks, one for each corner of the card. i suppose that had some address on but it was washed off by the salt water." "what made the box come back to us?" asked laddie, as cousin tom came walking along with a heavy stick he was going to use as a hammer to open the case. "well, no one knows what the sea is going to do," replied daddy bunker. "it washes up queer things and takes them away again. i suppose this has been floating around for some time--ever since it was washed away from us the time we thought we so surely had it." "it may have been washed up on the beach in some lonely spot a little while after we last saw it," said cousin tom. "and it may have been there ever since until the last high tide, when it was washed away again and then i happened to spy it just now. but it will not get away again until we open it." using the piece of heavy driftwood he had picked up as a hammer, cousin tom soon broke the top of the box that had drifted ashore. he pulled back the splintered pieces and eagerly they all looked inside. the box was about two feet long and the same in height and width, and all laddie and russ could see at first was what seemed to be some heavy paper. [illustration: cousin tom broke open the box with a piece of driftwood _six little bunkers at cousin tom's._--_page _] "is that all that's in it?" cried russ. "wait and see," advised his father. "there may be something under the paper." cousin tom put his hand in and raised the covering. some bright colors were seen and then what appeared to be a lot of pieces of cloth. "a lot of dresses!" exclaimed russ in disappointed tones. "that's all!" "but here is something inside the dresses," said his father with a smile. "something in the dresses?" "yes. unless i am very much mistaken there are japanese dolls in this box--maybe half a dozen of them--and it is their gaily colored dresses which you see. isn't that it, cousin tom?" "you are right, daddy bunker! there they are! japanese dolls!" and cousin tom pulled out one about two feet long and held it up in front of the two boys. "dolls!" gasped laddie. "japanese dolls!" added his brother. "a little spoiled by the salt water, but still pretty good," said cousin tom, as he pulled another doll out of the box. "they were wrapped in oiled silk and the box is lined with a sort of water-proof cloth, so they didn't get as wet as they might otherwise. some of the dresses are a bit stained, and i see that the black-haired wig of one of the dolls has melted off. but we can glue that on again. well, that's quite a find--six nice, large japanese dolls," laughed cousin tom. "they aren't any good for us!" exclaimed russ. "i was thinking maybe there'd be a toy steam engine in the box." "if there had been it would have been spoiled by the sea water," said cousin tom with a smile. "dolls are about the best thing that could be in the box. they are light and wouldn't sink. and, being so well wrapped up, they didn't get very wet. we can take them home to rose and mun bun and margy and----" "oh, there'll be one for violet!" cried russ. "now i can give her back a doll for the one that sunk when my boat upset! save the nicest doll for violet!" "yes, i think that would be no more than fair," said daddy bunker. "the sea took violet's doll and the sea gives her back another. how many dolls did you say there were, cousin tom?" "six. one for each of the six little bunkers." "pooh! i don't want a doll!" exclaimed russ. "i'm too big!" "so'm i!" added laddie. "very well. and as there are six dolls and only four who will want them, that will leave two over, so if rose or violet or mun bun loses a doll we'll have two extra ones. only i hope they won't lose anything more while we're here," and daddy bunker smiled. "where do you suppose the dolls came from?" asked russ as cousin tom packed them back in the box so the case could be carried to the bungalow. "it's hard to say," was the answer. "as the tag on the box has been washed off we don't know to whom the dolls belonged. they may have gotten in a load of refuse from new york by mistake, from one of the big stores, and been dumped into the sea, or they may have been lost off some vessel in a storm. or there may even have been a wreck. "anyhow the box of dolls, well wrapped up from the water, has been floating around for some time, i should say. it came to us once but we lost it. then we had another chance at it and we didn't lose it. now we'll take the dolls home and see what rose, violet and the others have to say about them." it was a jolly home-going, even though no fish had been caught. long before they were at the bungalow but within sight of it laddie and russ cried: "look what we got!" "we found the box again!" rose, violet, margy and mun bun came running out to see what it all meant. "did you find my gold locket?" asked rose eagerly. "no, my dear, we didn't find that," her father answered. "did you get my doll back from the bottom of the ocean?" violet called. "well, we pretty nearly did," answered russ. "anyhow, we got you one i guess maybe you'll like as well." cousin tom gave russ one of the japanese dolls from the box and, with it in his arms, russ ran toward his little sister. "look! here it is!" he cried. "oh! oh! oh!" gasped violet, hardly able to believe her eyes. "oh, what a lovely, lovely doll!" a disappointed look came over the face of rose, but it changed to one of joy when her father took out another doll and gave it to her. then mun bun set up a cry: "i want one!" "so do i!" echoed margy. "there is one for each of you," laughed cousin tom, as he took out two more dolls. "and two left over!" added russ. "oh, where did you get them?" asked rose. "oh, i just love mine!" and she hugged it to her closely. "my doll's wet!" exclaimed mun bun, as he saw the damp dress on his plaything. "mine is, too," said violet. "but all dolls have to be wet when they come out of the ocean, don't they, daddy?" "yes, i suppose so. and that is where these dolls came from--right out of the ocean." then the children were told how the queer box had been found again floating near the beach and how cousin tom had waded out in his high rubber boots and brought it to shore. mother bunker and cousin ruth came out to see the find and they, too, thought the dolls were wonderful. "and we saw a fish that could walk," added laddie when the dolls had been looked at again and again. then he and russ told about the queer-looking skate. the doll with the wig of black hair that had been soaked off was laid aside to be mended, as was the one the dress of which was badly stained by sea water. but the other dolls were almost as good as new. and, in fact, rose and violet would rather have had them than new dolls right out of the store, because there was such a queer story connected with them. "i wonder if they came right from japan," mused rose as she made believe put her doll to sleep. "we can pretend so, anyhow," said violet. "i'm not going to cry about my other doll that was drowned now, 'cause i got this one. she's the nicest one i ever had." "mine, too," added rose. i might say that the six little bunkers never found out where the dolls came from. but most likely they had fallen off some ship and the oiled silk and other wrappings kept them in good shape until the box was washed up on the beach the second time. "well, if the seashore is a bad place to lose things on account of so much sand it is also a good place to find things," said mother bunker that night when the six little bunkers had been put to bed and the dolls were also "asleep." "i'm glad you like it here," said cousin ruth. "but i am sorry that rose lost her locket." "well, it couldn't be helped," said the little girl's mother. "i did have hopes that we would find it soon after she lost it. but now i have given up." "yes," agreed her husband. "the locket is gone forever." but i have still a secret to tell you about that. a few days after the finding of the dolls all six of the little bunkers were playing down on the beach. four of them had the japanese dolls, but russ and laddie did not. laddie was digging a hole in the sand and trying to think of a new riddle, and violet had just finished asking russ a lot of questions when, all of a sudden, george carr, the little boy whose dog had been bitten by the sallie growler, came running around a group of sand dunes, crying: "oh, the boat's upset! the boat's upset, and all the men are spilled out! and the fish, too! come and see the upset boat!" chapter xxiii the sand fort "what do you mean--the boat upset?" asked russ, looking up from the sand fort he was making on the beach. "do you mean one of your toy boats and is it make-believe men that are spilled out?" "no, i mean real ones!" exclaimed george. "it's one of the fishing boats, and it was just coming in from having been out to the nets. it was full of fish and they're all over, and you can pick up a lot of 'em and they're good to eat. and maybe one of the men is drowned. anyhow, there's a lot of 'em in the water. come on and look!" "where is it?" asked laddie. "right down the beach!" and george pointed. "'tisn't far." "come on, mun bun and margy!" called rose as she saw russ and laddie start down the beach with george and his dog. "we'll go and see what it is. vi, you take mun bun's hand and i'll look after margy." "shall we leave our dolls here?" asked vi. "yes. there's nobody here now and we can go faster if we don't carry them," answered rose. "here, mun bun and margy, leave your dolls with vi's and mine. they'll be all right." rose laid her doll down on the sand and the others did the same, so that there were four japanese dolls in a row. "won't the waves come up and get 'em?" asked margy as she looked back on the dolls. "no, the waves don't come up as high as the place where we left them," said rose, who had taken care to put the dolls to "sleep" well above what is called "high-water mark," that is, the highest place on the beach where the tide ever comes. "come on! hurry if you want to see the men from the upset boat!" george called back to rose and the others. "let's wait for 'em," proposed laddie. "maybe they'll be lonesome. i'm going to wait." "well, we'll all wait," said george, who was a kind-hearted boy. "if you can't see the men swim out you can see the lot of fish that went overboard." as the children came out from behind the little hills of sand they saw, down on the beach, a crowd of men and boys. and out in the surf and the waves, which were high and rough, was a large white boat, turned bottom up, and about it were men swimming. "oh, will they drown?" asked russ, much excited. "no, i guess not," answered george. "they're fishermen and they 'most all can swim. anyhow the water isn't very deep where they are. they're trying to get their boat right side up so they can pull it up on the beach." "what made 'em upset?" asked laddie. "rough water. there's going to be a storm and the ocean gets rough just before that," george explained. the children watched the men swimming about the overturned boat, and noticed that the water all about them was filled with floating, dead fish. "did the men kill the fish when they upset?" asked violet. "no, the men got the fish out of their nets," explained george, who had been at the seashore every summer that he could remember. "there are the nets out where you see those poles," and he pointed to a place about a half mile off shore. "the men go out there in a big motor-boat," he went on, "and pull up the net. they empty the fish into the bottom of the boat and then they come ashore. they put the fish in barrels with a lot of ice and send them to new york. "but sometimes when the boat tries to come up on the beach with the men and a load of fish in it the waves in the surf are so big that the boat upsets. that's what this one did. i was watching it and i saw it. then i came to tell you, 'cause i saw you playing on the sand." "i'm glad you did," said russ. "i'm sorry the men got upset, but i like to see 'em." "so am i. will they lose all their fish?" demanded laddie. "most of 'em," said george. "they can scoop up some in nets, i guess, but a lot that wasn't quite dead swam away and the waves took the others out to sea. the fish hawks will get 'em and lots of boys and men are taking fish home. the fishermen can't save 'em all and when a boat upsets anybody that wants to, keeps the fish." after hard work the men who had been tossed into the water when the boat went over managed to get it right side up again. then a rope was made fast to it and horses on shore, pulling on the cable, hauled the boat up out of reach of the waves, where it would stay until it was time to make another trip to the nets. "could we take some of the fish?" asked russ of george. "oh, yes, as many as you like," said his friend. "the fishermen can never pick them all up." so the six little bunkers each picked up a fish and took it home to cousin ruth. they were nice and fresh and she cooked them for dinner. "well, you youngsters had better luck than cousin tom and i had," said daddy bunker with a laugh as he saw what russ and the others had picked up. "i guess, after this, we'll take you fishing with us." the promise of the storm brought by the big waves that upset the fishing-boat, came true. that night the wind began to rise and to blow with a howling and mournful sound about the bungalow. but inside it was cosy and light. in the morning, when the children awakened, it was raining hard, the drops dashing against the windows as though they wanted to break the glass and get inside. "is the sea very rough now, daddy?" asked russ after breakfast. "yes, i think it is," was the answer. "would you like to see it?" russ thought he would, and laddie wanted to go also, but his mother said he was too small to go out in the storm. "it is a bad storm," said cousin tom. "i saw a fisherman as i was coming back from the village this morning early and he said he never felt a worse blow. the sea is very high." daddy bunker and cousin tom put on "oilskins," that is, suits of cloth covered with a sort of yellow rubber, through which the water could not come. a small suit with a hat of the same kind, called a "sou'wester," was found for russ, and then the three started down for the beach. it was hard work walking against the wind, which came out of the northeast, and the rain stung russ in the face so that he had to walk with his head down most of the time and let his father and cousin tom lead him. "oh, what big waves!" cried russ as he got within sight of the beach. and indeed the surf was very high. the tide was in and this, with the force of the wind, sent the big billows crashing up on the beach with a noise like thunder. "i guess no fishermen could go out in that, could they, daddy?" asked the little boy. "no, indeed, son! this weather is bad for the fishermen and all who are at sea," said mr. bunker. they remained looking at the heavy waves for some time and then went back to the house. russ was glad to be indoors again, away from the blow and noise of the storm. "do you often have such blows here?" asked mother bunker of cousin ruth. "well, i haven't been here, at this beach, very long, but almost always toward the end of august and the beginning of september there are hard storms at the shore." it rained so hard that the six little bunkers could not go out to play and cousin ruth and their mother had to make some amusement for them in the bungalow. "have you ever been up in the attic?" asked cousin ruth. "no!" cried the six little bunkers. "well, you may play up there," said cousin ruth. "it isn't very big, but you can pretend it is a playhouse and do as you please." with shouts of joy the children hurried up to the attic. indeed it was a small place. but the six little bunkers liked it. there were so many little holes into which they could crawl away and hide. the four who liked to play with dolls brought up their japanese toys, and russ and laddie found some of their playthings, so they had lots of fun in the bungalow attic. cousin ruth gave them something to eat and they played they were shipwrecked sailors part of the time. with the wind howling outside and the rain beating down on the roof, it was very easy to pretend this. the storm lasted three days, and toward the end the grown folks in cousin tom's bungalow began to wish it would stop, not only because they were tired of the wind and rain, but because the children were fretting to be out. at last the wind died down, the rain ceased and the sun shone. out rushed the six little bunkers with gladsome shouts. laddie and russ had some large toy shovels which their mother had bought them. "what are you going to do?" rose asked her two older brothers as she saw them hurrying down to the beach when the sun was out. "we're going to make a sand fort and have a battle," answered russ. "the sand will pack fine now 'cause it's so wet. we're going to make a big sand fort." and he and laddie began this play. something very strange was to come from it, too. chapter xxiv a mysterious enemy "here's a good place to make the fort," said russ as he and laddie reached the beach not far from cousin tom's bungalow and looked about them. "we'll build the fort right here, laddie, near this hill of sand." "what's the hill for?" "that's where we can put our flag. they always put a flag on a hill where everybody can see it." "but we haven't a flag. where are we going to get one?" "say, you ask almost as many questions as vi," exclaimed russ. "we'll _make_ a flag!" "how?" "out of a handkerchief. you've a handkerchief and so have i. one is enough for both of us and we can take the other and make a flag of it." "but that'll be a white flag, russ, and soldiers don't ever have a white flag lessen they give up and surrender. we didn't surrender, 'cause we haven't even got our fort built. we don't want a white flag." "oh, well, i didn't mean to have a white flag. that's just the start. we'll take a white handkerchief for a flag and we can make it red and blue." "how?" laddie certainly was asking questions. "well, cousin tom has some red and blue pencils. i saw 'em on his desk the other night. he marks his papers with 'em. you go and ask cousin ruth if we can't take a red and a blue pencil and then i'll show you how to make a red, white and blue flag out of a handkerchief." "you won't make the fort till i come back, will you?" "no, i'll only start it. now you go and get the pencils." laddie ran back to the bungalow and cousin ruth let him have what he wanted. he promised not to lose the pencils, and soon he was helping russ mark red stripes and blue stars on laddie's white handkerchief. they did make something that looked like our flag, and then, finding a long piece of driftwood to use as a flag-pole they planted it on top of the hill. making a fort in the damp sand at the seashore is very easy. it is even easier than making one of snow, for you don't have to wait for the snow to fall and often after it has snowed the flakes are so cold and dry that they will not pack and hold together. but you can always find damp sand at the seashore. even though it is dry on top if you dig down a little way you will find it moist. now, on account of the rain, the sand was wet all over and was just fine for making forts. russ and laddie had some toy shovels their mother had bought for them. the shovels had long handles and were larger than the kind children usually play with at the shore, so the boys could dig faster with them. "how do you make a fort?" asked laddie. "well," explained russ, "you dig a sort of hole and you pile the sand up in front of you in a sort of half ring and then you can lie down behind it and if anybody throws bullets at you they won't hit you." "do you have a roof to your fort?" "no! course forts don't ever have a roof." "then you get wet when it rains." "yes, but a soldier doesn't ever mind rain. all he minds is bullets, and they can't hit him in the fort." "supposin' they come over the top where there isn't a roof?" "i don't guess they'll come that way," said russ. "anyhow, you mustn't throw any that way." "oh! am i going to throw the bullets?" "yes," russ replied, "we'll take turns being in the fort. after we get it made i'll be captain of it and you must come up and try to take it away. you must shoot bullets at me." "real ones?" "no, course not! make 'em of paper. then they won't hurt. after a while i'll take down the flag--that means i surrender--and you can be in the fort and i'll fire bullets at you." "that'll be fun!" exclaimed laddie. "lots of fun!" agreed russ. so they dug in the sand with their shovels, piling it up in front of them in a long ridge shaped like a half circle. the ridge of sand which was to be the outer wall of the fort was in front of the hill over which floated the red, white and blue handkerchief flag. between the hill and the outer wall of the fort was a hole which was made as laddie and russ tossed out the sand. "i'll sit down in this hole," russ explained, "and then it will be all the harder for you to hit me with the paper bullets." the boys fairly made the sand fly as they dug with their shovels, and soon they had quite a high ridge of it half way around the little hill with the flag on top. there was also quite a hole for russ to stand in and throw paper bullets back at laddie. "now i guess we can have the battle," said russ. "you get a lot of paper, laddie, and roll it up into bullets." "and i'll make some big ones!" exclaimed the little fellow. "we can call the big bullets cannon balls," said russ, and laddie agreed to this. "i'll help you make the bullets," russ offered. there were plenty of old papers at the bungalow, and soon russ and laddie were tearing them up on the beach near their fort and wadding and rolling them up into "bullets" and "cannon balls." "i guess we have enough," said russ at last. "come on now, we'll have a battle." "are rose and vi going to play?" asked laddie. "nope! girls never can be in a battle. they can be red cross nurses if they want to. but we won't call 'em until after the fight. they'd only holler like anything." rose and violet were up in the bungalow playing jackstones, while margy and mun bun had gone for a walk with their mother. so russ and laddie had the beach to themselves to play on. russ got inside the fort and crouched down in the hole he had dug. laddie took up his position not far away, a little distance down the beach, having with him a pile of paper wads that he was to throw at his brother. "are you ready?" asked laddie. "all ready!" answered russ. "go ahead and fire!" "bang! bang!" shouted laddie, making believe he was shooting off a gun. the boys often played this game so they knew just how to do it. "bang! bang!" then laddie began throwing large and small wads of paper at the sand fort behind which crouched russ. and russ threw wads of paper at his smaller brother. the sand walls of the fort kept russ from being "shot" in the battle. laddie's "bullets" and "cannon balls" hit the sand walls of the fort more often than they struck his brother and russ only laughed at them, at the same time he was pelting laddie. "oh, say! this is no fun," complained the smaller boy after a bit. "i'm getting hit all the while and you don't get any at all." "i do so! i got hit twice!" "well, that was when i threw cannon balls up in the air and they came down on your head like rain." "well, you shoot me a few more times and then i'll let you come into the fort," agreed russ. "i'll pull down the flag and surrender. go on, shoot me some more!" so laddie got together more paper "bullets" and "cannon balls" and threw them at his brother. but hardly any of them hit russ. the fort was a good protection and with the flag floating from the top of the hill made a fine place for him to stay. "this is the last time i'm going to shoot!" cried laddie, and he took good aim with a large wad of paper which he called a "double cannon ball." he threw it at russ and then, from some point back of the fort another "cannon ball" came sailing into it, flying off and hitting laddie's brother. "ouch! quit that!" cried russ. "'tisn't fair throwing sand! a lot of it went down my neck." "i didn't throw sand!" said laddie. "yes, you did, too! that last cannon ball you threw had a lot of sand wrapped up in it." "no, i didn't," cried laddie. "don't you think i know!" shouted russ, scrambling up out of the hole behind his fort. "can't i feel it?" just then another paper "cannon ball" sailed into the fort from a sand hill back of it and it fell at the feet of russ and burst, letting out a pile of sand. "there!" cried russ. "what'd i tell you?" "but i didn't throw it!" said laddie. "you looked right at me and i didn't throw it." "no, you didn't," admitted russ. "it came from in back of me. i wonder who's throwing sand cannon balls at us." and then came another which hit laddie, sending a shower of the gritty grains down his back. "hi! quit that!" cried russ. he and laddie looked all around, but they could see no one. a mysterious enemy was shooting at them. chapter xxv the treasure once more there came sailing through the air a paper "cannon ball." it fell on the ground between laddie and russ and burst open, a lot of dry, soft sand spilling out. "there!" cried laddie. "see! i didn't throw 'em!" "no, i don't guess you did," admitted russ. "but who did?" just then a jolly laugh sounded, and out from behind a ridge of sand--one of the dunes made by the wind--came george carr. "did i scare you?" asked george. "a--a little," admitted russ, wiggling to get rid of the sand down his back. "we didn't know who it was," said laddie. and he, too, squirmed about, for there was sand inside his blouse. "i thought you wouldn't," said george, laughing again. "i saw you playing soldiers and i thought i'd make believe i was another enemy coming up behind. you didn't make any fort in back of you," he said to russ, "and so i could easily fire at you." "but we don't put sand in our paper bullets," complained laddie. "don't you?" asked george. "then i'm sorry i did. i hope i didn't hurt you, or get any in your eyes." "no," answered russ, sort of shaking himself to let the sand sift down through the legs of his knickerbockers. "but it tickles a lot." "well, i won't throw any more," promised george. "but lots of times we play soldier down on the beach and we throw sand bullets. only we don't ever throw 'em at each others' eyes. sand in your eyes hurts like anything." "i know it does," agreed russ. "mun bun got some in his the other day and he cried a lot." "well, come on, let's play soldier some more," suggested george. "i'll be on laddie's side. you go in the fort, russ, and we'll stand against you. two to one is fair when the one is inside a fort." "and won't you throw any more sand bullets or cannon balls?" "no, only paper ones." "all right, then i'll play." russ went back in his fort, and laddie and george, outside the wall of sand, began pelting him with wads of paper. but now the battle went differently. the attacking force could shoot twice as many paper bullets and balls as could russ and they soon ran up on him, pelting him so that he had to put his hands over his head. "all right--i surrender! i give up!" he cried. "wait till i haul down the flag!" laughed george. then he took down the red and blue penciled handkerchief and he and laddie took possession of the fort. russ was beaten, but he did not mind, for it was all in fun. then he took a turn outside the fort, with laddie and george inside. however, as this was two against one, russ could not win, though the three boys had jolly times. they were pelting away at one another, using paper "bullets" and "cannon balls," shouting and laughing, when, as they became quiet for a moment, they heard a voice asking: "what is all this?" they looked up to see mrs. bunker with mun bun and margy. "how-do?" called george, grinning. "oh, we're having such fun!" cried laddie. "we're soldiers and we got a fort, and we had a flag----" "it's made out of a handkerchief and red and blue pencils," added russ. "i want to play soldier!" exclaimed mun bun. "no, it's too rough for you," explained russ. "i want to play, too!" insisted margy. "we're done playing fort and soldier," said russ. "we'll play something else." "let's see who can dig the deepest hole," suggested george. "i'll go and get a shovel, and you have yours, russ and laddie. let's see who can dig the deepest hole!" the two older bunker boys thought this would be fun, and george ran over to his cottage to get his shovel. "can we play that game, mother?" asked margy. "yes, you and mun bun can do that," said mrs. bunker. the warm sun was drying out the beach, and when george came back with his shovel he and laddie and russ began three holes in a row, each one trying to make his the deepest. mun bun and margy, each of whom had a small shovel, also began to dig, though, of course, they could not expect to dig as fast as the boys, nor make as deep holes. "i'll sit on the sand and watch you," said mrs. bunker. "maybe we'll find a treasure," suggested russ. "what treasure?" asked george. "oh, before we came down here, when we were at our aunt jo's in boston," russ explained, "we knew a boy named sammie brown. his father dug up some treasure on a desert island once. we thought maybe we could dig up some here." "but we didn't--not yet," added laddie. "and i don't guess we ever will," said russ. "only we make believe, lots of times, that we're going to." the three boys dug away and mun bun and margy did the same, only more slowly. then along came rose and violet. "what are you doing?" violet asked, getting in her question first, as usual. "digging holes," answered russ. "seeing who can make the biggest," added george. "mine's deeper than yours!" he said to russ. "yes, but mine's going to be bigger. i'm going to make a hole big enough so i can stand down in it and dig. i'm going to make a regular well." "i guess i will, too," decided george. "so'll i," said laddie. "well, if you come to water, don't fall in," advised mrs. bunker with a laugh. "you go get a shovel and dig, too," called russ to rose. "no, i don't want to," said his sister. "i'll watch you." my, how the sand was flying on the beach now! russ, laddie and george were all digging as fast as they could with their shovels, each one trying to make the biggest hole. mun bun and margy dug also, but, though they made a lot of sand fly, they did not always dig in the same place. instead of keeping to one hole they made three or four. but they had just as much fun. suddenly laddie, who had made a hole in which he could stand, it being so deep that he was half hidden from sight in it, uttered a cry. "what's the matter?" asked his mother. "did you hurt yourself?" "did you dig up a sallie growler?" asked vi. "maybe it's a crab," said mun bun, and he dropped his shovel and started for his mother. "no, nothing like that," said laddie. "only--oh, goody--i guess i've found the treasure!" he shouted. "treasure!" cried russ. "what do you mean?" "i guess i've found some gold in my hole!" went on laddie. "come and look! it shines like anything!" russ and george leaped out of the holes they were digging and ran toward laddie. mrs. bunker got up and hurried down the beach. mun bun and margy followed. rose and violet went too. "where is it?" asked russ, stooping over the edge of his brother's hole. "where's the treasure?" "there," answered laddie, pointing to something shining in the sand. it did glitter brightly and it was not buried very deeply, being near the top of the hole, but on the far edge, where laddie had not done much digging. "it is gold!" cried george. "whoop! maybe that boy you knew was right, and there is pirate's treasure here!" mrs. bunker bent down and looked at what laddie had uncovered. then she took a stick and began carefully to dig around it. "here, take my shovel," offered laddie. "no, i don't want to scratch it, if it is what i think," said his mother. "i had better dig with the stick." she went on scratching away the sand. as she did so the piece of shiny thing became larger. it sparkled more brightly in the sun. "is it treasure?" asked laddie eagerly. "did i find some gold treasure?" "yes, i think you did, son," said mrs. bunker. "it is gold and it is a treasure." "did the pirates hide it?" demanded russ. "no, i think not," said mrs. bunker with a smile. "i think rose lost it." "rose lost it!" cried the two bunker boys. "what?" "yes, it is her locket that she dropped when we first came here and never could find," went on mrs. bunker. "laddie, you have found it. you have discovered the golden treasure--rose's locket!" having dug away the sand in which it was imbedded, mrs. bunker lifted up a dangling gold chain to which was fastened the gold locket. "oh, it is mine!" cried rose. "oh, how glad i am to get it back again! oh, laddie, how glad i am!" her mother handed the little girl her long-lost locket. it was not a bit hurt from having been buried in the sand, for true gold does not tarnish in clean sand. and the ornament was as good as ever. rose clasped it about her neck and looked very happy. "how did it get in my hole?" asked laddie. "it didn't," said his mother. "you happened to dig in just the place where rose dropped her locket and you uncovered it. or this may not have been the exact place where it fell. perhaps the sands shifted and carried the locket with them. that is why we could not find it before. but now we have it back." "it was like finding real treasure," said russ. "i wish we'd find some more," said george. "i'm going to dig a big hole." but, though he scooped out more sand, he found no more gold, nor did russ, though they found some pretty shells. daddy bunker, cousin tom and cousin ruth came down to the beach to see what all the joyful laughter was about and they were told of the finding of the lost locket rose had dropped in the sand. "i never thought i'd get it back," she said, "but i did." "and i never thought i'd get my doll back," said vi, "and i didn't. but i got a nicer one out of the sea." "well, that was very good luck," said daddy bunker. "for once digging in the sand had some results." they all walked up to cousin tom's bungalow. on the way laddie seemed rather quiet. "what's the matter?" asked his father. "aren't you glad you found your sister's gold locket?" "oh, yes, very glad," answered laddie. "only i was trying to think up a riddle about it and i can't. but i have one about why is the ocean like a garden?" "'tisn't like a garden," declared russ. "it's all water, the ocean is." "it's like a garden in my riddle," insisted laddie. "why?" his mother asked. "the ocean is like a garden 'cause it's full of seaweed," answered laddie. "i don't think that's a very good riddle," remarked russ. "it wouldn't be a very good garden that had weeds in it," said mr. bunker with a laugh. "anyhow we ought to be happy because rose has her locket back." and they all were, i'm sure. "what makes gold so bright?" asked vi, as she saw the locket sparkling in the sun. "because it is polished," her mother answered. "what makes it polished?" went on vi. "oh, my dear, if you keep on asking questions i'll get in such a tangle that i'll never be able to find my way out," laughed her mother. "come, we'll get ready to go crabbing this afternoon and that will keep you so busy you won't want to talk." "we never came to any nicer place than this, did we?" asked russ of rose as they sat on the pier that afternoon catching crabs by the dozen. "no, we never had any better fun than we've had here. i wonder where we'll go next." "i don't know," answered russ. "home, maybe." but the children did not stay at home very long, and if you want to hear more about their adventures i invite you to read the next book in this series. it will be called: "six little bunkers at grandpa ford's," and in it is told all about what happened that winter and how the ghost---- but there. i guess you'd better read the book. "daddy! daddy! come quick!" called mun bun, as he felt a tug at his line. "i got a terrible big crab!" "well, i should say you had!" exclaimed his father, as he caught it in the net. "it's a wonder it didn't pull you off the pier!" the crab was a large one, the largest caught that day, and mun bun was very glad and happy. but he was no more glad than was rose over her locket that had been lost and found. and so we will leave them, the six little bunkers, enjoying the last days of their visit at cousin tom's. the end the bobbsey twins books for little men and women by laura lee hope author of "the bunny brown" series, etc. * * * * * mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding. * * * * * copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. books that charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never tire. many of the adventures are comical in the extreme, and all the accidents that ordinarily happen to youthful personages happened to these many-sided little mortals. their haps and mishaps make decidedly entertaining reading. the bobbsey twins the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore the bobbsey twins at school telling how they go home from the seashore; went to school and were promoted, and of their many trials and tribulations. the bobbsey twins at snow lodge telling of the winter holidays, and of the many fine times and adventures the twins had at a winter lodge in the big woods. the bobbsey twins on a houseboat mr. bobbsey obtains a houseboat, and the whole family go off on a tour. the bobbsey twins at meadow brook the young folks visit the farm again and have plenty of good times and several adventures. the bobbsey twins at home the twins get into all sorts of trouble--and out again--also bring aid to a poor family. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the moving picture girls series by laura lee hope author of "the bobbsey twins series." * * * * * mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding * * * * * the adventures of ruth and alice devere. their father, a widower, is an actor who has taken up work for the "movies." both girls wish to aid him in his work and visit various localities to act in all sorts of pictures. the moving picture girls or first appearance in photo dramas. having lost his voice, the father of the girls goes into the movies and the girls follow. tells how many "parlor dramas" are filmed. the moving picture girls at oak farm or queer happenings while taking rural plays. full of fun in the country, the haps and mishaps of taking film plays, and giving an account of two unusual discoveries. the moving picture girls snowbound or the proof on the film. a tale of winter adventures in the wilderness, showing how the photo-play actors sometimes suffer. the moving picture girls under the palms or lost in the wilds of florida. how they went to the land of palms, played many parts in dramas before the camera; were lost, and aided others who were also lost. the moving picture girls at rocky ranch or great days among the cowboys. all who have ever seen moving pictures of the great west will want to know just how they are made. this volume gives every detail and is full of clean fun and excitement. the moving picture girls at sea or a pictured shipwreck that became real. a thrilling account of the girls' experiences on the water. the moving picture girls in war plays or the sham battles at oak farm. the girls play important parts in big battle scenes and have plenty of hard work along with considerable fun. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the outdoor girls series by laura lee hope author of the "bobbsey twin books" and "bunny brown" series. * * * * * mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding. * * * * * these tales take in the various adventures participated in by several bright, up-to-date girls who love outdoor life. they are clean and wholesome, free from sensationalism, absorbing from the first chapter to the last. the outdoor girls of deepdale or camping and tramping for fun and health. telling how the girls organized their camping and tramping club, how they went on a tour, and of various adventures which befell them. the outdoor girls at rainbow lake or stirring cruise of the motor boat gem. one of the girls becomes the proud possessor of a motor boat and invites her club members to take a trip down the river to rainbow lake, a beautiful sheet of water lying between the mountains. the outdoor girls in a motor car or the haunted mansion of shadow valley. one of the girls has learned to run a big motor car, and she invites the club to go on a tour to visit some distant relatives. on the way they stop at a deserted mansion and make a surprising discovery. the outdoor girls in a winter camp or glorious days on skates and ice boats. in this story, the scene is shifted to a winter season. the girls have some jolly times skating and ice boating, and visit a hunters' camp in the big woods. the outdoor girls in florida or wintering in the sunny south. the parents of one of the girls have bought an orange grove in florida, and her companions are invited to visit the place. they take a trip into the interior, where several unusual things happen. the outdoor girls at ocean view or the box that was found in the sand. the girls have great fun and solve a mystery while on an outing along the new england coast. the outdoor girls on pine island or a cave and what it contained. a bright, healthful story, full of good times at a bungalow camp on pine island. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the every child should know series may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list birds every child should know by neltje blanchan. illustrated earth and sky every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated essays every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie fairy tales every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie famous stories every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie folk tales every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie heroes every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie heroines every child should know coedited by hamilton w. mabie and kate stephens hymns every child should know edited by dolores bacon legends every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie myths every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie operas every child should know by dolores bacon. illustrated pictures every child should know by dolores bacon. illustrated poems every child should know edited by mary e. burt prose every child should know edited by mary e. burt songs every child should know edited by dolores bacon trees every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated water wonders every child should know by jean m. thompson. illustrated wild animals every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated wild flowers every child should know by frederic william stack. illustrated * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation normalised. page , "it" changed to "in". (when it caved in) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) troublesome comforts a story for children by geraldine robertson glasgow [illustration: at the seaside (frontispiece)] thomas nelson and sons london, edinburgh dublin, and new york troublesome comforts. chapter i. mrs. beauchamp sat in a stuffy third-class carriage at liverpool street station, and looked wistfully out of the window at her husband. behind her the carriage seemed full to overflowing with children and paper parcels, and miscellaneous packages held together by straps. even the ticket collector failed in his mental arithmetic when nurse confronted him with the tickets. "there's five halfs and two wholes," she said, "and a dog and a bicycle." "all right, madam," he said politely, "but i don't see the halfs." "there's miss susie, and master dick, and miss amy," began nurse distractedly, "and the child in my arms; and now there's master tommy disappeared." "he's under the seat," said dick solemnly. "come out, tom," said his father, "and don't be such an ass." tom crawled out, a mass of dust and grime, not in the least disconcerted. "i thought i could travel under the seat if i liked," he said. "oh, if you _like_!" said his father; but nurse, with a look of despair, caught at his knickerbockers just as he was plunging into the dust again. "not whilst i have power to hold you back, master dick," she said.--"no, sir, you haven't got the washing of him, and wild horses won't be equal to it if he gets his way." "well, keep still, tommy," said his father. tommy squirmed and wriggled, but nurse's hand was muscular, and the strength of despair was in her grip. mrs. beauchamp realized that in a few minutes the keeping in order of the turbulent crew would fall to her, but for the present she tried to shut her ears to susie's domineering tones and tommy's scornful answers. susie always chose the most unsuitable moments for displays of temper, and mrs. beauchamp sighed as she looked at the firm little mouth and eager blue eyes. she felt so very, very sorry to be leaving dick the elder in london--so intolerably selfish. her voice was full of tender regret. "it seems so horrid of me, dick. it is _you_ who ought to be having the holiday, not me." "oh, i shall manage quite well," said mr. beauchamp cheerfully. "it is rather a bore being kept in london, of course, away from you and the chicks"--this came as an afterthought--"but i hope you will find it plane sailing. i want it to be a _real_ rest to you, old woman." his eyes wandered past her sweet, tired face to the fair and dark heads beyond, of which she was the proud possessor, and his sigh was not altogether a sigh of disappointment. mrs. beauchamp glanced at them too, and the anxious line deepened between her eyes. she pushed back with a cool hand the loose hair on her forehead. "it is an ideal place for children," she said--"sand and shells; and they can bathe from the lodgings." "you will be good to your mother, boys," said mr. beauchamp. he was directly appealing to tommy, but he included the whole family in his sweeping glance. "don't overpower her.--and, susie, you are the eldest; you must be an example." susie flounced out her ridiculously short skirts with a triumphant look round. "i _am_ a help, aren't i, mother?" she said. "sometimes, dear," said her mother, with rather a tired smile. "and you won't bother about me, christina?" he said. "how can i help it, darling?" she leant farther out of the window, but one hand held firmly to amy's slim black legs--amy had scrambled up on to the seat, and was pushing the packages in the rack here and there, searching for something. "there is the guard; we are just off, i suppose. o dick, how i wish you were coming too! but i will write as often as i can.--susie, be quiet. i cannot hear myself speak." "well, mother," said susie, shaking back her hair, and poking the point of her parasol between the laces of dick's boots, "look at the way he has laced himself up; you said yourself he was to do it tidily. and his face is smutty already; look at him." "good-bye, dick," said mrs. beauchamp. the train was moving smoothly out of the station, and she leant out as far as she dared, to get a last look at the erect figure.--"there, susie, father is out of sight. leave the boys alone." susie frowned. "she'd better," said tommy, in a choked voice. "now you're going to be naughty," said susie.--"i know they are, mother--they always begin like that; they're clawing at me with their sticky fingers. mother, tell them not to; i didn't say anything." "you are a beastly blab," said tommy defiantly. "tom, what a word! sit down by nurse and look out of the window.--susie, it is really your fault--you are so interfering." "i'm not interfering," said susie, aggrieved. "i'm helping you to keep them in order." "well, _don't_. i would rather manage them alone.--don't squabble, boys; there's plenty of room for every one." "o mother--" said amy. mrs. beauchamp still held unconsciously on to the slim black leg, but the sudden movement of the train had jerked amy off the seat. she clung for a moment to the rack, but her hand slipped, and she fell headlong on to the opposite seat, and there was a dull thud as her head crashed on to a little wooden box. "it's all right, darling," her mother said, and she held her close in her comforting arms. chapter ii. amy was a good little girl, and she tried very hard not to cry; but she sat pressed very close to her mother's side, with her large blue eyes full and overflowing with tears. dick, who was very tender-hearted, begged her to eat his toffee, which would have been comforting; but nurse would not allow it at any price. "no, miss amy," she said, "i won't hear of it--not in your pretty blue dress. and don't lean upon your mamma; you'll wear the life out of her." amy pressed her soft cheek against her mother's arm, and looked up in her face with her tearful blue eyes. she was relieved to see just the shadow of a smile. "give me master alick, nurse," said mrs. beauchamp; "i am afraid he has toothache.--there! see, alick, all the pretty green fields going past outside." "it's _us_ that is going past," said dick. "hold me too, mother," said amy suddenly; "take me in your arms like you do alick." "but alick will cry if i put him down. see, i can manage like that; there is room for both of you." she made a large lap, and amy scrambled on to it. it was like a nest with two birds in it--not very restful, perhaps, to the nest, but quite delightful for the birds. they were very good little birds, too, and they did not quarrel; and presently amy nudged mother's arm, and spoke in the tiniest whisper. "one of the birds has gone to sleep," she said. alick's eyes were shut, and his round, flushed face was lying on mother's hand. when she tried to take it gently away he stirred, and squeaked restlessly. "let's pretend he's a cuckoo and push him out," suggested tom. "tommy!" said his mother. "oh, i didn't mean him to fall far," said tommy--"just a kind of roll." "not the kind you eat," said his mother. "no, dear, i couldn't let you; he would be startled even if he wasn't hurt." "a train's so stupid," said tommy, yawning. susie was on the alert in an instant. "there! i knew he was going to be naughty," she said delightedly. "soon he'll be pulling the cord, or trying to break the glass, or doing something else he oughtn't to. when he begins like that he's generally very tiresome." "hush, susie," said her mother; "see how good dick is." "and me!" cried tommy. "yes, you are good too." "when you're sleeping," added nurse. "there, miss prig!" said tom. "there, mother!" cried susie, in the same breath. "well, susie, it is your own fault." susie flounced away to the farther end of the carriage, and sat looking at the reflection of herself in the glass. she saw a little girl with short blue skirts and a shady hat. when she took off the hat she could see very large, brown eyes and a cross mouth, and the more she looked the crosser it got. there was a fascination about that cross little mouth. it seemed to susie that she sat there a long while, whilst nobody took any notice of her. in the reflection she could see baby asleep on mother's lap, with mother's hand tucked under his cheek. he looked a darling; but susie frowned and looked away. amy was sitting "in mother's pocket"--that was what nurse called it--and susie felt unreasonably vexed. dick and tommy were leaning out of the window buying buns--tommy was paying. they were at a station, and there were heaps of buns. susie saw the cross mouth in the reflection quiver and close tightly; the brown eyes blinked--she almost thought the susie in the reflection was going to cry. "nobody cares," she said to herself miserably. "mother doesn't care; she loves amy and alick more than me. the boys hate me; they will eat all the buns, and i shall die of hunger. i wish--" "susie," said mother's voice, "the children are stifling me. come and have tea; we have bought such a lot of buns. will you help me put baby down in your corner? and you might give him your jacket for a pillow." susie could see nothing, but she kept her eyes on the reflection in the window, with a fascinated stare. "susie, i _want_ you," said her mother gently. in a minute susie had swept the tears away with her sleeve, and had launched herself across the rocking carriage, and flung her arms round her mother's neck. "gently, gently, darling," said mother, smiling. "i haven't got a hand--alick is holding it so fast--but i missed you, susie. there is something there, outside, that i wanted to be the first to show you." susie, still rather subdued, leant as far out of the window as the bars allowed, and let the wind from the engine blow the curls about her face. away, far on the horizon, was a silver line, as straight as if it had been ruled with a ruler, and a shining white speck showed against the yellow evening sky. "what is it?" said susie, breathlessly. "it is the _sea_," her mother told her, "and the white sails of the ships are going out with the tide." "mother, i mean never to be naughty again," said susie suddenly; "only i know that to-morrow i shall forget, and be as horrid as i was to-day." susie was tired, and more tears seemed imminent. the train was slowing down, and the screeching of the engine almost drowned her voice. "pick up the parcels, and be quite ready to jump out," said mrs. beauchamp hastily. "susie, you must not grow perfect _too_ suddenly; i shouldn't know you!" chapter iii. the next day was radiantly beautiful, and susie started well. directly after breakfast the four elder ones trooped down to the sands with spades and buckets, whilst alick, left alone with nurse, waved his good-byes from the balcony. mrs. beauchamp looked after them a little anxiously; but susie in her best mood was so very trustworthy that she smoothed the anxious line out of her forehead, and turned back with a restful sigh to the empty room and the silence. and out on the beach things went swimmingly. they made sand castles and moats, and the rising tide flowed in just as they wished it to. like another canute, tom flung defiance to the waves, and shouted himself hoarse; and then, to his immense surprise, the little ripples swept smoothly back, and left a crumbled castle, and white foamy ridges that looked like soap. "come on, susie," he said; "it's no fun when there's no water in it. let's go over to the rocks and look for insects." "no; let's stay here," said susie. "i like watching the ships and the steamers." "fudge," said tom. "the rocks are awfully jolly, sue," said dickie. but susie shook her shoulders, and gazed straight before her. "i'm not going," she said. "very well; we jolly well prefer your room to your company," said tom.--"come on, dick." susie was sitting on the ruins of the castle, with her knees drawn up and her elbows planted on them. she really was not listening to tom a bit, for her fascinated eyes were fixed on the line of silver sea, on which the passing steamers rose and fell. far away at the back of her mind was the consciousness that tom was going to be naughty, and that she might prevent it; but she pushed her fingers into her ears, and gazed straight before her. it was amy tugging at her dress that made her turn reluctantly at last. "tom is calling you, susie," she said. "oh, bother!" said susie. "you can go and see what he wants." amy obediently struggled over the heavy sand to the fine strip of pebbles on which the boys were disporting themselves. their boots were wet through; their shrill voices pierced susie's poor defences. "susie--susie--susie!" but susie did not move. all the same, she knew perfectly well that amy was struggling back over the shingle and the sand, and had dropped panting at her feet, quite unable to speak for want of breath. her little delicate face was pink with heat and excitement, and her thin legs trembled. "they want to get a box and send dickie out in it, like a boat," she explained. "they haven't got a box," said susie. "but they say they can get one easily. it's father's; and they can tie a string on to it and drag it." "they can ask mother," said susie impatiently. "yes, i suppose so." amy had crept nearer, and put a small, unsteady hand on her knee. "please don't let them do it, susie," she said; "don't let them be naughty." "don't bother," said susie. "i can't help it." she shook off amy's hand impatiently; but she was sorry a moment afterwards. susie often said things like that, and it was rather a comfort that amy was always quite ready to be forgiven. "it is so beautiful here, amy; and i dare say they are not being naughty really. they only hope we are looking; but i'm not going to." she resolutely turned her back upon the boys and the strip of pebbles. but amy could not keep still; her eyes kept turning nervously to the sturdy jersey-clad figures, and presently she nudged susie again. "they've got the box, susie. you can't think how deep the water is, and it looks so horrid; and dick has a cold." "oh, don't bother," said susie. "mother said you were to look after them, because you are the eldest," urged amy. "why weren't one of you the eldest?" said susie crossly. "i've been the eldest all my life, and i'm tired of it. mother knows i can't manage them." without turning her head she knew that amy was creeping again across the strip of pebbles. she heard her foot slipping, and the shouts of the boys when she reached them; then amy's soft little frightened voice--and then silence. * * * * * an hour later mrs. beauchamp was sitting on the little balcony outside the drawing-room window. the sky was divinely blue, and the sun was dazzling. close to her feet was a basket of stockings that needed darning, but she felt as if she must lay her needle down every now and then, to look at the gray, glittering sea, and the shifting crowd upon the beach. her feet ached with perpetual running up and down stairs; but she was glad to think that the children were happy and good. in the room across the passage she could hear nurse singing alick to sleep, and down in the street below a funny little procession was winding up from the sea. she rose and looked over the balcony on to the tops of two sailor hats, and what looked like two soaking mushrooms. she stared at them stupidly, wondering why the box they dragged behind them was so familiar, and why they left such a long wet trail behind them. after them sauntered a few idle fishermen; but just for a minute she could not grasp what had happened. then she pushed the basket on one side and ran to the drawing-room door. up the stairs came the hurried rush of feet, with the box bumping from stair to stair. then the dripping family clung about her with soaked garments, and hair that looked like seaweed. "mother, change us, please, before nurse sees us." "but what is it?" she cried. "how did it happen?" "it was tom's fault," said susie, whimpering. "he sent dick out to sea in the uniform case, and it has a hole in it, and it went down." "oh, run upstairs and change; dick has a cough." "he didn't drown," said tom, "because we had tied a rope to it, and a fisherman pulled it up." "and where is dickie?" "i told him to go up on the roof and dry--he's on the leads by now. it's awfully nice there; we went this morning." "_on the roof!_--susie, tell him to come down, whilst i get their clothes.--tom, how can you do such things?" "why, you never told us not to," said tom, with innocent eyes. susie crept upstairs, very white and quiet. she had been really frightened, and she had an uncomfortable feeling at the back of her mind that somehow it was her fault. she found dick scrambling on to the roof, and hauled him in with unnecessary vigour. when she got downstairs she was sulky because her mother had not time to listen to her eager excuses, but put her hastily on one side. "never mind now, susie. the first thing is to slip off your wet clothes and get dry, and then help me with the others. give me the big towel, and untie amy's frock." "but, mother," argued susie, "i couldn't guess he was going to be so naughty, could i?" "you didn't try to guess," said tom resentfully; "and now you are trying to make mother think you are better than me. you wouldn't hem our sails or dig with us. we had to do something." "and now you want me to quarrel," said susie.--"mother, i want to explain." "hush, susie! there is no time to explain now; you must tell me by-and-by." susie flung the towel on to the floor, and felt a great lump in her throat. dick had to be dried and warmed, in order to stop that horrid little croaking cough; and no one cared for her excuses or explanations. with angry tears blinding her she ran across to the nursery, and stood looking out at the silver line of sea and the bobbing ships. alick was stretching in his cradle, and it creaked under his weight. she could see his curly head and his outstretched fat legs. he was so accustomed to having his legs admired that he always pulled up his petticoats solemnly to exhibit them, as though pathetically hoping to get it over and have done with it. susie's ill-temper evaporated like smoke. she flung herself beside the cradle, and hugged alick in her arms, leaning so closely over him that nurse, in hurrying to and fro, paused to expostulate. "not so close, miss susie, please--the child can't breathe; and i don't want you putting any of your naughtiness into his head." "how can i, when he can't walk?" said susie indignantly. "well, i wouldn't put it beyond you," said nurse. "i know you've been up to something, or you wouldn't be here now, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth." "i'm trying to be good," said susie, still indignant. "well, we shan't see the result yet awhile," said nurse, "for the way you've devil-oped these holidays is past imagining." she always pronounced it in that way, and the word held a dreary significance for susie. chapter iv. that horrid, teasing cough of dick's got worse and worse, and by evening he was lying patiently in his crib, with a steaming kettle singing into the little tent of blankets that enveloped it, and a very large and very hot linseed poultice on his chest. susie, sitting down below, could hear the hasty footsteps and the hoarse, croaking sound that always filled her with panic. their tea was brought to them by the overworked maid, and she and tom ate it in a depressed silence, and then sat again on the window-sill looking silently and miserably out to sea. by-and-by nurse came in hurriedly, with the news that baby was crying and had to be attended to, and that she and tom must manage to put themselves to bed. "i haven't time to brush your hair," nurse said regretfully; and susie's face lightened. "nurse, is dick better?" she asked breathlessly. "he's about as bad as i've ever seen him," nurse said shortly, and turned to leave the room; but susie clung desperately to her skirt. "don't go, nurse. let me do something--let me hold baby." "no, indeed, miss susie," said nurse; "you've done mischief enough already. go to bed quietly, and try to get up right foot foremost to-morrow." susie went back to the window-sill, and huddled up close to tom. with blank eyes she looked at the stars and the moon bursting from behind hurrying clouds. even when she put her fingers into her ears that rasping cough pursued her. tom's heavy head fell against her, and she knew he ought to be in bed; but it wanted really desperate courage to shake him into consciousness and get him up somehow to his room. and upstairs, next to tom's little bed, was an empty space, from which a crib had been hastily wheeled into the next room. on the floor beside it lay a vest and knickerbockers, still heavy with sea water, and a red tin pail and spade. it made susie sick to look at them. but she got tom at last into his bed, and covered him up. he tried to say his prayers, but he was too sleepy; and susie hushed him at last, and crept away to her own little room in the dark. amy was so soundly asleep that she did not even turn; but susie could not rest. all through the miserable hours she sat straight up in bed, looking before her with staring eyes, and listening to the uneasy movements next door. it was almost morning when amy woke at last and turned her startled gaze on susie's face, but what she read there drove her out of her own bed and on to susie's. then she stretched out two comforting little arms and held her close. "don't, susie, don't," she said breathlessly; "it wasn't your fault." "yes, it was," said susie harshly. amy rubbed her rosy cheek against susie's sleeve, and at the touch susie's frozen heart melted. tears came and sobs, till the sheet was wet, and she could only speak in gasps. "mother _trusted_ me! i am going to mother, amy. i can't bear it any more. if dick dies, it is me that did it. i was the only one who knew." "let me get your shoes," said amy. but susie would not wait. she slipped out of bed on to the cold boards--a small, miserable figure, disfigured with crying--whilst amy watched her breathlessly. she opened the door and listened. every one seemed to be asleep, except that in the room next door she heard hushed voices and the tread of careful feet, then the rattle of a cup and dick's cough. she opened the door as gently as she could and looked in. the blind was up and a fire burning. the tent of blankets had been pulled down, and dick, with the poultice still on his chest, was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a soft red shawl. by the table stood nurse, making tea; and his mother, looking pale and tired, was sitting by the crib. she looked up when the door opened, and without a word held out her arms. susie fairly tumbled into them. "o mother," she kept repeating, as if nothing more would come. "_susie!_" said mother. "oh, i have been awake all night!" susie panted out the words. "if he had died it would have been my fault. mother, is he getting well?" "my darling susie," said mother, "i had not time to come to you. i never dreamt you were awake. dick is _much_ better; but he has been very bad, and he must go to sleep." "mother, let me tell you! i am so _wicked_. _i felt sure_ they would not be really naughty; i_ felt certain--_" "susie," said mother faintly, "_i_ must go to sleep too. some other time we will talk it over, but not now." "but i can't sleep," said susie, "unless i tell you first." "come, susie, try. i am sure it would be a great comfort to make excuses; but, just for once, choose the harder part, and say nothing. you and i, susie, must get our beauty-sleep." she stroked the flaxen pigtail and gently unloosed susie's clinging hands. "come, let me tuck you in," she said. "nurse is going to stay with dick. susie, i am very, very tired." susie's sobs ceased suddenly, and she stood up straight. it was the hardest battle she had ever fought, but she was never one for half measures. in perfect silence she allowed her mother to lead her away and tuck her comfortably into the little bed, where amy patiently waited for her, and then, still silently, she put her two arms round her mother and hugged her. "oh, thank you, susie," mother said gratefully. chapter v. dick took many days to get well, and all the time his crib remained in the corner of his mother's room. the red pail and spade were tidied away, and his knickerbocker suit was put out of sight; and in the afternoon, when the house was empty, and nurse, and susie, and amy, and tom, and baby were all out on the sands, his mother used to read delightful stories to him, whilst he lay and watched her with round, wondering eyes. his cough was troublesome at night, but however often he twisted, and turned, and choked, there was the familiar face bending over him, her arm beneath his head. dick was a very kind little boy, and he tried always to cough under the bed-clothes, so as not to wake her, but it was no use. however carefully he coughed, her eyes always opened at once. "i am taking away your peace-time," he said, over and over again. and she always answered, "never mind, darling; i _could_ not sleep if you wanted me." "you look so funny," he said once. "perhaps i am tired, dickie." but she smiled as she spoke, and he felt relieved. it was when she was too tired to smile that her face was strange. and susie's behaviour was quite angelic. she was happy and busy, and brimful of good resolutions. she gave up many and many a morning on the sands to play with dick, and to let her mother go out to walk or shop. her astonishing meekness was a constant surprise to tom, and he was relieved by occasional flashes of temper, which showed him that the old susie was only sleeping, not dead! but at last dick was able to be wheeled down to the sands in alick's perambulator, and perhaps it was the joy of his recovery that turned susie's head, or perhaps she was tired of her long spell of goodness, but whatever the reason, she was particularly teasing and tiresome. she did not like to see her mother sitting close to dick, ready to wheel him home if he was tired; and she would not allow her to read in peace, but kept breaking in with silly questions and remarks. "you never let _me_ sit in your pocket," she said at last crossly. "my dear susie"--mother shut her book with a very faint sigh--"there is not room for all of you on my lap. i should have to nurse an arm or a leg at a time." "you could _make_ room," said susie. "she would be like the donkey that wanted to be a lap-dog, wouldn't she, mother?" said tom. "it sat upon its master's lap." every one laughed, except susie. "well, i'm not a donkey," she said, "and i'm not a lap-dog; and, besides, you want to yourself." "no, i don't," said tom stoutly. "i hate to sit on any one's lap; if you are so anxious you can sit on nurse's." susie's eyes threatened to overflow. "oh, don't cry, susie," said her mother, in alarm, "or i shall have to put up my umbrella. go and build a castle with tom, and take amy. i trust her to you. nurse and i must get the babies home." susie always rose to any demand made upon her, and was proud of being trusted. she gathered dick's shells and seaweed and glittering stones skilfully into his pail, and was really helpful in rolling up the rugs and cushions. she was so pleased to see his rather thin, unsteady legs gathering strength as they wobbled slowly over the sand. when she put her arm round him, she was proud to feel that he really needed support. at the foot of the wooden steps leading up the cliff his mother took him in her arms. she was looking tired and pale, but she smiled very sweetly at susie. "my kind little daughter," she said; and susie beamed. when she got back to tom and amy she found that they were not alone: two other children, a boy and a girl, with bare feet and tucked-up skirts, were standing talking to them. the boy had black eyes and black hair, and the girl was the image of him; her long, thin legs were like pipe stems, and she spoke in a loud, domineering voice. "we have watched you all the week," she said, "and we made up our minds to know you. we thought we had better wait until your mother and nurse were out of sight, in case they forbid us to come. us two are twins." "oh, they wouldn't forbid you," said amy, with hasty politeness. the boy smiled in a superior way. "they _might_" he said. "nurses generally do. we are not particularly good, and nurses are so narrow-minded." "we are reckless," said the girl. "our names are dot and dash." "they're pretty good names," said tom. "they fit us," said the twins in a breath. "both of we were taken out of church last sunday," said dot, in an explanatory way and with an air of pride. "when the clergyman came from inside the railings, dash forgot he was in church, and he jumped up and said quite loud, 'shut the gate.'" "whatever for?" said tom. "you see," said dash, with his air of modest pride, "i always spend the time thinking how many sheep i could pen into the pews, and how many cows i could get behind the railings. i think it could be seventeen _with a squash_, but of course, if you left the gate open, the cows would get into the sheep pens; so, when i saw him go out and leave the bar up, i felt i must run and shut it, and i spoke out loud. i didn't really mean to, but father marched us out of church, and he wouldn't let me explain." "i suppose you oughtn't to have been thinking of cows and sheep in church," said amy, in her surprised little voice. "shut up, miss prig," said dash; and amy was obediently silent. "shall we play together?" said the twins, with one voice. "it would be jolly," said tom.--"wouldn't it, susie?" "well, you mustn't tell your people," they said, "but every morning after your babies go in we might have a jolly game." "mother wouldn't mind, would she, susie?" said amy. "we don't want your opinion," said tom loftily. amy blushed till the tears came. "would she?" she repeated desperately. "there's no harm in playing," said susie. all her good resolutions were slipping away, and her voice grew excited. susie was always so carried away by the spirit of adventure, and she forgot so easily. these sands, and the silver sea full of monsters! the black rocks and seaweed--no nurse to bother about wet stockings--no babies who needed a good example! susie's spirits rose. "there wouldn't be any harm," she cried eagerly, "and we might have some jolly games. we only wouldn't tell mother, because it might worry her." "mother can walk on the rocks," cried amy eagerly. "i don't believe it," said dash. "i don't believe an old woman like that can walk a bit--not like we can." "not as fast as us," said susie.--"don't be tiresome, amy; it isn't mother who is tiresome--it's nurse." "well, we'll meet to-morrow," said the twins, speaking together, as they generally did, at the top of rather squeaky voices. they pulled susie to one side. "don't tell the other one," they said, in hoarse whispers; "she'd go and tell." "she's very young," said susie, in quick apology, as she ran off. "both of we has pails," shouted the twins after her, "and we can bring cake." "we are not allowed curranty cake," said susie reluctantly. "bosh," said the twins. "who's to know? we come of a very gouty family, and _we_ may eat curranty cake." "i dare say a little piece wouldn't matter," said susie. "o susie," said amy, as she plodded breathlessly over the sand to the steps, "she called mother an old woman!" "well?" said susie. "she is the most young and the most beautiful lady i have ever seen," said amy, with flushed cheeks. "yes, of course," said susie. "they seemed rather rude," said amy. "it isn't being rude, it's being _reckless_. didn't you hear them say so?" "aren't they the same, susie?" "not at all," said susie, with her nose in the air. "it's _older_ to be reckless; it's much easier to be rude. but you mustn't tell, amy." "o susie, i'll try not," said amy; "but when mother asks me i don't know what to do." "well, you can hold your tongue," said susie sharply. chapter vi. susie felt a little excited next morning when she remembered the twins, and all the time she was digging moats and piling up sand castles she had one eye fixed on the active figures of her new friends, who, with bare legs and shrill voices, attracted a good deal of attention. once she tried timidly to "draw" nurse on the subject, but nurse was not responsive. "those are rather splendid children," she said wistfully. "where?" said nurse, lifting a calculating eye from the heel of the stocking she was knitting, and looking vaguely round the horizon. "there--on the rock," said susie eagerly. "tom and i want to go on the rocks so much, and those children could help us; they are so very--so very _reckless_." "so very rude," said nurse dispassionately. the very words amy had used. the angry blood flew into susie's face. "i don't know what you mean by rude," she said obstinately. "it's very dull sitting here and making castles with babies; and tom and i want to go on the rocks." "well, your mamma will take you some day, when she feels better," said nurse. "she's had a wearing time since she came. no doubt it's a trial to see other children, with no decent nurse to look after them, running wild and shouting like wild indians; but i have my duty to you and your mamma, and you must just bear it as best you can. you should take example by miss amy and be contented, and be glad to think you have master dick back with you again." "mother always makes a fuss about dick," said susie. "well," said nurse, rising with difficulty and shaking the sand from her dress, "i'm going to take the little ones in, miss amy and all. she can play with master dick whilst i get baby to sleep. perhaps you will help me, miss susie?" of course susie would help; her face lightened at the thought! all the jealous lines disappeared as if by magic. alick's little hands felt like rose leaves on her face. she forgot the twins, forgot to be cross, as she folded her arms tightly round him. she had half a mind to go in with them and have a nice nursery game; but when she hesitated and looked back, she saw tom waving impatiently, and it was difficult to say no. she handed alick to nurse, and stood staring after him as he leant his round red face over her shoulder and waved his chubby hands. when they all disappeared on to the parade at the top of the cliff she turned and flew over the sands. "take off your shoes and stockings," shouted the twins; "us both always do." and susie, without a thought, unlaced her boots, and flung them hither and thither, never stopping to look behind her or to be sure that they were safe. the water was quite warm and the sea was sapphire blue. it was a very low tide, and the rocks stretched away to a long, low island, crowned with grass, where a few nimble goats perched on unlikely crags. from rock to rock flew susie's active feet, but dot was always ahead; and so, slipping, splashing, torn by the rocks, drenched with the warm spray, susie revelled in a long hour of liberty. she was wild with excitement, eager to come again, full of reckless promises. "we'll go as far as the island another day," said dot, "but we have to choose a low tide. aren't you glad now that you didn't go home and play like a baby?" susie was hastily rubbing the sand out of her toes and hunting for her stockings. her feet were very cold, and her fingers seemed thumbs. she did not answer dot. she did not feel quite sure what to say; things always looked so different before and after, and what nurse had said about a _wearing time_ stuck in her mind. "well, aren't you?" said dot impatiently. "no," said susie bluntly. she stopped to lace tom's boots, and then looked up with a face that had grown suddenly red. "i can't help it," she said desperately, "but i never _am_ glad afterwards." she went on lacing laboriously, whilst tom lay on his face kicking and plunging about. dot looked at her curiously. "but you wanted to come on the rocks?" she said. "oh yes," said susie. "i shall always want to come, but i shall be sorry afterwards. i think i ought to warn you because i am like that. i can't help it. it is silly of nurse," she went on, as she tied the lace in a draggled knot. "why shouldn't we play with you? i feel _perfectly certain_--" she seemed to remember using those words before on an unfortunate occasion, so she hastily changed them. "i am _quite sure_ that you are a very good companion. me and tom couldn't learn any harm from you." she was persuading herself, not the twins, but it was a twin who answered. "we can have lots of fun," said dot, "and no one will know. the first chance we will cut over the rocks to the town and buy some sweets." "generally i have to look after the little ones," said susie. "well, no one would eat them if they stayed here alone till you came back, would they, stupid?" "no," said susie, rather shortly. she was not quite sure that she liked being called "stupid." * * * * * "i can't think how all this sand has got into your stockings," said nurse. "i should hope you didn't paddle after i left you, against my orders!" there was silence, and in another moment susie would have told the truth, but before the words came faltering out nurse spoke again. "but there! i can trust you, with all your troublesome ways," she said. and this time susie _could not_ speak. chapter vii. as time went on it grew so perilously easy to be deceitful! no one thought of doubting them--no one thought of asking what they did when they were left alone. day after day, as nurse's toiling figure disappeared up the wooden steps on to the cliff, dash and dot burst round the corner of the rocks, and almost without a word spoken, susie's shoes and stockings were flung to the winds, and she was scampering at headlong speed from pool to pool, with tom at her heels--like a wild creature, and in a condition that would have fairly horrified poor nurse, who held that all well-conducted young ladies, like the queen of spain, should have no visible legs! really, in her heart, susie did not like the twins so very much. they were wild and unkempt, and very boisterous; their twinkling black eyes radiated mischief, but it was the sort of mischief that bewildered susie and rather frightened her. nurse puzzled over her mangled stockings and the hideous rents in her skirts, and mrs. beauchamp's patient fingers grew stiff with darning; but whilst susie flew about the rocks, careless and dishevelled, she always forgot how sorry she was going to be afterwards, and how uncomfortable her conscience was at night. "i really won't go again," she said to herself time after time; and yet the first sight of the twins splashing round the rocks scattered all her good resolutions to the winds. "i am glad i can trust you," her mother often said. "you are a comfort to me." "troublesome comforts i should call them," nurse said; and, like many of nurse's wise sayings, it was remembered by susie, and left a little sting in her memory. this afternoon she came to the beach quite resolved to withstand temptation, and to play demurely with the little ones. it had rained all morning, and now tom had gone to the town with his mother to buy some new sand-shoes. for some time susie was perfectly happy building castles of sand and letting the rising tide flow into her moat. nurse was indulgent enough to waste a few of her valuable minutes in making a scarlet flag and mounting it on a wooden knitting-pin, whilst dick and amy busily ornamented its base with fan shells. dick was the king, with alick for his knight--rather a top-heavy knight, with wayward legs--and susie and amy were the besieging army, fighting with desperate courage as long as they had breath. susie flung herself panting on the sand. "isn't it funny, nurse," she said, "that all the bad men were good kings, and all the good men had to be beheaded?" "i don't know much about any king, miss susie," said nurse, "except king henry the eighth, and _his_ beheading was on the other side. he was a bad man if you like, and i never had any patience with him." "oh, i forgot him," said susie; "and i wouldn't say that king edward was a bad man exactly, though he is a good king; but he isn't what you would call _prime_, is he?" "oh no, my dear, not prime," said nurse. "and charles the second wasn't prime either," said susie. "i don't know about him, my dear," said nurse. "but to go back to king henry. i always felt very much for poor annie bullen. a monster of iniquity i call him, dressed up in his ermine and fallals, and not a policeman or a judge daring to say him nay." "how nice it is that common gentlemen don't behave like kings!" said amy. "if i was a queen, i would throw my crown away when it was time for my beheadal." "no, you'd cry," said dick solemnly. "_i_ wouldn't," said susie. "i'd march proudly out with my lovely hair floating in the wind, and my swannish neck rising out of a black velvet dress, and i'd stand on the block and say, 'i _will_ my limbs--that means my legs and arms--to the four quarters of the country, and my heart to the tyrant who broke it.'" "much he'd want it," said tom disdainfully. but susie stood declaiming on the sand-hill, inspired by her own eloquence, and gazed at with admiration by amy for a courage she could not match. "o susie, how brave you are!" she said. "they'd have to kill you to get at it; you couldn't get at your heart till you were dead. i don't believe i could ever be as brave as that. i know i should cry." "it's called _weep_, my dear," said nurse, "when it's done by kings and queens." "well, i should weep," said amy. "and i make my wills quite differently to susie. i made a will this morning when it rained. you know you said you were going to give me a paint-box on my birthday, nursie! well, if i live till my birthday, i'm going to leave it back to you in my will." "you needn't trouble, miss amy," said nurse, "because if you don't live till your birthday i can keep it." "but that wouldn't be my _will_," said amy, puzzled. "but it would be your wish, my dear, which comes to the same thing." "well, mine would be my will, but it wouldn't be my wish," said susie. "it would be history, and things in history are never so bad as things that happen to yourself." "but it _would_ happen to yourself if it was _your_ legs and arms you gave away," said amy. "and i dare say it was just as bad to have your head cut off a hundred years ago as it would be to-day," said nurse--"i mean for the people themselves." "do you think," said susie, "that the jews and people who had their teeth pulled out by the king for fun felt it just as much as we do when we go to the dentist?" "_for fun!_" said dick, in a horrified voice. "did they have gas?" said amy. "gas!" said susie, with a superior smile. "how silly you are, amy! they had no gas then--only candles, or perhaps lamps. and i don't see how they could pull out teeth with lamps; do you?" "no," said amy, in a small, mortified voice. "i daresay," nurse went on, as if there had been no interruption, "that it would have been easier for miss susie to have been brave in a history book than if the trial came to her here." "i don't see why," argued susie. "well, we are made so," said nurse. "other people's trials are a deal easier to bear than our own. now you've been good children to-day, and i'll make a surprise for tea as a reward. i'm going to leave you master dick for an hour, miss susie; and you'll look after him well, and when i wave you'll bring him in. don't sit down any longer, but have a bit of play on the sand; it's getting chilly, and it looks like more rain." "all right," said susie. she was filled with light-hearted joy, and nurse's praise warmed her heart; nurse so seldom praised her. she helped alick's wilful legs to the foot of the steps and watched him out of sight. "i am so very glad i have made up my mind to be good," she said to herself; "it is _perfectly easy_ if you make up your mind. i wish the twins would come and want me to leave dick, or go on the rocks, or do something naughty. i would just stand here and look at them with my large innocent eyes and my gentle smile, and i would say, '_never_, twins! nurse has trusted him to me, and i have turned over a new leaf. i would not touch the rocks with my bare feet, not for a king's ransom.'" "susie," cried dick. "yes," said susie impatiently. "come here, susie," he said again--"quick, i'm so wet!" "oh, bother," said susie. she turned slowly, still inspired by her own eloquence; and there, straight before her, as if they had walked out of the sunset, stood the twins, with black hair waving, and bare, wet legs. "come on!" they shouted breathlessly. "it's a perfectly heavenly afternoon for the rocks, but it's awfully late; you've kept us waiting an hour whilst your nurse simply _clacked_." "all right," said susie. it was really all wrong, but she had forgotten her promises, her resolutions, her boasted courage. at the first demand of the enemy she laid down her weapons and surrendered the fort, and in another moment she too was flying bare-footed over the rocks, with dick stumbling laboriously after her. "susie"--his shrill, faint voice pursued her--"susie, my shoes is wet; come back!" "come on," cried susie. "my feet is tired. susie, _it's dick_." but susie was far ahead. "susie!" he called again. wet and miserable, he sat stolidly down upon a rock. "if susie leaves me i shall _weep_," he said out loud. chapter viii. it was growing dusk, and the line of gold upon the sea had merged into the gray twilight around. a drizzling rain fell like a veil between susie and the shore, and suddenly she remembered that for some time she had not heard dick's pleading voice. instantly all the excitement and pleasure of the stolen hour fell away from her, and with a frightened pang at her heart she began a frantic search over the slippery rocks, flying in heedless haste and shouting as she ran. her terror and tears impressed even the twins, though they were a little inclined to mock. they too rushed and splashed from rock to rock, making difficult and dangerous leaps that only bare toes made possible. the pools between the rocks were full of water, and there was no yellow reflection now from the wind-tossed sky. susie felt despairing; but suddenly, almost at her feet, she heard dick's uncomplaining little voice, "it's _me_, susie. i knew you would come back; i am so glad. my toe has got hurt, and i have sitted here till all my clothes has got wet." "how tiresome he is!" said dot impatiently. "what a tiresome, silly little boy! that's always the way with babies; they spoil all your fun." "i'm not a baby," said dick defiantly. "well, you're very like one. every one will know now, and a jolly row you've got us into." "i'll tell you what," said dash, in a hissing whisper into susie's ear. "let's run back to the shore, and then they'll think he went alone." "come on, susie, or we shall be drenched," said dot. "when once we've got on our shoes and stockings we can easily rush out and rescue him. look at the white horses, and the waves against the island. we are really a good way out, but we could rescue him in two minutes, and your mother would be _grateful_ to us." but susie was not listening. the twins' suggestions beat on her brain, and found no entrance. all the best of susie--the real, comfortable susie--brimming over with a love that was almost motherly, was in the kind, quivering face she bent over dick as he held out his tired arms. in a minute she was down beside him, stroking and folding him close, till his sobbing breaths were stifled on her shoulder. "oh, do come on, susie!" said the twins; "we can't stay another minute. if you won't leave him you'll be caught, and you will never be allowed to play with us again." susie looked up, bewildered, into the twins' anxious faces. what did it matter if she were caught, or blamed, or punished? the idea of leaving dick, even to make a sensational rescue, never entered her head for a minute. _leave him_, frightened and alone, out on the dark rocks! as she had herself said, such a little while ago, "not for a king's ransom." she only wanted the twins to go and leave her in peace, and so she told them with that plainness of speech which to susie seemed to suit the occasion. "please, please go," she said. "i can carry him quite well after he has rested a little bit." "you will be found out," said the twins warningly. "oh, it doesn't matter," said susie. "it seemed to matter a good deal a little while ago," said dot resentfully. "nothing matters now," said susie, "except to get dick home." "well, you can't rest long," said dash, "because the tide's coming in." susie looked vaguely at the island behind her, with the waves splashing against its sides, and then at the glistening rocks that made rough stepping-stones to land. she had no idea about the tides; she only knew that on some days the rocks showed more above the water than on others, but there were always rocks. she shook her head impatiently. "i know all about the tide," she said. "i am perfectly certain i can get home all right." "oh, you're always perfectly certain," said dot. "so i am," said susie. "well, good-night," said dash. "don't fiddle about too long with dick, that's all." "good-night," said susie cheerfully. she saw the two active figures leaping away into the twilight, splashing from rock to rock, till they became gray and indistinct like moving shadows. she felt suddenly chilled and lonely, and the silence and gloom enveloped them--a forlorn little group in the midst of the growing dark. "dickie," said susie presently, "we must start back before it gets any darker. i think it's going to pour. if i put my arm round you, do you think you can walk?" "why, the water would go over my head," said dick. he pushed out a fat leg and let it dangle against the rock; already the white spray was splashing over it. susie stared at it incredulously. when the twins left, it had been a shallow pool, and they had waded through it. "oh, hurry up, dick!" she said, in a sudden panic. "mother will be frightened." "it's fun, though," said dick. fun! the word did not seem at all the right word to susie, but she said nothing. she knew now in a flash what the twins meant by the rising tide, but all she saw was her mother's face with the fear on it. but susie had not been the eldest of the little family for so many years for nothing. she knew that, whatever happened, dick must not get bronchitis, and she put her own fear bravely on one side to think of him. first she slipped over the rock, and found that it reached her waist, and that every wave made it more difficult to stand. with dick on her back it would be impossible; and the long links of the chain of rocks stretched such a weary way with those shining pools between. the wind roared against the island, and the spray dashed up it; but susie remembered the grass and the goats, and a gleam of hope sprang up within her. "o dick, we are close to the island," she said. "i had quite forgotten. we must clamber over the rocks and get there; and, dickie darling, even if your foot hurts, you will be brave." "i will be brave, susie," said dick. the rocks were slippery, and the seaweed popped under their feet like little guns; but jumping, slipping, clinging together, they reached the foot of the island, and then began the difficult scramble upwards. dick hung heavily on to susie's skirt, and his little feet were torn and bruised. but susie's courage was the courage of hope, not of despair. she lifted him over difficult places, and clung to edges of the cliff where it seemed as if even the seagulls had not room to stand. once she found a narrow track, but she lost it again in the darkness, and still she felt the splash of the waves and heard the startled birds crying overhead. never, never had susie been so tired; but those pursuing waves chased her up, and by-and-by she felt dry crags under her feet, and then welcome grass--wet with rain, not sea. drawing long, sobbing breaths, susie sank down and drew dickie into her arms. in the far, far distance little lights were twinkling in the town, and susie's heart gave a passionate leap; it wanted to annihilate time and space, and carry her home. "mother, mother, mother!" she cried under her breath. dick was wet and tired, but he was too excited to lie still. he lay in the hollow of susie's lap, with his wet feet curled up into her skirt, and his round eyes shining. "we can't be drowned now, susie," he said, smiling. susie had to make quite an effort before her stiff lips would speak. "no, dickie, we are quite safe," she said; "but the ledge is so narrow you must not fidget about. i am going to make you a dear little bed like a bird's nest." "i don't want to stay here all night," he said. "but there are goats here." "i don't want there to be goats," he said again. "i only mean," said susie, "that if god can take care of the goats, he can take care of us too." "i would rather," said dickie, after a pause, "that he would put us back into our cribs." "perhaps he will," said susie; "but you must sit quite still, and let me creep down and try if there is any other way to get to shore." "no, susie, you mustn't go," said dick, whimpering. "i won't cry if you are here, but if you go i shall--i shall _weep_," he said. "o darling dick, don't," said susie imploringly. "perhaps mother will come to the shore and see us, or perhaps the twins will tell her, or perhaps the fishermen will bring a boat." "i shall _weep_," repeated dick firmly. after that he did not speak again, but he put his two chubby arms so tightly round her neck that he nearly choked her. "i won't _let_ you go," he said sleepily. susie felt in despair. "i must go, dick. i don't see what else i can do." "you said yourself"--dick's voice was sleepier, and he nestled closer--"you said yourself that god would take care of us and the goats." dick was so determined that susie was afraid to try to get away. she was sure that he would insist on coming too, and that she would never be able to do that terrible scramble again. susie's active brain flashed from point to point in a moment of time, and it seemed to her that there was, after all, nothing particular to be gained by going down on to the rocks. no one could see her through the mist and darkness, and her feeble voice would never be heard through the wind. dick was almost asleep, and the ledge was sheltered. _if_ she could get him to sleep! she rolled him out of her arms, keeping her arm as a pillow under his head. then with her free hand she unfastened her serge skirt and tucked it round him. when he coughed, she slipped off her flannel petticoat and wrapped it round his head and throat, and almost before he had shut his eyes she heard his even breathing. "o darling dick!" said susie, under her breath. she crept as near to him as she could, sheltering him in the crevice of the cliff. her one flimsy petticoat was soaked, and her legs felt like ice; but those little choking snores filled her with a joy almost too great for words. the rain beat in her face and flicked her wet hair against it like the lash of a whip; but susie felt nothing except the warm comfort of the little body behind her, saw nothing but the gleaming row of lights that marked the parade. all her heart moved in one passionate cry, "if mother will only forgive me!" and then she realized, with a glow of happiness, that she had never really doubted it; that she had known quite well all the time that there would be no need for tears or protestations--mother would understand. the stars came out and the leaping waves seemed to fall asleep, whilst susie, with wide-awake eyes, settled herself for the interminable night. but nature is very kind to the remorseful sinner as well as to the happy and the innocent, and presently her head fell back against dick's comfortable, cosy shoulder, and she too fell into a dreamless sleep. chapter ix. meanwhile tom and mrs. beauchamp had bought the sand-shoes and various other little necessaries, had had tea in an oriental coffee shop, and, as the climax of a delightful afternoon, were coming home on the top of a tram--a leisurely proceeding that gave plenty of time for enjoyment. the weather had clouded over early in the afternoon, but they were halfway home before a fine rain began to fall and to blot out the shimmering sea. just at sunset it cleared up for a little while, and a long path of gold stretched straight away to the horizon, showing the rocks and the island silhouetted very clear and black against a pale yellow sky. "mother," said tom suddenly, "do the goats ever come down to drink?" "what goats?" "the goats on the island?" "and do they drink what?" "the sea." "oh dear no, tom; they would not drink the sea-water--it is much too salt. i expect they stay on the island all the summer and come home in winter. i know their masters go and look after them at low tide." "well, is it low tide now?" persisted tom. mrs. beauchamp peered into the dusk. "no; it is nearly high, i think. there is very little of the rocks to be seen." "well, there is something scrambling about on the island, quite low down, and it looks just like goats." "sea-birds, tom?" "they don't _scramble_," said tom. "well, fishermen perhaps. show me where you see them." but the black dots had disappeared. the fine drizzling rain had come on again, and the island was misty; heavy clouds were banked on the horizon, and it had grown suddenly cold and dark. "come inside, tom," said mrs. beauchamp; "hold on to the rail and don't tumble off. isn't it pleasant to think of the warm, cosy nursery and supper?" "is it supper-time?" asked tom, amazed. "well, it is past six, and we are a good way from home yet. i hope all the family were safe under shelter before the rain came on. do you see the white horses dashing up the sides of the island? it looks very cold, doesn't it?" "i'm glad i'm not a goat," said tom. "so am i! see, there are the parade lights. get all the parcels together, and be ready to jump off when we stop." a shopping expedition alone with mother was always a great treat. there was so much to tell afterwards--so many parcels to open and examine. tom scampered up the parade in advance of mrs. beauchamp's soberer footsteps, so it was he who first caught sight of nurse's face when the door was opened to his clamorous knock. "go up to the nursery, master tom," she said. tom dashed on merrily, and a minute later he heard his mother's voice in the hall, with a quick note of anxiety in it. "what is it, nurse?" "it's miss susie," said nurse, "and master dick." tom hung over the banisters to hear more. "i left them out on the beach for a bit, whilst i came in to make the tea; and they had my orders to come when i signalled, but they never took no notice. so i ran down to the beach, and there wasn't a sign of them; and there was nothing more that i could do till you came home." "how long ago?" asked mrs. beauchamp. all of a sudden the tired look had come back to her face. she was anxious, but she was not frightened. "it was about five i called to them, and it's past six now." "have you any idea where they are?" "well, i've heard miss susie speak of the town and buying sweets; and she's that audacious by times she might have dragged the poor child off without stopping to think--and it's a long three miles, and a regular downpour coming on." simultaneously both mother and nurse turned back to the pavement and looked critically at the sky and the sea. there was very little to be seen but scurrying clouds and one or two misty stars, but the boom of the waves on the shore was loud and importunate. without a word they came in and shut the door. "i don't think they _can_ be on the beach," said their mother, as cheerfully as she could, "but it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. i will go and speak to the policeman and the fishermen." she spoke wearily, and the anxious line deepened between her eyes, as she stood irresolutely on the steps, looking into the darkness and feeling the lashing of the fine rain against her face. a sickening wave of fear rolled over her, but nurse could not tell it by her voice. "no doubt they started for the town--susie is thoughtless. open my umbrella, please, nurse, and keep their supper hot." "i _do_ hope master dick don't get his nasty cough back," said nurse. "oh, i don't think he will," said mrs. beauchamp. she ran down the steps, holding her umbrella firmly, and battling with the gusts of wind that swept the parade. the insistent thunder of the waves sounded very dreary. she ran over to the sea wall and down the wooden steps on to the beach. two or three fishermen were sheltering close under the cliff; the wind was so loud that she had to shout at them to be heard. "have you been here long?" she said. "yes, most of the day." a short black pipe was removed to allow of the remark. "have you seen some children playing about--a little girl in a red jersey, a boy in a sailor suit?" the answer was very deliberate. a great many boys and girls had been playing on the sands--there always were a "rack" of them--the rain came and swamped them. he hadn't noticed no red jersey in particular. "did you see any of them on the rocks?" no; but then they might have been, for he hadn't been looking that way. "but _some_ of you would have seen them," mrs. beauchamp urged. "if two children had been scrambling on the rocks at sunset, some of you would have noticed them?" "maybe, maybe not." "is it high tide?" she asked. "in another hour." and some one added out of the darkness, "don't you be feared, ma'am; children and chickens come home to roost." mrs. beauchamp thanked him gratefully and felt comforted. again she wearily climbed the steps, and flew rather than walked down the long parade. the flickering gas lamps showed between patches of darkness, the rain drizzled on, and she felt helpless and bewildered, not knowing where to turn next. wherever dickie was, bronchitis must be dogging his footsteps, and all the time she seemed to hear susie's voice appealing to her. poor susie! who always came back to her best friend--who was always so sorry afterwards! she spoke to the policeman at the corner of the parade, and he was very determined. he would go to the police station and give notice, he said; but there wasn't the least use in her wearing herself out by running on into the town. he knew the young lady from no. quite well by sight--a very sensible young lady!--and he was as certain as that he stood there that she had not passed him since five o'clock. she was on the beach then with the little boy and some other young ladies and gentlemen; he had seen them himself. they were playing and shouting, and having a fine time. no, he was quite certain he wasn't making a mistake; he knew her by her face, and her brown plaits, and her scarlet jersey. she certainly was playing with other children. mrs. beauchamp tried to push aside the urgent fear that was knocking at her heart. if even the policeman had confidence in susie, should her mother be behindhand? she told the policeman, for his information and her own comfort, that she was only frightened because the little boy had been ill, and it was such a cold, wet night, but at the same time she thought she would walk round to the town by the beach. "and you will go to the police station? some one may have seen them. i cannot feel satisfied doing nothing." "if you take my advice, lady," said the policeman, "you should go home first. perhaps they'll have got back, or perhaps the other young lady could give you an idea. children know a good deal of each other's ways." the advice was sensible and practical, and mrs. beauchamp was relieved at any definite suggestion. amy might possibly know something about the others which she had not confided to nurse. she caught at the hope, and fought her way back before the wind, up the long, wet parade, until she stood, drenched and breathless, at the door. nurse opened it almost on her knock, and peered anxiously behind her into the dark, but mrs. beauchamp shook her head. "no, i have done nothing," she said, in a strained voice. "i can't think what to do--no one has seen them, nurse." her voice trembled a little, but she tried to smile. she would not break down. "i want to speak to amy, nurse, and master tom; but amy is less excitable. send them to me on the stairs here; we must not wake baby." "i've questioned them," said nurse, "but they don't seem to know anything. they'll be ready enough to tell if they do; they are very upset." mrs. beauchamp sat upon the lowest stair, with her anxious eyes fixed on the nursery door. they were curiously like susie's eyes, but with a sweeter expression. they were smiling still, but it was such a sad smile that after one look amy flew helter-skelter downstairs and flung herself into the welcoming arms. "amy," said her mother gently, "don't cry now; i haven't time. i am anxious about dickie's bronchitis"--it was curious how she clung to the belief that it was only the bronchitis that troubled her--"it is so rainy and cold! do you know where susie has gone?" "no, mother," said amy. she knelt upon the stair with her pale little face pressed against her mother's cheek. "think, amy," mrs. beauchamp urged. "i have thoughted and thoughted," said amy, "and i can only remember that once, a long time ago, the twins said--" "what twins?" "oh, i forgot you didn't know. they are twins, and they are friends of susie's. they are very reckless on the rocks, and sometimes susie went too." "but when, amy?" "i don't know," said amy, with literal truthfulness. "they didn't tell me; they said i was a baby." amy's eyes filled. "i wish susie could be found," she said. "but you are helping me to find her," said her mother. "now i have something to go on.--did you know, tom? have you ever been on the rocks with the twins?" "they told me not to tell," said tom sturdily. "but, tom, that does not matter; it is right to break such a promise." "if you break your promise you go to hell," said tom. "no, no, tom--not when it is a matter--a matter of life and death. do you think they went on the rocks to-night?" "i will tell you if you want me to," said tom, "but susie will be angry. i don't know if she went to-day; so there!" "did you ever go?" "heaps and heaps of times," said tom. "and who are the twins?" "i don't know." "but their _name_, tom?" she urged. "i truly don't know, mummy." "o tom!" tom too had broken down, and his arms were round her neck. "o mother, susie didn't mean to go. she often and often didn't want to. don't be angry with susie. nurse often said, 'i can't think where you get your stockings in such a mess.' but the twins asked susie, and she went; often and often she didn't want to--" "poor susie," said mrs. beauchamp. "and you needn't think she's drowned," said tom, "because susie knows quite well how to walk on seaweed. she wouldn't be such a silly as to be drowned." tom's testimony and the policeman's! she alone--susie's mother--had been faithless and unbelieving. she began to regain her confidence in susie. she got up a minute later with a more hopeful smile. as she shook out her wet umbrella she stooped to kiss amy's eager face. "it is so much easier to find four people than two," she said, "particularly when two of them are twins, and one wears a scarlet jersey. some one must have seen such a noisy crew, and there is less chance of their having disappeared." "susie isn't such a silly as all that," said tom, with serene confidence. mrs. beauchamp's eyes shone, and when tom opened the door she looked out, over his head, into the deepening night. a few stars had struggled through the clouds, and the moon shone fitfully above the island. it looked very big and black and peaceful, and mrs. beauchamp paused for a moment and looked back at it. "_if_," she said to herself, and then again "_if_" out loud. but whatever the disturbing thought might be, she would not give it entrance. she fixed her mind resolutely on the twins and the red jersey, and pinned her hopes on the police inspector. chapter x. but it was extraordinarily difficult to find any clue to the missing family, and the long, miserable hours passed, and brought mrs. beauchamp no nearer to the twins. she trudged up and down the parade, to the police station, and down the steps to the beach, over and over again, with feet so tired that they almost refused to carry her. the wet pavement reflected the flickering gas-lamps. one by one the lights in the windows were put out, and late visitors hurried home. she clung to the policeman's solid tramp with a lingering hope, but she was growing desperate; and over everything was the fine rain, coming in gusts from a cloudy sky, wetting her hair, her face, and soaking her skirts. it was a miserable night, and the police inspector deeply sympathized with her. he went along the town road and cross-examined the policeman. he made inquiries and issued orders, and took upon himself to beg the pale, tired lady to go home and wait and see what turned up. but mrs. beauchamp felt that to sit at home doing nothing would be intolerable. she shook her head and turned again on to the parade, and with her went susie's light feet, so real, so active, that she almost saw the red jersey on a level with her shoulder, and those brown, defiant eyes. for it was of susie that her mind was full--poor susie, who had "often and often not wanted to go," but who had gone. it was easier for little dickie; all his life it would be easier for dick than for this eager, forgetful, repentant daughter, whose passionate sorrow always came too late. mrs. beauchamp leaned over the railing at the top, and looked down on to the sands, debating whether it was worth another effort. the group of fishermen still stood close under the shelter of the cliff; their gruff voices floated up to her, and gave her a feeling of companionship. she ran down on to the beach, but when she stood in front of them she felt it impossible to speak. one by one they rose awkwardly, and gazed at her in an embarrassing silence, but making no suggestion, so that it was she who spoke first. "i have not found them; i cannot trace them anyhow. can none of you help me?" her sweet, impatient voice appealed to them rather hopelessly, and there was no response. "i'm willing to do what i can," one of them said at last. "at daylight i'll bring round my boat and go over the rocks. it's an ebb tide." "oh no," she said, and shuddered. "i can't sit still till daylight--indeed i cannot. it is only ten o'clock now." "it's a fair offer, lady," said the man. "but it is going to be a fine night," she pleaded. "the rain is over. if i could find the twins of whom my children speak! can you not help me? you are at least men." "why, ma'am"--it was a new voice that answered her--"if it's children you want, i'll find them fast enough if they are on shore; it's only the sea that keeps her own. a set of lubberly men that can't help a lady in distress! that's not how the royal navy acts. and don't you cry, lady. lads and lasses don't get mislaid as easy as that; bad halfpennies come back to their moorings. we'll knock at every door in the town before we give up." he was an old man, but there was a very different note in his voice from the flabby sympathy of the other men. he put out his pipe with a horny thumb, and gave a rather contemptuous look round the lounging group of longshoremen. "royal navy" was written all over him--in his keen eyes, his upright carriage, and his kindly, respectful manner. at the confidence in his voice mrs. beauchamp's wavering hope steadied, but she suddenly felt the strain of the anxiety and fatigue. as she turned she stumbled over something small and black that the ebb-tide had left in the ridge of damp seaweed on the beach. she slipped and recovered herself, for the old man's hand was on her arm. "steady, ma'am," he said cheerfully; "it's only a bit of an old boot." "a bit of a boot!" the object swam before mrs. beauchamp's eyes, her hands trembled. "it is a child's," she said, and there was anguish in her voice. "oh, well"--he picked it up and flung it on one side--"the sea don't give up boots without the feet they held. wherever the little girl is, ma'am, she's gone without her boots. carry on." the royal navy, as the senior service, went first, and mrs. beauchamp stumbled after him; but there was new hope springing in her heart. his sturdy common-sense had infected her. was it she only who doubted susie--who had no confidence in her common-sense? the sea gives back only what it takes, and it had given back only susie's empty boot. stumbling, dizzy, tired out, she still felt a divine peace at her heart as she heard the comfortable, steady steps beside her, and saw the fine, weather-beaten face, with its clear, keen eyes. "you see, ma'am," he said, "longshoremen are good lads enough for sunshine and fair weather, but it's the royal navy you look to when it comes to foul weather and storm. that's where i got my training, and it stands by you. maybe you'd like to rest a bit and let me go on? i'll knock at every door in the place before i give in, and i'll bring them children with me." "no, oh no," she said. her voice was hoarse with fatigue, but was undaunted. "i shall sail humbly in the wake of the royal navy. only, tell me what you mean to do." he stood for a moment under a lamp, and his keen eyes seemed to see through her. "i propose to begin with the first street out of the parade," he said, "and so on, by sections. i'll go first where i'm known. there can't be such a rack of twins in the town that they can't be traced. trust me, lady." "i _do_! i _do_!" she said; "but i feel frightened." "where's your faith, ma'am?" he said, rather sternly. "i am sure i don't know," she said, with a faint smile. "it may be the will--the will of--providence--that the children should not come home." the old man stood still again, and raised his cap from a silvery head. "there's one above as won't let him go too far," he said. "we have our orders, which is enough for me. carry on." and really faith or fortune did seem to befriend mrs. beauchamp at last. it was just after they had knocked at the second closed door, and had received a very short negative to their inquiry, which the maidservant evidently considered to be an ill-timed joke, that a door on the opposite side of the road opened suddenly, and a great stream of light flashed out. there were some confused farewells, a gathering up of skirts, and laughter; and in a minute the royal navy was standing at the salute before the master of the house. "the lady and i are looking for some twins, sir." instead of the ready "no" they half expected, the man paused, and smiled whimsically. "well, what have the little beggars been doing now?" he said. never had any words sounded quite so sweet to mrs. beauchamp. she too came into the circle of light, and lifted her sweet, tired, beseeching face. "my children were playing with the twins this evening," she said, "and they have never come home. of course they may not be _your_ twins; but we hope--" "come in, come in," he interrupted, holding the door hospitably open until it had swallowed them all up. "of course it is my twins. no one else's twins are ever half so troublesome." and then he sent a great, jovial shout up the stairs,-- "dot and dash, you are wanted!" chapter xi. instantly there were a scuffle in the upper passage and a rush of bare feet to the top of the stairs. mrs. beauchamp, looking up, saw two slim figures in white, and in another minute she was confronted by two pairs of the very brightest and most daring black eyes she had ever seen. without a moment's hesitation dot hurled herself against the slight figure in the hall, and began a confused, breathless, incoherent statement. "i could not sleep. neither of we have slept all night. susie said she knew about the tides; she said she was quite certain"--most familiar words in mrs. beauchamp's ears--"that she would get home all right. but dick had hurt his foot, and we left her on the rocks, sitting quite in a pool. and it has rained so ever since; and perhaps she is on the rocks still, and it is pitchy dark, and both of we feel as if we couldn't bear it." she paused for breath, but mrs. beauchamp's arms tightened round her--always so ready to hold and comfort. "thank you," she said, very quietly; "you are giving me great comfort. they would not _stay_ on the rocks, would they?" "no, of course not." dot spoke with comforting certainty. "they would clamber on to the island if the tide was high; but it is so terrifying in the dark. and it was our fault--susie didn't want to come." "it was a pity," said mrs. beauchamp. her eyes, over dot's dishevelled head, flew to the doorway, and met those other alert eyes that understood and answered their question. when did a woman in distress ever appeal in vain to the royal navy? "i'll get my boat out, and be ready in a quarter of an hour," he said. "you can meet me by the steps, lady, and you'd best bide in shelter as long as you can." "thank you. can you?--is it possible? those men said i must wait till daylight." "lubberly loafers," said the royal navy. "in the service things are ordered different." he opened the door and went out. through the opening mrs. beauchamp caught a glimpse of sailing clouds and starlight. dot was pressing on her again. "please forgive us if susie gets home; it has been so miserable. i knew dash wasn't asleep because of his breathing. it has been dreadful for you and for susie, but it is worse for us." her voice fell to a husky whisper; her great black eyes were full of passionate entreaty; she shivered in her thin nightdress. "my poor, poor children"--there was nothing but the sweetest sympathy in mrs. beauchamp's comforting touch--"i forgive you _now_--now while susie is out there and i am still waiting for her. i will let you know directly we are back and they are safe. you must let me go now." their father had disappeared, and dash came hurrying downstairs in a shamefaced, sidelong fashion to be comforted. he did not like being left beyond the reach of consolation. but mrs. beauchamp disengaged the clinging arms. "we will sit up till we know about them," dot said, with tears. "no; you must go to bed and wait there," mrs. beauchamp said firmly. "i know," she went on hurriedly, as there were signs of another storm, "that it is far harder; but duties like that _are_ hard, and it is the only thing you can do to help." "very well," said dot, with commendable meekness. "very well," echoed dash. "here, get back to bed." the master of the house, booted and mackintoshed, had come back into the hall, and the twins scampered up the stairs at the unaccustomed sternness of his voice. he had a glass of wine and some biscuits in his hand, and he spoke almost as severely to mrs. beauchamp as he had done to the twins. "of course i am going with you. i have rugs and mackintoshes and some brandy. can you suggest anything else? no," as she returned the half-emptied glass; "drink _all_ the wine. i _insist_ on it." mrs. beauchamp obeyed mechanically. she seemed to feel new life, a sense of protection, an atmosphere of help; there was some one else to command and to decide. the last sight she saw as she went out into the night was dot's fuzzy head leaning over the banisters at a dangerous angle. chapter xii. outside the rain had lessened, and the stars shone more securely. without a word she hurried down the cross street and on to the parade by her companion's side, but her feet no longer lagged. hope had sprung anew in her heart, and as they turned the corner she looked up at him smiling. "i only know you as 'the father of the twins,'" she said, "and it is a long address." "my name is amherst." then a moment later, as they picked their way across the muddy road to the top of the steps, "i have been trying all this time to find a reason, and i can only frame an excuse--_they have no mother_!" "oh, poor twins!" she said. the tide was distinctly lower, and the wind had died down. the long waves rolled in with almost oily smoothness, and showed no ridge of foam when they broke upon the beach. patches of seaweed caught and reflected the moonlight. the old sailor was baling out the boat, and half a dozen hands held her to the shore. an air of excitement pervaded every one, and one or two men offered their services rather sheepishly; but the royal navy did not need assistance. he settled mrs. beauchamp in the bow, with the rugs for a cushion; then he pushed off with his oar, and in another minute they were gliding out from under the shadow of the cliff, making straight for the island in front of them. mr. amherst had taken the other oar, and was rowing bow. on their left little crests of half-submerged rocks showed black against the sea, and on the far horizon the false dawn made a silver line between sky and sea. mrs. beauchamp held the lines mechanically and leant forward, straining her eyes to steer for a possible landing-place; but the beating of her heart had quieted down, and she had a curious feeling that she was drifting, drifting, in this solemn silence, out of a region of torturing fear into the peaceful harbour of a dream. the twist of the oars in the rowlocks, the rhythmical dip, and the ripple of water against the boat were restful in their monotony. she felt her eyes closing as something slipped through her fingers--susie's boot, with its long damp laces! she looked at her lap in horror, and tried to push the dreadful object away; but there was nothing there, excepting the wet lines that had fallen from her fingers. some one put out a rough, kind hand to steady her, and she straightened herself with a start, meeting the old sailor's keen eyes. "carry on, ma'am, carry on." then, a moment later, "way enough!" in a minute mr. amherst had caught at the crags and drawn the boat alongside, and ben had sent his voice pealing up against the cliff in a volume of sound that was absolutely terrifying. "hulloo! hulloo--oo!" a few frightened sea-birds flew out of the crevices in the cliff and wheeled about their heads, but there was no other sound. mrs. beauchamp's eyes filled with agonized tears, but the sailor's cheeriness was infectious. "i'll wake them," he said. again his voice went up into the night, as if he defied the poor defences of the dark. "hulloo! hulloo--oo!" "susie!" cried mrs. beauchamp, in her thinner treble. and this time there _was_ an answer--a cry small and faint; not at all like susie's boisterous everyday voice, but human. ben was out of the boat in a minute, scrambling from peak to peak, and shouting as he went. mrs. beauchamp sat down with an uncertain movement, and covered her face with her hands; whilst mr. amherst, clinging to the rock for fear the ebbing tide should carry them out to sea, spoke to her with whimsical entreaty. "mrs. beauchamp, please don't faint until nelson comes back! pull yourself together--he _expects_ us to do our duty; and, besides, you will frighten the children." the last suggestion had an instantaneous effect. from that calm region where love and despair were alike forgotten she came back with a conscious effort to the unsteady boat, and mr. amherst's alarmed eyes, and the lapping water against the bow. "that's right," said mr. amherst, with great relief in his voice. "i really didn't know how to get to you. listen!" "safe!" the great voice came pealing down the cliff, waking the echoes on the shore, and with a sort of incredulous joy mrs. beauchamp listened to the sturdy steps coming slowly, surely, carefully down, with a little ripple of shale following them. she clutched at the gunwale of the boat until she hurt her hands, and strained her eyes for the sight she longed to see. first there came the stalwart figure of the sailor with a bundle in his arms, and behind him a slim, bare-footed, bareheaded, stumbling little creature, who almost fell into the expectant arms waiting for her. "he's quite warm, mother." it was susie's voice, faint, eager, appealing, caught by deep sobs. "he has never coughed once--he has never _moved_. he is quite warm; feel him." "o susie! and you?" "me! oh, i'm all right," said susie, wondering. "i did take care of him; i tried my very best." "but where are your clothes, susie? and it rained so." "they are round dick," said susie. "mother, they kept him beautifully warm." the men jumped into the boat and pushed off. the little bundle of flannel and serge that held dickie rolled quite comfortably to the bottom of the boat; but susie's mother held two frozen feet in her warm hands and said nothing. words did not come easily. presently susie spoke again in that strained whisper. "mother, when i went to sleep i dreamt a ferryman came for us, and his boat was close to the shore, and we were stepping in when you called me back. i knew your voice, and you said 'susie' quite plainly. i wouldn't go, and i wouldn't let him take dick! i screamed and held him tight, and the ferryman said we must pay him, all the same; and then you gave him two pennies, and he went away." "susie, i _did_ call. in my heart i have called all night." "yes, i know," said susie. "when i woke and saw the sailor, i thought it was the ferryman." "i _had_ paid," said mrs. beauchamp. "oh, i knew you would," said susie. mrs. beauchamp took the rug that mr. amherst threw to her, and folded it close and warm about susie's wet locks and damp body; and presently the difficult, sobbing breaths grew quieter, but her mother knew that she was not asleep by the fierce pressure of her fingers. the day was breaking as the boat was beached, and a dozen willing hands pulled her high and dry. the sea-birds were awake, fluttering about the head of the island; the ebbing tide had left the rocks very black and bare. when they set susie on her feet she was too stiff to stand alone, and never for one moment did she loose her hold of her mother's dress. it was the royal navy that finally took her into wonderfully tender keeping, and carried her up the steps and along the parade, and laid her, still wrapped in the rug, on her own white bed, that nurse had made comfortably ready. dickie woke flushed and warm from his rosy sleep when they brought him in, and looked at the old sailor with round, bewildered eyes. "is it father neptune?" he asked. "no, darling, no." "oh, i see he hasn't got his three-pronged fork. is it nelson then?" "i am sure i don't know," said mrs. beauchamp, and her laugh was very near tears.--"you will tell the twins at once, please," she said to mr. amherst as she said good-bye. "i cannot bear to feel that they may be awake and waiting." but dot and dash had not passed a sleepless night of misery. long ago, tired out with sorrow, they had fallen asleep on the nursery window-sill, and dreamt that they were sailing on unknown seas in fairy boats! chapter xiii. and the wonderful part of it all was that susie was not even ill! she slept "into the middle of next week," as nurse expressed it; but it was a deep, steady, peaceful sleep, quite undisturbed by any commotion around her. amy sat most of the morning crouched up on the floor, just inside the room, and waited for the opening of those brown eyes; whilst nurse had even got dick and baby safely dressed and out on the sands before susie's eyelids quivered, and she stretched her stiff limbs, and started up with a cry, "mother!" "my darling susie!" "o mother! i was so afraid you were a dream." "then what are you?" "a _troublesome comfort_. nurse said so, and it is true." she sat straight up in bed, with her knees drawn up and her hands clasped round them. her hair was rough, and there were no little stiff pigtails telling of nurse's energetic brushing. on her hands there were bruises and scratches that hurt her; but nothing mattered now that she was within reach of the comfortable arms, and could lay her head on the blue serge knee. "mummy, is dick well?" "quite well, darling." "mother"--she pressed closer and hid her face--"i am sorry, but i don't know how to say it. i didn't like the twins to think me a baby, and i felt quite certain that i could get back." "perhaps you are too certain, darling." "you mean," said susie, "that there is too much talk and too little _do_." "perhaps that _is_ what i mean, susie; but when i try to think about it clearly i only see a poor little cold, frightened child, and dick as warm as toast." "i never thought about it, mother. i only prayed and prayed that he might not get bronchitis." "it is because you did not think about it that i love you, susie." "i will try and be better," said susie humbly. straight across the room she caught sight of a reflection in the glass, and she sat suddenly more upright and gazed at it. it reminded her of that reflection in the train; but this mouth was smiling, not set into sulky lines--these eyes were not full of angry tears! "oh, i am perfectly certain i can be good," cried susie eagerly. the reflection in the glass seemed to hesitate; the sparkling eyes fell, and susie's face went down upon her knees. she groaned in despair. "it seems as if i couldn't help it," she said. "i am always perfectly certain." "and i am perfectly certain that i hear your breakfast on the stairs," said mrs. beauchamp, "and that is the important thing." she raised susie's crimson face, and smoothed the rebellious hair, and patted the pillow into a comfortable shape. every good nurse knows that tears and protestations must wait their time, and that little patients cannot be allowed the luxury of repentance! susie would have liked to pour out volumes of self-reproach and ease her burdened heart, so it was perhaps one little step in the right direction when she resolutely closed her lips and welcomed amy and the breakfast with a smile. she came downstairs in the afternoon and lay on the horsehair sofa in the sitting-room, and held a sort of levée of her visitors. tom was subdued, and the twins were envious--nothing uncommon ever happened to them! they knew too much or were too cautious, but they sat on two stools by the window and followed mrs. beauchamp's movements with their uncanny eyes, until the concentrated gaze made her nervous. "both of we would like to be your children," said dash suddenly. mrs. beauchamp tried to feel grateful for the compliment, and to hide the dismay it inspired. "it seems rather hard," dot added, "that susie should have everything--_and_ a mother too--and we haven't." "perhaps you may share me," she suggested. but the twins viewed the position gloomily. "us two like things of our own," they said. "well, you can't have mother," said dick doggedly. "you can have our buckets when we leave, and my boat, and amy's shells." "oh, not my shells," cried amy, aggrieved. "that's selfish of you," said tom; "but i have a proper collection, and you haven't. you can have nurse," he generously added. "oh no, not nurse," said dick. "and that's greedy," said tom: "you want every one." "yes, i do," said dick sturdily. "us two," said dot suddenly, "have adopted you for our mother. it is the only way we can have you for our own." "you can't have her," cried tom indignantly; "she's ours." "that doesn't matter," said dot; "us two have settled it. she can't help us adopting her. we are her kind of children now.--aren't we, father?" mr. amherst removed the twins before it came to blows, and left the excited family sitting silently in the dusky room. mrs. beauchamp, very tired and peaceful, was drawing a dispirited darning needle through very worn stockings, and by susie's sofa sat an upright figure with keen eyes and silver hair. "the little lady will be sleeping soon," he said. he rose and held out a horny hand. "in a softer bed than she had last night," said mrs. beauchamp gently. "well, as we make our bed so we lie in it," he said. "yes," said susie, in a subdued voice. he paused and smiled at her. "but so much we didn't know of went to the making of the bed," he said, "that perhaps little missy lay softly enough after all." * * * * * "it is a pity about miss susie's boot," nurse said regretfully. "of course it's a mercy the poor child was brought back safe; and never shall i forget what we suffered unknowing. but talking of beds brings back that boot to me, and it's no use telling me it doesn't matter, for it's sheer waste of the pair." * * * * * life in london seemed rather tame to the little beauchamps after that summer holiday, with the paddling and the boats, the rocks and the island! they took as much of it all home as they could convey in biscuit tins, and buckets, and cardboard boxes. but, after all, one cannot shut the ocean into a glass aquarium or hold the sunset on a palette, and there were many things that only memory could bring back to them--the sea-birds wheeling against the blue sky, for instance, the ebbing and flowing tide, the miles of seaweed on the beach, and one night the memory of which will only die with susie. dick has long forgotten it, for he lay "very softly" in the bed that susie made for him; but at any moment susie can shut her eyes and hear the trampling of the surf and the beating of the rain, and see the misty stars! the twins have taken their adopted mother very seriously, and have established her in the citadel of their hearts. like the pirates that they are, they have stolen her love, and love her passionately in return. their undivided affection does not give her a very peaceful life, but it is certainly never dull, and the bold black eyes have grown very dear to her. the traditions of the royal navy are always the mainspring of life in the beauchamps' nursery; they "carry on" under the auspices of nelson, and in obedience to his signal they do what england expects! duty is their watchword, and ben is their model. nurse often stands amazed at an obedience that is almost alarming; but when she begins to think that miss susie or master tom is growing too good to live, she is generally reassured by some quite unlooked-for crime, and, to her relief, the "troublesome comforts" remain troublesome. file was produced from images generously made available by the university of florida, the internet archive/children's library) dutton's 'sparkling' series. [illustration] at the seaside. by mrs grey. verses by mrs warner-sleigh e. p. dutton & company, , west twenty-third street, new york. [illustration] georgie and maudie came home from school, and each had got a prize; they had worked very hard, and tried to be good, for they wanted to grow up wise. and now behold them jumping for joy, and clapping their hands with glee, because mamma has promised them-- they shall stay for a month by the sea. [illustration] so nurse was told to pack their things, and put their toys together; whilst mamma went out and bought new clothes, fit for any kind of weather. they took the train to margate, and then a fly they hired, and drove straight to their lodgings, for they were a wee bit tired. [illustration] next morn they got up early,-- the day was bright and fine; so they dressed and had their breakfast, and were out by half-past nine. ah! how they loved the crested waves, and what merry games they had, as they danced about bare-footed; they had never felt so glad. [illustration] star fish and jelly fish they caught, whilst of shells they had a store; there seemed no end to the pretty things they found upon the shore. they built huge castles up with sand, and dug around deep moats, which they filled with pails of water, then sailed their tiny boats. and sea-weeds of all colours came floating in with the foam; they were wond'rous bright and beautiful, for they grew in the mermaid's home. [illustration] but the crabs they liked the least of all the fishes in the sea; for they pinched whenever they got a chance,-- so the children let them be. one day they had a splendid treat: what it was you'd like to know; so look below at the picture,-- for that, i think, will show. [illustration] they also went to a circus, and had a sail on the sea, and very often were allowed to ask their friends to tea. and many other things they did, which i have not time to tell; perhaps i will another day, so now i'll say, "farewell." * * * * * e. p. dutton & co.'s modern toy books. _these have been especially designed and printed in the best and most artistic manner. every book being printed in eight to ten different colors. no book in all the different series contains anything approaching vulgarity,--the publishers' aim being to furnish amusement, coupled with refinement, for our dear little ones._ [illustration] dutton's 'sparkling' series. same style as this book. my pretty pet kid. visit to the sea side. little tottie's a b c. in the garden and over the garden wall. outside the garden wall. _twenty cents each._ * * * #dutton's 'wide-awake' series.# the story of william and dick. little tiny in a book. pictures and rhymes of grandma's times. pinafore rhymes and pictures. alphabet of objects. one, two, buckle my shoe. _twenty cents each._ * * * _dutton's to. 'charming' series._ pretty pictures with rhymes for little ones. innocent pictures and verses for little innocents. pictures in this book you'll see, for every little nursery. pretty pictures for pretty little people. the monkeys' circus. visit to the circus. the performing dog. country scenes. _twenty-five cents each._ * * * dutton's 'rose and lily' series. bound toy books. old time pictures & rhymes. fun and frolic. pictures and rhymes. pleasant time pictures. a summer in the country. in town and country. _twenty-five cents each._ * * * [illustration] dutton's _favourite nursery series._ _eight kinds. seven coloured plates, viz._-- the pig bought with a silver penny. robinson crusoe. pretty bo-peep. children's babes in the wood. ten little niggers. little red riding hood. cock robin's death and burial. children's cinderella. _twenty cents each._ * * * dutton's _'daisy darling'_ series. _quarto size. six kinds. seven colored plates, viz._-- daisy darling's rhymes. little cinderella. farmer boy's alphabet. miss barbara bright. the three kittens. little freddy. _twelve cents each._ * * * _dutton's 'garden window' series._ _aunty's a b c._ _army and navy a b c._ _mr. pig and his family._ _uncle's a b c._ _pussies' party._ _dame crump and pig._ _railway a b c._ _the goldfinch & linnet._ _under garden window._ _twelve cents each._ * * * dutton's 'ever welcome' series. from designs by harrison. the prince and the fairy. grandma's nursery rhymes. rhymes and jingles, with novel pictures. * * * [illustration] 'old mother hubbard' series. old mother hubbard. dame bantry & her cat. cock robin. whittington & his cat. sad fate of cock robin. steamboat a b c. the three little pigs. red riding hood. _ten cents each._ * * * _dutton's scripture 'gem' series._ _eight different. five cents each._ . sunny hours and pretty flowers. . the children's kettle drum. . tiny lawn tennis club. . little dot. each quarto crown. illustrations and rhymes by m. a. c. and e. o. a. _one dollar each._ _single copies sent by the publishers, on receipt of price, anywhere in the united states or canada._ e. p. dutton & company, , west twenty-third street, new york. marjorie at seacote by carolyn wells author of the "patty" books [illustration: "most liege majesty," began king, bowing so low that his shoulder cape fell off. (_page _)] grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, , by dodd, mead and company * * * * * by the same author patty series patty fairfield patty at home patty in the city patty's summer days patty in paris patty's friends patty's pleasure trip patty's success patty's motor car marjorie series marjorie's vacation marjorie's busy days marjorie's new friend marjorie in command marjorie's maytime * * * * * contents chapter page i kitty's dinner ii tom, dick, and harry iii the sand club iv sand court v "the jolly sandboy" vi two welcome guests vii the glorious fourth viii a revelation ix the search x jessica brown xi the reunion xii a letter of thanks xiii thirteen! xiv queen hester xv a motor ride xvi red geraniums xvii what hester did xviii a fine game xix more fun xx a celebration marjorie at seacote chapter i kitty's dinner "kitty-cat kitty is going away, going to grandma's, all summer to stay. and so all the maynards will weep and will bawl, till kitty-cat kitty comes home in the fall." this affecting ditty was being sung with great gusto by king and marjorie, while kitty, her mood divided between smiles and tears, was quietly appreciative. the very next day, kitty was to start for morristown, to spend the summer with grandma sherwood, and to-night the "farewell feast" was to be celebrated. every year one of the maynard children spent the summer months with their grandmother, and this year it was kitty's turn. the visit was always a pleasant one, and greatly enjoyed by the small visitor, but there was always a wrench at parting, for the maynard family were affectionate and deeply devoted to one another. the night before the departure was always celebrated by a festival of farewell, and at this feast tokens were presented, and speeches made, and songs sung, all of which went far to dispel sad or gloomy feelings. the maynards were fond of singing. they were willing to sing "ready-made" songs, and often did, but they liked better to make up songs of their own, sometimes using familiar tunes and sometimes inventing an air as they went along. even if not quite in keeping with the rules for classic music, these airs were pleasing in their own ears, and that was all that was necessary. so, when king and midget composed the touching lines which head this chapter and sang them to the tune of "the campbells are coming," they were so pleased that they repeated them many times. this served to pass pleasantly the half-hour that must yet elapse before dinner would be announced. "well, kit," remarked kingdon, in a breathing pause between songs, "we'll miss you lots, o' course, but you'll have a gay old time at grandma's. that molly moss is a whole team in herself." "she's heaps of fun, kitsie," said marjorie, "but she's chock-a-block full of mischief. but you won't tumble head over heels into all her mischiefs, like i did! 'member how i sprained my ankle, sliding down the barn roof with her?" "no, of course i wouldn't do anything like that," agreed the sedate kitty. "but we'll have lots of fun with that tree-house; i'm going to sit up there and read, on pleasant days." "h'm,--lucky,--you know what, king!" "h'm,--yes! keep still, mops. you'll give it away." "oh, a secret about a present," cried kitty; "something for the tree-house, i know!" "maybe 'tis, and maybe 'tain't," answered king, with a mysterious wink at marjorie. "me buyed present for kitty," said rosamond, smiling sweetly; "gold an' blue,--oh, a bootiful present." "hush, hush, rosy posy, you mustn't tell," said her brother. "presents are always surprises. hey, girls, here's father!" mr. maynard's appearance was usually a signal for a grand rush, followed by a series of bear hugs and a general scramble, but to-night, owing to festive attire, the maynard quartette were a little more demure. "look out for my hair-ribbons, king!" cried midget, for without such warning, hair-ribbons usually felt first the effects of the good-natured scrimmage. and then mrs. maynard appeared, her pretty rose-colored gown of soft silk trailing behind her on the floor. "what a dandy mother!" exclaimed king; "all dressed up, and a flower in her hair!" this line sounded singable to marjorie, so she tuned up: "all dressed up, and a flower in her hair, to give her a hug, i wouldn't dare; for she would feel pretty bad, i think, if anything happened to that there pink!" then king added a refrain, and in a moment they had all joined hands and were dancing round mrs. maynard and singing: "hooray, hooray, for our mother fair! hooray, hooray, for the flower in her hair! all over the hills and far away, there's no one so sweet as mothery may!" being accustomed to boisterous adulation from her children, mrs. maynard bore her honors gracefully, and then they all went out to dinner. as maiden of honor, kitty was escorted by her father; next came mrs. maynard and kingdon, and then marjorie and rosy posy. the table had extra decorations of flowers and pink-shaded candles, and at kitty's place was a fascinating looking lot of tissue-papered and ribbon-tied parcels. "isn't it funny," said sedate and philosophical kitty, "i love to go to grandma's, and yet i hate to leave you all, and yet, i can't do one without doing the other!" "'tis strange, indeed, kit!" agreed her father; "as mr. shakespeare says, 'yet every sweet with sour is tempered still.' life is like lemonade, sour and sweet both." "it's good enough," said kitty, contentedly, looking at her array of bundles. "i guess i'll open these now." "that's what they're there for," said mrs. maynard, so kitty excitedly began to untie the ribbons. "i'll go slowly," she said, pulling gently at a ribbon bow, "then they'll last longer." "now, isn't that just like you, kit!" exclaimed marjorie. "i'd snatch the papers off so fast you couldn't see me jerk." "i know you would," said kitty, simply. the sisters were very unlike, for midget's ways were impulsive and impatient, while kitty was slow and careful. but finally the papers came off, and revealed the lovely gifts. mrs. maynard had made a pretty silk workbag, which could be spread out, or gathered up close on its ribbon. when outspread, it showed a store of needles and thread, of buttons, hooks, tapes,--everything a little girl could need to keep her clothes in order. "oh, mother, it's _perfect_!" cried kitty, ecstatically. "i _love_ those cunning little pockets, with all _sewy_ things in them! and a darling silver thimble! and a silver tape measure, and a silver-topped emery! oh, i do believe i'll sew _all_ the time this summer!" "pooh, _i_ wouldn't!" said marjorie. "the things _are_ lovely, but i'd rather play than sew." "sewing _is_ play, i think," and kitty fingered over her treasures lovingly. "grandma will help me with my patterns, and i'm going to piece a silk teachest quilt. oh, mother, it will be _such_ fun!" "call _that_ fun!" and marjorie looked disdainfully at her sister. "fun is racing around and playing tag, and cutting up jinks generally!" "for you it is," kitty agreed, amiably, "but not for me. i like what i like." "that's good philosophy, kitty," said her father. "stick to it always. like what you like, and don't be bothered by other people's comments or opinions. now, what's in that smallish, flattish, whitish parcel?" the parcel in question proved to be a watch, a dear little gold watch. kitty had never owned one before, and it almost took her breath away. "mine?" she exclaimed, in wonder. "all mine?" "yes, every bit yours," said mr. maynard, smiling at her. "every wheel and spring, every one of its three hands, every one of its twelve hours are all, all yours. do you like it?" "like it! i can't think of any words to tell you how much i like it." "i'll think of some for you," said the accommodating marjorie. "you could say it's the grandest, gloriousest, gorgeousest, magnificentest present you ever had!" "yes, i could say that," kitty agreed, "but i never should have thought of it. i 'most always say a thing is lovely. now, what in the world is this?" "this" proved to be a well-stocked portfolio, the gift of king. there were notepaper and envelopes and a pen and pencils and stamps and everything to write letters with. "i picked out all the things myself," king explained, "because it's nicer that way than the ready furnished ones. do you like it, kit?" "yes, indeedy! and i shall write my first letter to you, because you gave it to me." "oh, kitty-cat kit, a letter she writ, and sent it away, to her brother one day," chanted marjorie, and, as was their custom, they all sang the song after her, some several times over. "now for mine," midget said, as kitty slowly untied the next parcel. it was two volumes of fairy tales, which literature was kitty's favorite reading. "oh, lovely!" she exclaimed. "on summer afternoons you can think of me, sitting out in the tree-house reading these. i shall pretend i'm a fairy princess. these are beautiful stories, i can see that already." kitty's quick eye had caught an interesting page, and forgetting all else, she became absorbed in the book at once. in a moment, the page was turned, and kitty read on and on, oblivious to time or place. "hi, there, kitsie! come out o' that!" cried king. "you can read all summer,--_now_ you must associate with your family." "i didn't mean to," said kitty, shutting the book quickly, and looking round apologetically; "but it's all about a fairy godmother, and a lovely princess lady,--oh, mopsy, it's _fine_!" a pair of little blue enamelled pins was rosamond's present, and kitty pinned them on her shoulders at once, to see how they looked. all pronounced the effect excellent, and rosy posy clapped her little fat hands in glee. "mine's the prettiest present!" she said. "mine's the booflest!" "yes, babykins," said kitty, "yours is the booflest,--but they're all lovely." the farewell feast included all of kitty's favorite dishes, and as most of them were also favorites with the other children, it was satisfactory all round. "you must write to us often, kit," said king; "i gave you those writing things so you'd be sure to." "yes, i will; but i don't know yet where you're all going to be." "i don't know yet myself," said mr. maynard, "but it will be somewhere near the sea, if possible. will you like the seashore, kiddies,--you that are going?" "i shall," said marjorie, promptly. "i'll _love_ it. may we go bathing every day? and can i have a bathing suit,--red, trimmed with white?" "i 'spect you can," said her mother, smiling at her. "what color do you want, king?" "oh, i think dark blue would suit my manly beauty! what are you going to have, father?" "i think dark blue will be our choice, my boy. it swims better than anything else. but first we must find a roof to cover our heads. i've about decided on one,--if i can get it. it's a bungalow." "what's a bungalow?" asked marjorie. "i never heard of such a thing." "ho, ho! never heard of a bungalow!" said king. "why, a bungalow is a,--is a,----" "well, is a what?" asked midget, impatiently. "why, it's a bungalow! that's what it is." "fine definition, king!" said his father. "but since you undertook to do so, see if you can't give its meaning better than that. what _is_ a bungalow?" "well, let me see. it's a house,--i guess it's a low, one-storied house, and that's why they call it bungalow. is that it?" "you're right about the one story; the rest is, i think, your own invention. originally, the bungalow was the sort of a house they have in india, a one-storied affair, with a thatched roof, and verandas all round it. but the ones they build now, in this country, are often much more elaborate than that. sometimes they have one story, sometimes more. the one i'm trying to get for the summer is at seacote, and it's what they call a story and a half. that is, it has an upper floor, but the rooms are under a slanting roof, and have dormer windows." "sounds good to me," said king. "do you think you'll catch it, dad?" "i hope so. some other person has the refusal of it, but he's doubtful about taking it. so it may yet fall to our lot." "i hope so!" cried marjorie. "at the seashore for a whole summer! my! what fun! can we dig in the sand?" "well, rather, my child! that's what the sand is there for. kitty, you were at the seashore last summer. did you dig in the sand?" "yes, every day; and it was lovely. but this year i'm glad i'm going to grandma's. it's more restful." they all laughed at kitty's desire for rest, and marjorie said: "_i_ didn't have such a restful time at grandma's. except when i sprained my ankle,--i rested enough then! but you won't do anything like that, kit!" "i hope not, i'm sure. nor i won't fall down the well, either!" "oh, we didn't _fall_ down the well. we just _went_ down, to get cooled off." "well, i'm not going to try it. i shall sit in the tree-house and read every afternoon, and sew with grandma in the mornings." "kit, you're a dormouse," said kingdon; "i believe you'd like to sleep half the year." "'deed i wouldn't. just because i don't like rambunctious play doesn't mean i want to sleep all the time! does it, father?" "not a bit of it. but you children must 'like what you like' and not comment on others' 'likes.' see?" "yes, sir," said king, understanding the kindly rebuke. "hullo, kit, here's one of your best 'likes'! here's pink ice-cream coming!" this was indeed one of kitty's dearest "likes," and as none of the maynards disliked it, it rapidly disappeared. "now, we'll have an entertainment," said king as, after dinner, they all went back to the pleasant living-room. "as kitty is the chief pebble on the beach this evening, she shall choose what sort of an entertainment. games, or what?" "no, just a real entertainment," said kitty; "a programme one, you know. each one must sing a song or speak a piece, or something like that. _i'll_ be the audience, and you can all be performers." "all right," said king; "i'll be master of ceremonies. i'll make up the programme as i go along. ladies and gentlemen, our first number will be a speech by the honorable edward maynard. mr. maynard will please step forward." mr. maynard stepped. assuming a pompous air, he made a low bow, first to kitty, and then to the others. "my dear friends," he said, "we are gathered here together this evening to extend our farewells and our hearty good wishes to the lady about to leave us. sister, thou art mild and lovely, and we hate to see thee go; but the best of friends must sever, and you'll soon come back, you know. listen now to our advices. kitty, dear, for pity's sake, do not tumble in the river,--do not tumble in the lake. many more things i could tell you as i talk in lovely rhyme, but i think it is my duty to let others share the time." mr. maynard sat down amid great applause, and kitty said, earnestly, "you are a lovely poet, father. i wish you'd give up your other business, and just write books of poetry." "i'm afraid, kitsie, we wouldn't have enough money for pink ice-cream in that case," said mr. maynard, laughing. "the next performeress will be mrs. maynard," announced the master of ceremonies. mother maynard rose, smiling, and with all the airs and graces of a prima donna, went to the piano. striking a few preliminary chords, she began to sing: "good-bye, kitty; good-bye, kitty; good-bye, kitty, you're going to leave us now. merrily we say good-bye, say good-bye, say good-bye; merrily we say good-bye to sister kitty-kit." this had a pleasant jingle, and was repeated by the whole assembly with fine effect and a large volume of noise. "miss marjorie maynard will now favor us," was the next announcement. "this is a poem i made up myself," said midget, modestly, "and i think it's very nice: "when kitty goes to grandma's i hope she will be good; and be a lady-girl and do exactly as she should. 'cause when _i go_ to grandma's, i act exceeding bad; i track up 'liza's nice clean floor, and make her hopping mad!" marjorie's poem was applauded with cheers, as they all recognized its inherent truth. "we next come to miss rosamond maynard," king went on, "but as she has fallen asleep, i will ask that the audience kindly excuse her." the audience kindly did so, and as it was getting near everybody's bedtime,--at least, for children,--the whole quartette was started bedward, and went away singing: "good-bye, kitty, you're going to leave us now"-- chapter ii tom, dick, and harry "jumping grasshoppers! what a dandy house!" the maynards' motor swung into the driveway of a large and pleasant looking place, whose lawn showed some sand spots here and there, and whose trees were tall pines, but whose whole effect was delightfully breezy and seashorey. "oh, grandiferous!" cried marjorie, echoing her brother's enthusiastic tones, and standing up in the car, better to see their new home. seacote, the place chosen by mr. maynard for his family's summering, was on the southern shore of long island, not very far from rockaway beach. it was a sort of park or reservation in which building was under certain restrictions, and so it was made up of pleasant homes filled with pleasant people. fortunately, mr. maynard had been able to rent the bungalow he wanted, and it was this picturesque domicile that so roused king's admiration. the house was long and low, and surrounded by verandas, some of which were screened by vines, and others shaded by striped awnings. but what most delighted the children was the fact that the ocean rolled its crested breakers up to their very door. not literally to the door, for the road ran between the sea and the house, and a boardwalk was between the road and the sea. but not fifty feet from their front windows the shining waves were even now dashing madly toward them as if in tumultuous welcome. the servants were already installed, and the open doors seemed to invite the family to come in and make themselves at home. "let's go straight bang through the whole house," said king, "and then outdoors afterward." "all right," agreed marjorie, and in their usual impetuous fashion, the two raced through the house from attic to cellar, though there really wasn't any attic, except a sort of low-ceiled loft. however, they climbed up into this, and then down through the various bedrooms on the second floor, and back to the first floor, which contained the large living-room, a spacious hall, and the dining-room and kitchen. "it's all right," said king, nodding his head in approval. "now outside, midget." outside they flew, and took stock of their surroundings. almost an acre of ground was theirs, and though as yet empty of special interest, king could see its possibilities. "room for a tennis court," he said; "then i guess we'll have a big swing, and a hammock, and a tent, and----" "and a merry-go-round," supplemented mr. maynard, overhearing king's plans. "no, not that, father," said marjorie, "but we _can_ have swings and things, can't we?" "i 'spect so, mopsy. but with the ocean and the beach, i doubt if you'll stay in this yard much." "oh, that's so; i forgot the ocean! come on, father, let's go and look at it." so the three went down to the beach, and marjorie, who hadn't been to the seashore since she was a small child, plumped herself down on the sand, and just gazed out at the tumbling waves. "i don't care for the swings and things," she said. "i just want to stay here all the time, and dig and dig and dig." as she spoke she was digging her heels into the fine white sand, and poking her hands in, and burying her arms up to her dimpled elbows. "oh, father, isn't it gee-lorious! sit down, won't you, and let us bury you in sand, all but your nose!" "not now," said mr. maynard, laughing. "some day you may, when i'm in a bathing suit. but i don't care for pockets full of sand. now, i'm going back to home and mother. you two may stay down here till luncheon time if you like." mr. maynard went back to the house, and king and marjorie continued their explorations. the beach was flat and smooth, and its white sand was full of shells, and here and there a few bits of seaweed, and farther on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far into the ocean. "did you ever _see_ such a place?" cried marjorie, in sheer delight. "well, i was at the seashore last year," said king, "while you were at grandma's." "but it wasn't as nice as this, was it? say it wasn't!" "no; the sand was browner. this is the nicest sand i ever saw. say, mops, let's build a fire." "what for? it isn't cold." "no, but you always build fires on the beach. it's lots of fun. and we'll roast potatoes in it." "all right. how do we begin?" "well, we gather a lot of wood first. come on." marjorie came on, and they worked with a will, gathering armfuls of wood and piling it up near the spot they had selected for their fire. "that's enough," said marjorie, for her arms ached as she laid down her last contribution to their collection. "you'll find it isn't much when it gets to burning. but never mind, it will make a start. i'll skin up to the house and get matches and potatoes." "i'll go with you, 'cause i think we'd better ask father about making this fire. it might do some harm." "fiddlesticks! we made a fire 'most every day last summer." and, owing to king's knowledge and experience regarding beach fires, his father told him he might build one, and to be properly careful about not setting fire to themselves. then they procured potatoes and apples from the kitchen, and raced back to the beach. "why, where's our wood?" cried marjorie. not a stick or a chip remained of their carefully gathered wood pile. "some one has stolen it!" said king. "no, there's nobody around, except those people over there, and they're grown-ups. it must have been washed away by a wave." "pooh, the waves aren't coming up near as far as this." "well, there might have been a big one." "no, it wasn't a wave. that wood was stolen, mops!" "but who could have done it? those grown-up people wouldn't. you can see from their looks they wouldn't. they're reading aloud. and in the other direction, there are only some fishermen,--they wouldn't take it." "well, somebody did. look, here are lots of footprints, and i don't believe they're all ours." sure enough, on the smooth white sand they could see many footprints, imprinted all over each other, as if scurrying feet had trodden all around their precious wood pile. "oh, king, you're just like a detective!" cried marjorie, in admiration. "but it's so! these aren't our footprints!" she fitted her spring-heeled tan shoes into the prints, and proved at once that they were not hers. nor did king's shoes fit exactly, though they came nearer to it than marjorie's. "yes, sir; some fellows came along and stole that wood. here are two or three quite different prints." "well, where do they lead to?" said practical marjorie. "that's so. let's trace them and get the wood back." but after leading away from them for a short distance the footprints became fainter, and in a softer bit of sand disappeared altogether. "pshaw!" said king. "i don't so much care about the wood, but i hate to lose the trail like this. let's hunt, mopsy." "all right, but first, let's bury these apples and potatoes, or they'll be stolen, too." "good idea!" and they buried their treasures in the nice, clean sand, and marked the place with an inconspicuous stick. then they set out to hunt their lost wood. the beach, though flat and shelving at the water's edge, rose in a low bluff farther back, and this offered among its irregular projections many good hiding-places for their quarry. and, sure enough, after some searching, they came suddenly upon three boys who sat, shaking with laughter, upon a pile of wood. the two maynards glared at them rather angrily, upon which the three again went off in peals of laughter. "that's our wood!" began king, aggressively. "sure it is!" returned the biggest boy, still chuckling. "what did you bring it over here for?" "just for fun!" "h'm, just for fun! and do you think it would be fun to carry it back again?" "yep; just's lieve as not. come on, kids!" and that remarkable boy began to pick up the sticks. "oh, hold on," said king. "if you're so willing, you needn't do it! who are you, anyway?" "well," said the biggest boy, suddenly straightening himself up and bowing politely to marjorie, "we're your neighbors. we live in that green house next to yours. and we're named tom, dick, and harry. yes, i know you think those names sound funny, but they're ours all the same. thomas, richard, and henry craig,--at your service! i'm tom. this is dick, and this is harry." he whacked his brothers on the shoulder as he named them, and they ducked forward in polite, if awkward salutation. "and did you really take our wood?" said marjorie, with an accusing glance, as if surprised that such pleasant-spoken boys could do such a thing. "yes, we did. we wanted to see what sort of stuff you were made of. you know seacote people are sort of like one big family, and we wanted to know how you'd behave about the wood. you've been fine, and now we'll cart it back where we found it. if you had got mad about it, we wouldn't touch a stick to take it back,--would we, fellows?" "nope," said the other two, and the maynards could see at once that tom was the captain and ringleader of the trio. "well," said king, judicially, "if you hadn't been the sort you are, i _should_ have got mad. but i guess you're all right, and so you _may_ take it back. but we don't help you do it,--see? i'm kingdon maynard, and this is my sister marjorie. you fellows took our wood, and now you're going to return it. is that right?" "right-o!" said tom. "come on, fellows." the three boys flew at it, and king and midget sat on the sand and watched them till the wood was restored to its original position. "all right," said king; "you boys'll do. now, come on and roast potatoes with us." thus, all demands of honor having been complied with, the five proceeded to become friends. the boys built the fire, and gallantly let marjorie have the fun of putting the potatoes and apples in place. the craig boys had nice instincts, and while they were rather rough-and-tumble among themselves, they treated king more decorously, and seemed to consider marjorie as a being of a higher order, made to receive not only respect, but reverent homage. "you see, we never had a sister," said tom; "and we're a little bit scared of girls." "well, i have three," said king, "so you see i haven't such deep awe of them. but midget won't hurt you, so don't be _too_ scared of her." marjorie smiled in most friendly fashion, for she liked these boys, and especially tom. "how old are you?" she asked him, in her frank, pleasant way. "i'm fourteen," replied tom, "and the other kids are twelve and ten." "king's fourteen,--'most fifteen," said midget; "and i'll be thirteen in july. so we're all in the same years. i wish our kitty was here. she's nearly eleven, but she isn't any bigger than harry." harry smiled shyly, and poked at the potatoes with a stick, not knowing quite what to say. "you see," king explained, "midget is the best sort of a girl there is. she's girly, all right, and yet she's as good as a boy at cutting up jinks or doing any old kind of stunts." the three craigs looked at marjorie in speechless admiration. "i never knew that kind," said tom, thoughtfully. "you see, we go to a boys' school, and we haven't any girl cousins, or anything; and the only girls i ever see are at dancing class, or in a summer hotel, and then they're all frilled up, and sort of airy." "i love to play with boys," said marjorie, frankly, "and i guess we'll have a lot of fun this summer." "i guess we _will_! are you going to stay all summer?" "yes, till september, when school begins." "so are we. isn't it funny we live next door to each other?" "awful funny," agreed marjorie, pulling a very black potato out of the red-hot embers. "this is done," she went on, "and i'm going to eat it." "so say we all of us," cried king. "one done,--all done! help yourselves, boys!" so they all pulled out the black, sooty potatoes, with more delighted anticipations than would have been roused by the daintiest dish served at a table. "ow!" cried marjorie, flinging down her potato, and sticking her finger in her mouth. "ow! that old thing _popped_ open, and burned me awfully!" "too bad, mops!" said king, with genuine sympathy, but the craig boys were more solicitous. "oh, oh! i'm so sorry," cried tom. "does it hurt _terribly_?" "yes, it does," said midget, who was not in the habit of complaining when she got hurt, but who was really suffering from the sudden burn. "let me tie it up," said dick, shyly. "yes, do," said tom. "dick is our good boy. he always helps everybody else." "but what can we tie it up with?" said marjorie. "my handkerchief is all black from wiping off that potato." "i,--i've got a clean one," and dick, blushing with embarrassment, took a neatly folded white square from his pocket. "would you look at that!" said tom. "i declare dicky always has the right thing at the right time! good for you, boy! fix her up." quite deftly dick wrapped the handkerchief round marjorie's finger, and secured it with a bit of string from another pocket. "you ought to have something on it," he said, gravely. "kerosene is good, but as we haven't any, it will help it just to keep the air away from it, till you go home." "goodness!" exclaimed midget. "you talk like a doctor." "i'm going to be a doctor when i grow up," said dick. "he is," volunteered harry; "he cured the cat's broken leg, and he mended a bird's wing once." "yes, i did," admitted dick, modestly blushing at his achievements. "are you going right home because of your finger?" "no, indeed! we never stop for hurts and things, unless they're bad enough for us to go to bed. give me another potato, and you open it for me, won't you, dick?" "yep," and marjorie was immediately supplied with the best of the potatoes and apples, carefully prepared for her use. "aren't there any other girls in seacote?" she inquired. "there's hester corey," answered tom; "but we don't know her very well. she isn't nice, like you are. and i don't know of any others, though there may be some. most of the people in the cottages haven't any children,--or else they're grown up,--big girls and young ladies. and there's a few little babies, but not many of our age. so that's why we're so glad you came." "and that's why you stole our wood!" "yes, truly. we thought that'd be a good way to test your temper." "it was a risky way," said king, thinking it over. "oh, i don't know. i knew, if you were the right sort, you'd take it all right; and if you weren't the right sort, we didn't care how you took it." "that's so," agreed marjorie. chapter iii the sand club life at seacote soon settled down to its groove, and it was a very pleasant groove. there was always plenty of fun to be had. bathing every day in the crashing breakers, digging in the sand, building beach fires, talking to the old fishermen, were all delightful pursuits. and then there were long motor rides inland, basket picnics in pine groves, and excursions to nearby watering-places. the craig boys turned out to be jolly playfellows, and they and the maynards became inseparable chums. marjorie often wished one of them had been a girl, but at the same time, she enjoyed her unique position of being the only girl in the crowd. the boys deferred to her as to a princess, and she ruled them absolutely. of course the senior craigs and maynards became good friends also, and the two ladies especially spent many pleasant hours together. baby rosamond rarely played with the older children, as she was too little to join in their vigorous games, often original with themselves, and decidedly energetic. the beach was their favorite playground. they never tired of digging in the sand, and they had a multitude of spades and shovels and hoes for their various sand performances. some days they built a fort, other days a castle or a pleasure ground. their sand-works were extensive and elaborate, and it often seemed a pity that the tide or the wind should destroy them over night. "i say, let's us be a sand club," said tom one day. "we're always playing in the sand, you know." "all right," said marjorie, instantly seeing delightful possibilities. "we'll call ourselves sand crabs, for we're always scrambling through the sand." "and we're jolly as sandboys!" said king. "i don't know what sandboys really are, but they're always jolly, and so are we." "i'd like something more gay and festive," marjorie put in; "i mean like court life, or something where we could dress up, and pretend things." "i know what you mean," said dick, grasping her idea. "let's have sand court, and build a court and a throne, and we'll all be royal people and marjorie can be queen." "well, let's all have sandy names," suggested tom. "marjorie can be queen sandy. and we'll call our court sandringham palace. you know there is one, really." "you can be the grand sandjandrum!" said king, laughing. "no, you be that," said tom, unselfishly. "no, sir; _you've_ got to. i'll be a sand piper, and play the court anthems." "all right," said marjorie, "and harry can be a sand crab, for he just scuttles through the sand all the time. what'll dick be?" king looked at dick. "we'll call him sandow," he suggested, and they all laughed, for dick was a frail little chap, without much muscular strength. but the name stuck to him, and they always called him sandow thereafter. "i wish we could make our palace where it would stay made," said marjorie. "we don't want to make a new one every day." "that's so," said tom. "if we only could find a secret haunt." "i know a kind of a one," said dick; "'way back in our yard, near where it joins yours, is a deepy kind of a place, and it's quite sandy." "just the thing!" cried marjorie. "i know that place. come on!" she was off like a deer, and the rest followed. a few moments' scamper brought them to the place, and all declared it was just the very spot for a palace. "i'd like beach sand better, though," said marjorie. "we'll bring all you want," declared tom. "we'll take a wheelbarrow, and bring heaps up from the beach." the sand club worked for days getting their palace in order. the two big boys wheeled many loads of sand up from the beach, and marjorie and the two other boys arranged it in shape. dick was clever at building, and he planned a number of fine effects. of course, their palace had no roof or walls, but the apartments were partitioned off with low walls of sand, and there were sand sofas and chairs, and a gorgeous throne. the throne was a heap of sand, surmounted by a legless armchair, found in the craigs' attic, and at court meetings draped with pink cheesecloth and garlands of flowers. the whole palace was really a "secret haunt," for a slight rise of ground screened it from view on two sides and trees shaded the other side. the parents of both families were pleased with the whole scheme, for it kept the children occupied, and they could always be found at a moment's notice. sand tables were built, and on them were bits of old dishes and broken vases, all of which were desirable because they could stay out in the rain and not be harmed. moreover, they were handy in case of a feast. at last preparations were complete and they decided to open the court next day. "we must have a flag," said marjorie. "i'll make it. the court colors are red and yellow, and our emblem will be,--what shall our emblem be?" "a pail of sand," suggested tom. "yes; i can cut out a pail of red flannel, and sew it on to a yellow flag. i'll make that this afternoon, and we'll hold court to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. we must all wear some red and yellow. sashes will do for you boys, and i'll have,--well, i'll fix up a rig of some kind." marjorie was a diligent little worker when she chose to be, and that afternoon she made a very creditable flag, showing a pail, red; on a field, yellow. she made also sashes for them all, of red and yellow cheesecloth, and she made herself a court train of the same material, which trailed grandly from her shoulders. next morning the sand club assembled on the maynards' veranda, to march to sandringham palace. mrs. craig had helped out the costumes of her royal children, and the grand sandjandrum was gorgeous in a voluminous yellow turban, with a red cockade sticking up on one side. sandow and the sand crab had soldier hats made of red and yellow paper, and big sailor collars of the same colors. the sand piper wore his sash jauntily with a huge shoulder knot, and he, too, had a cockaded headgear. marjorie, as queen sandy, wore her trailing court robe and a crown of yellow paper with red stars on it. she had a sceptre, and sandow carried the flag. the sand piper marched ahead, playing on a tuneful instrument known as a kazoo. next came the grand sandjandrum, then the queen, then the sand crab, and finally, sandow with the flag. slowly and with great dignity the procession filed out toward the palace. king was playing the star spangled banner, or thought he was. it sounded almost as much like hail columbia,--but it didn't really matter, and they're both difficult tunes, anyway. blithely they stepped along, and prepared to enter the palace with a flourish of trumpets, as it were, when king's music stopped suddenly. "great golliwogs!" he cried. "look at that!" "look at what?" said tom, who was absorbed in the grand march. but he looked, and they all looked, and five angry exclamations sounded as they saw only the ruins of the beloved sandringham palace. somebody had utterly demolished it. the low walls were broken and scattered, the sand tables and chairs were torn down, and the throne was entirely upset. "who did this?" roared tom. but as nobody knew the answer, there was no reply. "it couldn't have been any of your servants, could it?" asked king of the craigs. "i know it wasn't any of ours." "no; it wasn't ours, either," said tom. "could it have been your little sister?" "mercy, no!" cried marjorie. "rosy posy isn't that sort of a child. oh, i do think it's awful!" and forgetting her royal dignity, queen sandy began to cry. "why, mops," said king, kindly; "brace up, old girl. don't cry." "i'm not a cry baby," said midget, smiling through her tears. "i'm just crying 'cause i'm so _mad_! i'm mad clear through! how _could_ anybody be so ugly?" "i'm mad, too," declared tom, slowly, "but i know who did it, and it's partly my fault, i s'pose." "your fault!" exclaimed midget. "why, tom, how can it be?" "well, you see it was this way. yesterday afternoon mrs. corey came to call on my mother, and she brought hester with her." "that red-headed girl?" "yes; and she has a temper to match her hair! mother made me talk to her, and, as i didn't know what else to talk about, i told her about our sand club, and about the court to-day and everything. and she wanted to belong to the club, and i told her she couldn't, because it was just the maynards and the craigs. and she was madder'n hops, and she coaxed me, and i still said no, and then she said she'd get even with us somehow." "but, tom," said king, "we don't know that girl to speak to. we hardly know her by sight." "but we do. we knew her when we were here last summer, but, you see, this year we've had you two to play with, so we've sort of neglected her,--and she doesn't like it." "but that's no reason she should spoil our palace," and marjorie looked sadly at the scene of ruin and destruction. "no; and of course i'm not sure that she did do it. but she said she'd do something to get even with you." "with me? why, she doesn't know me at all." "that's what she's mad about. she says you're stuck up, and you put on airs and never look at her." "why, how silly! i don't know her, but somehow, from her looks, i _know_ i shouldn't like her." "no, you wouldn't, marjorie. she's selfish, and she's ill-tempered. she flies into a rage at any little thing, and,--well, she isn't a bit like you maynards." "_no!_ and i'm glad of it! i wouldn't _want_ to be like such a stuck-up thing!" these last words were spoken by a strange voice, and marjorie looked round quickly to see a shock of red hair surmounting a very angry little face just appearing from behind the small hill, beneath whose overhanging shadow they had built their palace. "why, hester corey!" shouted tom. "what are you doing here?" "i came to see how you like your old sand-house!" she jeered, mockingly, and making faces at marjorie between her words. marjorie was utterly astonished. it was her first experience with a child of this type, and she didn't know just how to take her. the newcomer was a little termagant. her big blue eyes seemed to flash with anger, and as she danced about, shaking her fist at marjorie and pointing her forefinger at her, she cried, tauntingly, "stuck up! proudy!" marjorie grew indignant. she had done nothing knowingly to provoke this wrath, so she faced the visitor squarely, and glared back at her. "i'd rather be stuck up than to be such a spiteful thing as you are!" she declared. "did _you_ tear down this palace that we took such trouble to build?" "yes, i did!" said hester. "and if you build it again, i'll tear it down again,--so, there, now!" "you'll do no such thing!" shouted tom. "huh, smarty! what have you got to say about it?" the crazy little hester flew at tom and pounded him vigorously on the back. "i hate you!" she cried. "i _hate_ you!" as a matter of fact, her little fists couldn't hurt the big, sturdy boy, but her intense anger made him angry too. "you, hester corey!" he cried. "you leave me alone!" king stood a little apart, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the combatants. "say, we've had about enough of this," he said, speaking quietly, and without excitement. "we maynards are not accustomed to this sort of thing. we squabble sometimes, but we never get really angry." "goody-goody boy!" said hester, sneeringly, and making one of her worst faces at him. for some reason this performance struck king as funny. "do it again," he said. "how do you ever squink up your nose like that! bet you can't do it three times in succession." the audacious hester tried it, and the result was so ludicrous they all laughed. "now look here," went on king, "we're not acquainted with you, but we know you're hester corey. we know you spoiled our sand palace, just out of angry spite. now, hester corey, you've got to be punished for that. we're peaceable people ourselves, but we're just, also. we were about to have a nice celebration, but you've put an end to that before it began. so, instead, we're going to have a trial. you're the prisoner, and you've pleaded guilty,--at least, you've confessed your crime. queen sandy, get into that throne,--never mind if it is upset,--set it up again. grand sandjandrum, take your place on that mussed up sand heap. you two other chaps,--stand one each side of the prisoner as sentinels. i'll conduct this case, and queen sandy will pronounce the sentence. it's us maynards that hester corey seems to have a grudge against, so it's up to us maynards to take charge of the case. prisoner, stand on that board there." "i won't do it!" snapped hester, and the red locks shook vigorously. "you will do it," said king, quietly, and for some reason or other hester quailed before his glance, and then meekly stood where he told her to. "have you anything to say for yourself?" king went on. "any excuse to offer for such a mean, hateful piece of work?" hester sulked a minute, then she said: "yes, i was mad at you, because you all have such good times, and wouldn't let me in them." "what do you mean by that? you never asked to come in." "i did. i asked tom craig yesterday, and he wouldn't ask you." "then why are you mad at us?" "because you're so proud and exclusive. you think yourselves so great; you think nobody's as good as you are!" "that isn't true, hester," said king, quite gently; "and even if it were, are you proving yourself better than we are by cutting up this mean, babyish trick? if you want us to like you, why not make yourself likeable, instead of horrid and hateful?" this was a new idea to hester, and she stared at king as if greatly interested. "that's right," he went on. "if people want people to like them, they must be likeable. they must be obliging and kind and pleasant, and not small and spiteful." "you haven't been very nice to me," muttered hester. "we haven't had a chance. and before we get a chance you upset everything by making us dislike you! what kind of common sense is that?" "maybe you could forgive me," suggested hester, hopefully. "maybe we could, later on. but we're for fair play, and you treated us unfairly. so now, you've got to be punished. queen sandy, grand sandjandrum, which of you can suggest proper punishment for this prisoner of ours?" tom thought for a moment, then he said: "seems 's if she ought to put this palace back in order, just as it was when she found it,--but that's too hard work for a girl." "i'll help her," said harry, earnestly. "i'm sorry for her." "sorry for her!" cried tom, with blazing eyes. "_sorry_ for the girl that spoiled our palace!" "well, you see," went on harry, "she's sorry herself now." chapter iv sand court with one accord, they all looked at hester. sure enough, it was easily to be seen that she was sorry. all her anger and rage had vanished, and she stood digging one toe into the sand, and twisting from side to side, with her eyes cast down, and two big tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. marjorie sprang up from her wabbly throne, and running to hester, threw her arms around her. "don't cry, hester," she said. "we'll all forgive you. i think you lost your temper and i think you're sorry now, aren't you?" "oh, yes, yes, i am!" sobbed hester. "but i envied the good times you had, and when tom wouldn't let me into your club, i got so mad i didn't know what to do." "there, there, don't cry any more," and midget smoothed the tangled red mop, and tried to comfort the bad little hester. tom looked rather disappointed. "i say," he began, "she did an awful mean thing, and she ought to be----" "hold on a minute, tom," said marjorie. "i'm queen of this club, and what i say goes! is that right, my courtiers?" she looked round at the boys, smiling in a wheedlesome way, and king said, "right, o queen sandy! right always and ever, in the hearts of your gentlemen-in-waiting." "you bet you are!" cried tom, quick to follow king's lead. "our noble queen has but to say the word, and it is our law. therefore, o queen, we beg thee to mete out a just punishment to this prisoner within our gates." "hear ye! hear ye!" said midget, with great dramatic fervor. "i hereby forgive this prisoner of ours, because she's truly sorry she acted like the dickens. and as a punishment, i condemn her to rebuild this royal palace, but, following harry's example, we will all help her with the work." then king burst forth into song: "hooray, hooray, for our noble queen, the very best monarch that ever was seen. there's nobody quite so perfectly dandy, as our most gracious, most noble queen sandy!" they all repeated this chorus, and the queen bowed and smiled at her devoted court. "and also," her royal highness went on, "we hereby take into our club miss hester corey as a new member. i'm glad to have another girl in it,--and what i say goes!" this time tom made up the song: "what she says, goes! she's sweet as a rose, from head to toes, so what she says, goes!" "miss hester corey is now a member," said midget, "and her name is,--is----" "sand witch," suggested tom. "yes," said king; "you expect witches to cut up tricks." "all right," said hester. "call me sand witch, and you'll see there are good witches as well as bad." "come on, then," said marjorie, "and show us how you can work. let's put this palace back into shape again as quick as scat!" they all fell to work, and it didn't take so very long after all. hester was conquered by the power of marjorie's kindness, and she was meek as a lamb. she did whatever she was told, and was a quick and willing worker. "now," said midget, after it was all in order once more, "now we'll have our celebration. you see, we have six in our court now, instead of five, and i think it's nicer. i'll give the sand witch my sash to wear, and she can be my first lady-in-waiting." this position greatly pleased hester, and she took her place at the side of the enthroned queen, while tom stood at her other side. king played a grand tune, and they all sang. the song was in honor of the flag-raising, and was hastily composed by marjorie for the occasion: "our flag, our flag, our sand club flag! long may she wave, long may she wag! and may our sand club ever stand a glory to our native land." tom persisted in singing "a glory to our native _sand_," and king said _strand_, but after all, it didn't matter. then sandow, bearing the flag, stepped gravely forward, and the boys all helped to plant it firmly in the middle of sand court, while the queen and her lady-in-waiting nodded approval. "ha, courtiers! i prithee sit!" the queen commanded, when the flag was gaily waving in the breeze. her four courtiers promptly sat on the ground at her feet, and the queen addressed them thus: "gentlemen-in-waiting of sandringham palace, there are much affairs of state now before us. first must we form our club, our sand club." "most noble queen," and tom rose to his feet, "have i your permission to speak?" "speak!" said the queen, graciously, waving her sceptre at him. "then i rise to inquire if this is a secret organization." "you bet it is!" cried king, jumping up. "the very secretest ever! if any one lets out the secrets of these secret meetings, he shall be excommunicated in both feet!" "a just penalty!" said tom, gravely. "is all well, o fair queen? do you agree?" "yes, i agree," said the queen, smiling. "but i want to know what these secrets are to be about." "that's future business," declared king. "just now we have to elect officers, and all that." "all right," said marjorie, "but you must be more courtly about it. say it more,--you know how i mean." "as thus," spoke up the lady-in-waiting, dropping on one knee before the queen. "what is the gracious will of your royal highness in the matter of secretary and treasurer, o queen!" "yes, that's better. well, my court, to tell you the truth, i don't think that we need a secretary and such things, because it isn't a regular club. let us content ourselves with our present noble offices. grand sandjandrum, what are the duties of thy high office?" "no duties, but all pleasures, when serving thee, o noble and gracious queen!" "that's fine," said midget, clapping her hands. "hither, sir sand piper! what are thy duties at, court?" "your majesty," said king, bowing low, "it is my humble part to play the pipes, or to lay the pipes, as the case may be. i do not smoke pipes, but, if it be thy gracious wish, i can blow fair soap bubbles from them." "sand piper, i see you know your business," said the queen. "ha! sand crab, what dost thou do each day?" "just scramble around in the sand," replied harry, and suiting the action to the word, he gave such a funny scrambling performance that they all applauded. "right well done, noble sand crab," commented the smiling queen. "and thou, o sandow?" "i do all the strong-arm work required in the palace," said dick, doubling up his little fist, and trying to make it look large and powerful. "now, thee, my fair lady-in-waiting, what dost thou do in this, my court?" hester shook back her mop of red curls, and her eyes danced as she answered, gaily: "i am the court sand witch! i cut up tricks of all sorts, as doth become a witch. aye, many a time will i cause enchantments to fall upon thee, one and all! i am a magic witch, and i can cast spells!" hester waved her arms about, and swayed from side to side, her eyes fixed in a glassy stare, and her red curls bobbing. "good gracious!" cried marjorie. "you're like a witch i saw on the stage once in a fairy pantomime. say, hester, let's have a pantomime entertainment some day." "all right. my mother'll help us. she's always getting up private theatricals and things like that. she says i inherit her dramatic talent." "all right," said tom, warningly; "but don't you turn your dramatic talent toward tearing down our palace again." "of course i won't, now i'm a member." "of course she won't," agreed marjorie. "now, my courtiers, and lady-in-waiting, there's another subject to come before your royal attention. we must have a court journal." "what's that?" inquired harry. "why, a sort of a paper, you know, with all the court news in it." "there isn't any." "but there will be. we're not fairly started yet. now who'll write this paper?" "all of us," suggested tom. "yes; but there must be one at the head of it,--sort of editor, you know." "guess it better be king," said tom, thoughtfully. "he knows the most about writing things." "all right," agreed king. "i'll edit the paper, only you must all contribute. we'll have it once a week, and everybody must send me some contribution, if it's only a little poem or something." "i can't write poems," said harry, earnestly, "but i can gather up news,--and like that." "yes," said marjorie, "that's what i mean. but it must be news about us court people, or maybe our families." "can't we make it up?" asked hester. "yes, i s'pose so, if you make it real court like and grand sounding." "what shall we call our paper?" asked king. "oh, just the _court journal_," replied midget. "i don't think so," objected hester. "i think it ought to have a name like _the sand club_." "_the jolly sandboy_," exclaimed tom. "how's that?" "but two of us are girls!" said marjorie. "that doesn't matter, it's just the name of the paper, you know. and it sounds so gay and jolly." "i like it," declared king, and so they all agreed to the name. "now, my courtiers and noble friends," said their queen, "it's time we all scooted home to luncheon. my queen-dowager mother likes me to be on time for meals. also, my majesty and my royal sand piper can't come back to play this afternoon. but shall this court meet to-morrow morning?" "you bet, your majesty!" exclaimed tom, with fervor. "that isn't very courtly language, my grand sandjandrum." "i humbly beg your majesty's pardon, and i prostrate myself in humble humility!" and tom sprawled on his face at marjorie's feet. "rise, sir knight," said the gracious queen, and then the court dispersed toward its various homes. "well, we had the greatest time this morning you ever heard of!" announced marjorie as, divested of her royal trappings and clad in a fresh pink gingham, she sat at the luncheon table. "what was it all about, moppets?" asked mrs. maynard. so king and marjorie together told all about the intrusion of hester on their celebration, and how they had finally taken her into the sand club as a member. "i think my children behaved very well," said mrs. maynard, looking at the two with pride. "i did get sort of mad at first, mother," marjorie confessed, not wanting more praise than was her just due. "well, i don't blame you!" declared king. "why, that girl made most awful faces at mops, and talked to her just horrid! if she hadn't calmed down afterward we couldn't have played with her at all." "i've heard about that child," said mrs. maynard. "she has most awful fits of temper, i'm told. mrs. craig says that hester will be as good and as sweet as a lamb for days,--and then she'll fly into a rage over some little thing. i'm glad you children are not like that." "i'm glad, too," said king. "we're not angels, but if we acted up like hester did at first we couldn't live in the house with each other!" "her mother is an actress," observed marjorie. "oh, no, midget, you're mistaken," said her mother. "i know mrs. corey, and she isn't an actress at all, and never was. but she is fond of amateur theatricals, and she is president of a club that gives little plays now and then." "yes, that's it," said king. "hester said her mother had dramatic talent, and she had inherited it. have you dramatic talent, mother?" "i don't know, king," said mrs. maynard, laughing. "your father and i have joined their dramatic club, but it remains to be seen whether we can make a success of it." "oh, mother!" cried marjorie. "are you really going to act in a play? oh, can we see you?" "i don't know yet, midget. probably it will be an entertainment only for grown-ups. we've just begun rehearsals." "have we dramatic talent, mother?" "not to any astonishing degree. but, yes, i suppose your fondness for playing at court life and such things shows a dramatic taste." "oh, it's great fun, mother! i just love to sit on that throne with my long trail wopsed on the floor beside me, and my sceptre sticking up, and my courtiers all around me,--oh, mother, i think i'd like to be a real queen!" "well, you see, midget, you were born in a country that doesn't employ queens." "and i'm glad of it!" cried marjorie, patriotically. "hooray! for the land of the free and the home of the brave! i guess i don't care to be a real queen, i guess i'll be a president's wife instead. say, mother, won't you and father write us some poems for _the jolly sandboy_?" "what is that, midget?" "oh, it's our court journal,--and you and father do write such lovely poetry. will you, mother?" "yes, i 'spect so." "oh, goody! when you say 'i 'spect so,' you always _do_. hey, king, rosy posy ought to have a sandy kind of a name, even if she doesn't come to our court meetings." "'course she ought. and she can come sometimes, if she doesn't upset things." "she can't upset things worse'n hester did." "no; but i don't believe hester will act up like that again." "she may, marjorie," said mrs. maynard. "i've heard her mother say she can't seem to curb hester's habit of flying into a temper. so just here, my two loved ones, let me ask you to be kind to the little girl, and if she gets angry, don't flare back at her, but try 'a soft answer.'" "but, mother," said king, "that isn't so awful easy! and, anyway, i don't think she ought to do horrid things,--like tumbling down our palace,--and then we just forgive her, and take her into the club!" "why not, king?" king looked a little nonplussed. "why," he said, "why,--because it doesn't seem fair." "and does it seem fairer for you to lose your temper too, and try what children call 'getting even with her'?" "well, mother, it _does_ seem fairer, but i guess it isn't very,--very _noble_." "no, son, it isn't. and i hope you'll come to think that sometimes nobility of action is better than mere justice." "i see what you mean, mother, and somehow, talking here with you, it all seems true enough. but when we get away from you, and off with the boys and girls, these things seem different. were you always noble when you were little, mother?" "no, kingdon dear, i wasn't always. but my mother tried her best to teach me to be,--so don't you think i ought to try to teach you?" "sure, mothery! and you bet we'll do our bestest to try to learn. hey, mops?" "yes, indeedy! i _want_ to do things right, but i seem to forget just when i ought to remember." "well, when you forget, come home and tell mother all about it, and we'll take a fresh start. you're pretty fairly, tolerably, moderately good children after all! only i want you to grow a little speck better each day." "and we _will_!" shouted king and marjorie together. chapter v "the jolly sandboy" the sand club was not very strict in its methods or systems. some days it met, and some days it didn't. sometimes all the court was present, and sometimes only three or four of them. but everything went on harmoniously, and there were no exhibitions of ill temper from the sand witch. in fact, hester was absorbed in doing her part toward the first number of _the jolly sandboy_. the child was quite an adept at drawing and painting, and she was making several illustrations for their court journal. one, representing marjorie seated on her sand throne, was really clever, and there were other smaller pictures, too. kingdon worked earnestly to get the paper into shape. he had contributions from all the club, and from mr. and mrs. maynard also. he had a small typewriter of his own, and he laboriously copied the contributions on fair, white pages, and, with hester's pictures interspersed, bound them all into a neat cover of red paper. this hester ornamented with a yellow sand-pail, emblem of their club, and tied it at the top with a yellow ribbon. altogether, the first number of _the jolly sandboy_ was a strikingly beautiful affair. and the court convened, in full court dress, to hear it read. the court wardrobes had received various additions. often a courtier blossomed out in some new regalia, always of red or yellow, or both. the several mothers of the court frequently donated old ribbons, feathers, or flowers, from discarded millinery or other finery, and all these were utilized by the frippery loving courtiers. hester had contrived a witch costume, which was greatly admired. a red skirt, a yellow shawl folded cornerwise, and a very tall peaked hat of black with red and yellow ribbons, made the child look like some weird creature. marjorie's tastes ran rather to magnificent attire, and she accumulated waving plumes, artificial flowers, and floating gauze veils and draperies. the boys wore nondescript costumes, in which red jerseys and yellow sashes played a prominent part, while king achieved the dignity of a mantle, picturesquely slung from one shoulder. many badges and orders adorned their breasts, and lances and spears, wound with gilt paper, added to the courtly effect. "my dearly beloved court," marjorie began, beaming graciously from her flower decked throne, "we are gathered together here to-day to listen to the reading of our court journal,--a noble paper,--published by our noble courtier, the sand piper, who will now read it to us." "hear! hear!" cried all the courtiers. "most liege majesty," began king, bowing so low that his shoulder cape fell off. but he hastily swung it back into place and went on. "also, most liege lady-in-waiting, our noble sand witch, we greet thee. and we greet our grand sandjandrum, and our noble sandow, and our beloved sand crab. we greet all, and everybody. did i leave anybody out of this greeting?" "no! no!" "all right; then i'll fire away. the first article in this paper is an editorial,--i wrote it myself because i am editor-in-chief. you're all editors, you know, but i'm the head editor." "why not say headitor?" suggested tom. "good idea, friend courtier! i'm the headitor, then. and this is my headitorial. here goes! 'courtiers and citizens: this journal, called _the jolly sandboy_, shall relate from time to time the doings of our noble court. it shall tell of the doughty deeds of our brave knights, and relate the gay doings of our fair ladies. it shall mention news of interest, if any, concerning the inhabitants of seacote in general, and the families of this court in particular. our politics are not confined to any especial party, but our platform is to grow up to be presidents ourselves.' this ends my headitorial." great applause followed this masterpiece of journalistic literature, and the sand piper proceeded: "i will next read the column of news, notes, and social events, as collected by our energetic and capable young reporter, the sand crab: * * * * * "'the queen and her lady-in-waiting went bathing in the ocean this morning. our noble queen was costumed in white, trimmed with blue, and the sand witch in dark blue trimmed with red. both noble ladies squealed when a large breaker knocked them over. the whole court rushed to their rescue, and no permanent damage resulted. "three gentlemen courtiers of this court, who reside in the same castle, had ice-cream for dinner last night. the colors were pink and white. it was exceeding good. "a very young princess, a sister of our beloved queen, went walking yesterday afternoon with her maid of honor. the princess wore a big white hat with funny ribbon bunches on it. also white shoes. "mr. sears has had his back fence painted. (we don't know any mr. sears, and he hasn't any back fence, but we are making up now, as our real news has given out and our column isn't full.) "mrs. black spent sunday with her mother-in-law, mrs. green. (see above.) "mr. van winkle is building a gray stone mansion of forty rooms on seashore drive. we think it is quite a pretty house. "this is all the news i can find for this time. yours truly.--the sand crab.'" * * * * * "noble sand crab, we thank you for your fine contribution to our midst," announced the queen, and the sand crab burrowed in the sand and kicked in sheer delight at such praise. "the next," announced the sand piper, "is an original poem by our most liege majesty, the queen. it's pretty fine, i think. "most noble court, i greet you now, from grand sandjandrum to small sandow. from old sand piper, and gay sand witch, to sand crab, with hair as black as pitch. i hope our court will ever be renowned for its fun and harmony. and as i gaze on this gorgeous scene, i'm glad i am your beloved queen." "jinks! that's gay!" exclaimed tom. "how do you ever do it, marjorie? i did a poem, but it doesn't run nice and slick like yours." "i'll read it next," said king. "i think it's pretty good. "i love the people named _maynard_, i like to play in their back yard. we have a jolly sand court, which makes the time fly very short. except going in the ocean bathing, there's nothing i like so much for a plaything." "that's very nice, tom," said marjorie, forgetting her rôle. "no, it isn't. it seems as if it ought to be right, and then somehow it isn't. bathing and plaything are 'most alike, and yet they sound awful different." "that's so. well, anyway, it's plenty good enough, and it's all true, tom." "yes, it's all true." "then it must be right, 'cause there's a quotation or something that says truth is beauty. we wouldn't want all our poems to be just alike, you know." "no, i s'pose not," and tom felt greatly encouraged by marjorie's kind criticism. "next," said king, "is our puzzle department. it's sort of queer, but it's sandow's contribution, and he said to put it in, and he'd explain about it. so here it is. * * * * * "'sandy prize puzzle. prize, a musical top, donated by the author. question: is the number of sands on the seashore odd or even? anybody in this court who can answer this question truthfully will receive the prize. signed, sandow.'" * * * * * "that's nonsense," cried hester. "how can anybody tell whether we answer truthfully or not?" "i can tell," said sandow, gravely. "whoever first answers it truthfully will get the prize." "but it's ridiculous," said king. "in the first place, how much seashore do you mean? only that here at seacote, or all the atlantic shore? or all the world?" dick considered. "i mean all the seashore in all the world," he said, at last. "then that's silly, too," said tom, "for how far does the seashore go? just to the edge of the ocean, or all the way under?" "all the way under," replied dick, solemnly. "then you really mean all the sand in all the world!" "yes; that's it. of course, all the sand in all the world numbers a certain number of grains. now, is that number odd or even?" "you're crazy, dick!" said hester, but marjorie said, "no, he isn't crazy; i think there's a principle there somewhere, but i can't work it out." "i guess you can't!" said king. "i give it up." "so do i!" declared tom, and at last they all gave it up. "now you must answer it yourself, dick," said king. "then nobody gets the prize," objected sandow. "no, you keep it yourself. have you got one, anyhow?" "yes, a nice musical top uncle john sent to me. i've never used it much, it's as good as new. i _wish_ somebody would guess." nobody did, and dick sighed. "bet you can't answer your old puzzle, yourself," said hester. "yes, i can," averred dick, "but you must ask it to me." "all right," said king. "mr. sandow, honorable and noble courtier of sand court, is the number of sea sands odd or even? answer truthfully now." "i don't know," replied dick, "and that's the truth!" how they all laughed! it was a quibble, of course, but the maynard children were surprised at themselves that they hadn't seen through the catch. dick sat on the sand, rocking back and forth with laughter. "the witch ought to have guessed it," he cried; "or else the queen ought to." "yes, my courtier, we ought," marjorie admitted. "you caught us fairly, and we hereby give you the post of wizard of this court. sand piper, what's next in your journal?" "the next is a poem by the honorable edward maynard. that is, he wrote part of it, and then, as he had to go to new york on business, his honorable wife finished it. here it is: "royal courtiers, great and grand, ruling o'er your court of sand, take this greeting from the pen of an humble citizen. may you, each one, learn to be filled with true nobility; gentle, loving, brave, and kind, strong of arm and pure of mind. may you have a lot of fun, and look back, when day is done, o'er long hours of merry play filled with laughter blithe and gay. may your court of mimic rule teach you lore not learned in school; rule your heart to think no ill, rule your temper and your will." "gee, that's real poetry, that is!" exclaimed tom. "say, your people are poets, aren't they?" "why, i think they are," said marjorie, "but father says they're not." "i'd like a copy of that poem," said hester, looking very serious. "all right," said king, catching the witch's glance. "i'll make you a nice typewritten copy of it to-morrow." "and now, my royal sand piper, is there any more poetic lore for us to listen to?" "aye, my liege queen, there is one more poem. this is a real poem also, but it is of the humorous variety. it was composed by the mother of our royal sand witch, and was freely contributed to our paper by that estimable lady. methinks she mistook our club for a debating club, and yet, perhaps not. this may be merely a flight of fancy, such as poets are very fond of, i am told. i will now read mrs. corey's contribution: "there once was a debating club, exceeding wise and great; on grave and abstruse questions it would eagerly debate. its members said: 'we are so wise, ourselves we'll herewith dub the great aristophelean pythagoristic club.' and every night these bigwigs met, and strove with utmost pains to solve recondite problems that would baffle lesser brains. they argued and debated till the hours were small and wee; and weren't much discouraged if they didn't then agree. they said their say, and went their way, these cheerful, pleasant men, and then came round next evening, and said it all again. well, possibly, you'll be surprised; but all the winter through the questions they debated on numbered exactly two. for as they said: 'of course we can't take up another one, till we have solved conclusively the two that we've begun.' they reasoned and they argued, as the evenings wore along; and each one thought that he was right, and deemed the others wrong. they wrangled and contended, they disputed and discussed, they retorted and rebutted, they refuted and they fussed; but though their wisdom was profound, and erudite their speech, a definite conclusion those men could never reach. and so the club disbanded, and they read their last report, which told the whole sad story, though it was exceeding short: 'resolved--we are not able to solve these problems two: "does polly want a cracker?" and "what did katy do?"'" "well, isn't that fine!" cried marjorie. "why, hester, your mother is more a poet than ours." "she does write lovely poetry," said hester, "but i like your mother's poem, too, because it,--well, you know what i mean." somehow the children all understood that tempestuous hester appreciated the lines that so gently advised the ruling and subduing of an unruly temper and will, but nobody knew just how to express it. so king broke a somewhat awkward silence by saying, heartily, "yep, we know!" and all the others said "yep" in chorus. "i think, o royal court," the queen began, "that our first paper is fine. how often shall we issue _the jolly sandboy_?" "'bout once a week, i think," said tom. "all right," agreed king; "and you fellows get your stuff in a little earlier next week so's i can typewrite it in time." "and now, my beloved court," resumed midget, "i think we have sat still long enough, and i decree that we have a game of prisoner's base. and what i say goes!" there was no dissenting voice. the queen unpinned her court train from her shoulders, the sand witch laid aside her tall, peaked hat, and the courtiers discarded such details of their costumes as seemed likely to impede progress in the game. prisoner's base was followed by hide and seek, and then it was time for the court to repair to its several homes. "it's all so lovely, marjorie," said hester. "i'm _so_ glad you let me play with you." "that's all right, hester, as long as you don't smash things or make faces at us." "oh, i never will again; truly, marjorie. i'm going to learn that poem of your mother's by heart, and i _know_ i'll never lose my temper again, good-bye." "good-bye, hester," and after an affectionate kiss the two girls parted. "goo'-bye, queenie sandy," called tom, as they separated at the turn of the path. "good-bye, tom, you old grand sandjandrum!" and then the maynards ran into their own house. "gently, my lad and lassie; gently!" warned mrs. maynard, as her two young hopefuls flung themselves upon her. "oh, mothery," cried marjorie, "we had _such_ a good time! and our court journal was lovely! want to see it? and king fixed it up so beautifully, and hester made such _dear_ pictures for it! oh, mother, isn't it splendid to have so much fun?" "yes, dearie," and mrs. maynard stroked the flushed brow of her energetic and excitable daughter. "but when you come in from your play, you must be a little bit quieter and more ladylike. i don't want to think that these merry companions of yours are making you really boisterous." "they are, though," said king. "i like the craigs and hester corey, but they sure are the noisy bunch!" "oh, king, not _quite_ so much slang!" "no, mother, we won't get gay! we'll try to please you every way! but we're feeling rather spry to-day! so please excuse us, mothery may!" chapter vi two welcome guests it was saturday afternoon. the maynard children had been told that guests were expected to dinner, and they must put on festival array. and so when king and marjorie, in white serge and white piqué respectively, wandered out on to the front veranda, they found their parents and a very dressy-looking rosamond there before them. "who are coming to dinner, mother?" asked midget. "ask your father, my dear." "why, don't _you_ know, mother? well, who are they, daddy?" "somebody and somebody else," replied mr. maynard, smiling. "oho, a secret!" exclaimed midget. "then it must be somebody nice! let's guess, king." "all right. are they kids or grown-ups, father?" "grown-ups, my son." "oh!" and marjorie looked disappointed. "do we know them?" "you have met them, yes." "do they live at seacote?" "they are here for the summer." "where do they live winters?" asked king. "under the stars and stripes." "huh! that may mean the philippines or alaska!" "it may. have you met many people who reside in those somewhat removed spots?" "not many," said king, "and that's a fact. well, are they a lady and gentleman?" "they are." "oh, i know!" cried marjorie. "it's kitty and uncle steve! he said they'd come down here some time while we're here! am i right, father?" "not quite, mopsy. you see, i said they are grown-ups." "both of them?" "both of them." "well, i don't care much who they are, then," declared king. "i don't see anything in it for us, mops." "no, but we ought to guess them if they're spending the summer here and we've met them. of course, it couldn't be kitty! she isn't spending the summer here. is it the coreys or craigs, father?" "no, neither of those names fit our expected guests." "then it must be some of those people the other side of the pier. i don't know any more on this side except the fishermen. is it any of them?" "well, no. i doubt if they'd care to visit us. but never mind our guests for the moment; i want you two children to go on an errand for me." "right-o!" said king. "where?" "walk along the shore road three blocks, then turn inland and walk a block and a half. do you know that place with lots of vines all over the front of the house?" "yes, i do," said marjorie, "but nobody lives there." "all right. i want you to take a message to mr. nobody." "oh, father, what do you mean?" "just what i say. you say nobody lives there, and that's the very man i mean." "all right," said king. "we'll go, if you tell us to. hey, mops?" "'course we will! what shall we say to mr. nobody, father?" "first you must ring the doorbell, and if nobody opens the door, walk in." "ho! if nobody opens the door, how _can_ we walk in?" "walk in. and then if nobody speaks to you, answer him politely, and say your father, one mr. maynard, desires his advice and assistance." "oh, father, i do believe you're crazy!" exclaimed marjorie. "never mind," said king, "if father's crazy, we'll be crazy too! what next, for orders?" "after that, be guided by your own common sense and good judgment. and,--you wouldn't be frightened at nobody, would you?" "no!" declared king. "nobody could frighten me!" "oh, he could, could he? well, you are a foolish boy if nobody could frighten you!" king looked a little confused, and then he laughed and said, "well, i'd just as lieve fight nobody, if he attacks me." "there'll be no cause to fight, my boy. now, skip along, and remember your message." "yes, mr. edward maynard wants advice and assistance from nobody! well, i guess that's right, father, but it all sounds to me like an april fool joke. come on, midget." as the two children skipped away, king said, thoughtfully, "what does it all mean, mops?" "i dunno, king. but it means _something_. it isn't a wild-goose chase, or an april-fool sort of joke. i know father has some nice surprise for us the way his eyes twinkled." "well, but this empty house business seems so silly! i know nobody lives there, for i passed there a few days ago, and it was all shut up." "well, we'll soon find out," and the children turned the corner toward the house in question. sure enough, the blinds were closed and there was no sign of habitation. "mr. nobody lives here, all right!" said king as they entered the gate. "and such a pretty place, too," commented marjorie, looking at the luxuriant vines that ran riot over the front veranda. king rang the bell, feeling half-angry and half-silly at the performance. in a moment the door swung open, but no person was seen. "well!" exclaimed king. "nobody opened that door!" "we must walk in," said midget. "father said so." "oh, i hate to! we really haven't any right to go into a strange house like this!" "but father said to! come on!" and grasping king's hand, midget urged him inside. they stood in the middle of a pretty and attractively furnished hall, but saw or heard no people. "hello, mr. nobody!" said marjorie, still clasping king's hand tightly, for the situation was a little weird. "hello, yourself!" responded a cheery voice, but they couldn't see any one. the voice reassured king, and he said, humorously, "i see nobody! how do you do, sir?" "quite well," answered the same voice, but it was a bit muffled, and they couldn't judge where it came from. also it sounded very gay and laughing, and marjorie thought it seemed a bit familiar, though she couldn't place it. "my father sent a message," went on king, sturdily. "he says he wants nobody's advice and assistance." "what a self-reliant man!" said the voice, and then from behind a portière a laughing face appeared, followed by a man's active body. at the same time, from an opposite portière, a lady sprang out and took marjorie in her arms. "cousin ethel!" "cousin jack!" and the children laughed in glee as they recognized mr. and mrs. bryant. "you dear things!" the lady exclaimed. "i think it's awful to startle you so, but it's the joke of your father and your cousin jack. i was afraid it would scare you. did it?" "not exactly," said marjorie, cuddling in cousin ethel's arms, but king protested: "no, indeed!" he declared. "i wasn't scared, but i felt a little queer." "you're two ducky daddles!" cousin ethel cried, and cousin jack slapped king on the shoulder and said, "you're a trump, old man!" and king felt very grown-up and manly. "what's it all about?" he inquired, and mr. bryant replied: "well, you see, if you've room for us here in seacote, we're going to stay here for a while. in fact, we've taken this shack with such an intention." "oh!" cried marjorie. "you've taken this house for the summer, and father knew it, and sent us over here to be surprised!" "you've sized up the situation exactly, mehitabel," said cousin jack, who loved to call midget by this old-fashioned name. "and now, if we were properly invited, and very strongly urged, we _might_ be persuaded to go home to dinner with you." "oh," cried marjorie, a light breaking in upon her, "you're the dinner guests they're expecting!" "we sure are!" said cousin jack. "and as this is the first time we've been invited out to dinner in seacote, we're impatient to go." so they set off for the maynard house, and midget led the way with cousin ethel. "when did you come?" she inquired. "only this morning, dear. we're not quite set to rights yet, though i brought my own servants, and they'll soon have us all comfy." "and how did you and father fix up this plan?" "he was over here this afternoon, and he and cousin jack planned it. then, as soon as you left your house, your father telephoned over here, and we prepared to receive you in that crazy fashion. of course, jack opened the door and stayed behind it. you weren't frightened, were you?" "no, not really. but it seemed a little,--a little creepy, you know." "of course it did!" cried cousin jack from behind them. "but that house is so overhung with creepers it makes you feel creepy anyway. i'm going to call it creeper castle." "oh, don't!" said marjorie. "it sounds horrid! makes you think of caterpillars and things like that!" "so it does! well, mehitabel, you name it for us. i can't live in a house without a name." "i'd call it bryant bower. that sounds flowery and pretty." "just the ticket! you're a genius for names! bryant bower it is. what's the name of your house,--maynard mansion?" "maynard manor is prettier," suggested cousin ethel. "so it is! maynard manor goes! i don't know anybody with prettier manners than the maynards, especially the younger generation of them," and though cousin jack spoke laughingly, there was an earnest undertone in his voice that greatly pleased king and marjorie. "hooray!" cried that hilarious gentleman, as they reached the maynards' veranda. "hello, ed. how d'ye do, helen? here we are! we're returning your youngsters right side up with care. why, look who's here!" and catching up rosy posy, he tossed her high in the air, to the little girl's great delight. dinner was a festive occasion indeed, and afterward they all sat on the wide veranda and listened to the roar of the waves. "this is a restful place," said cousin ethel, as she leaned back comfortably in her wicker rocker. "so it is," agreed her husband, "but, if you ask _me_, i think it's _too_ restful. i like a place with some racket to it, don't you, hezekiah?" this was his pet name for king, and the boy replied: "there's fun enough here, cousin jack, if you make it yourself." "that's so, is it? well, i guess i'll try to make some. let's see, isn't fourth of july next week?" "yes, it is," said marjorie. "next week, wednesday." "well, that's a good day to have fun; and an especially good day for a racket. what shall we do, kiddies?" "do you mean for us to choose?" asked marjorie. "no, mehitabel; you suggest, and i'll choose. you think of the very nicest sort of celebrations you know, and i'll select the nicest of them all." "well," said midget, thoughtfully, "there's a party or a picnic. how many people do you mean, cousin jack? and do you mean children or grown-ups?" "now i feel aggrieved, and insulted, and chagrined, and many other awful things!" cousin jack looked so woe-begone that they almost thought him in earnest. "you _know_, mehitabel, that i'm but a child myself! i'm not a grown-up, and i never will be!" "that's so!" laughed his wife. "and so, us children will have a celebration of the children, for the children, and by the children! how many perfectly good children do you know down here?" "not many," said king; "hardly any, in fact, except the sand club." "the sand club! that sounds interesting. tell me about it." so king and marjorie told all about the sand club and its six members, and cousin jack declared that was just enough for his idea of a fourth of july celebration. "now for the plan," he went on. "how about a picnic in the woods, which i see sticking up over there, and then come back to bryant bower for some fireworks later?" "i think that sounds beautiful!" said marjorie, and king entirely agreed. "why not have the fireworks here?" said mr. maynard. "you're too good to these children, jack." "not a bit of it. we can have a celebration here some other night. but i've picked out the glorious fourth for my own little racketty-packetty party. you see, on that day we can make all the noise we like and not get arrested." "can we dress up, cousin jack?" asked marjorie. "sure, child; wear your best bib and tucker, if you like, but i like you better in your play-clothes." "i don't mean that. i mean costumes." "midget is great for dressing up," explained king. "she always wants some cheesecloth wobbed around her, and veils and feathers on her head." "oh, i see! why, yes, i rather guess we _can_ dress up." "i'll wear a red, white, and blue sash, and a liberty cap," said midget, her eyes dancing. "oh, we can do better than that," responded cousin jack. "let's see; we'll make it a sort of reception affair, and you, mehitabel, can be the goddess of liberty, or miss columbia, whichever you like. hezekiah, you can be uncle sam! your respected cousin ethel and i will guarantee your costume." "i want to be a somefin'," spoke up rosamond, who had been allowed to stay up later than usual, in honor of the guests. "so you shall, babykins. i guess we'll let sister be miss columbia, and you shall be a dear little goddess of liberty all your own self! how's that?" and cousin jack beamed at the smiling rosy posy. "now, where shall the picnic be?" asked cousin ethel, ready to help along the plans. "there's a lovely grove over beyond the pier," said midget; "we might go there." "the very place!" said cousin jack; "and we'll have a sand-pail picnic. didn't you say your coat-of-arms was a sand-pail?" "yes, that's the emblem of the club." "and a fine emblem for a picnic. we'll have pails of sandwiches and cakes, and a pail of lemonade, and a pail of ice cream. how's that for emblems?" "fine!" said king. "shall i invite the guests?" "yes, my boy. tell them to assemble here at three o'clock, and we'll depart at once. tell them all to wear red, white, and blue in honor of the day." "and do we catch firecrackers?" "little ones,--and torpedoes. but no cannon crackers or cap-pistols or bombs or any firearms. i'm not going to have a hospitalful of gunpowder victims on my hands the next day." "and now," said mrs. maynard, "as these wonderful affairs of the nation seem to be all settled, i think you young patriots must skip to bed. your father and i would like a few words ourselves with these guests of ours." "guests of _ours_," corrected midget, gayly. "cousin jack says he's never going to grow up!"' but after lingering good-nights, the brother and sister, arm in arm, went into the house. "aren't they dandies!" exclaimed king, as they went upstairs. "gay!" agreed marjorie. "won't we have fun on the fourth! oh, i was _so_ surprised to see them, weren't you, king?" "yep. the craigs will like cousin jack, won't they?" "yes, indeed, and hester, too. good-night, king." "good-night, mopsy midget. here!" and as a final compliment, king pulled off her hair-ribbon and handed it to her with a dancing-school bow. marjorie gave his hair an affectionate tweak, and with these good-natured attentions they parted. chapter vii the glorious fourth the sun rose early on fourth of july morning. for he knew many patriotic young hearts were beating with impatience for the great day to begin. moreover, he rose clear and bright, and yet he didn't shine down too hotly for the comfort of those same young people. in fact, it was a perfect summer day. marjorie sprang out of bed and began to dress, with glad anticipations. the bryants were to spend the day at maynard manor, until time for the afternoon picnic, and after the picnic came the reception at bryant bower. midget put on a fresh white piqué, and tied up her mop of curls with wide bows of red, white, and blue ribbon. when all ready she went dancing downstairs, pausing on her way to tap at king's door. "all ready, kinksie?" she called out. "in a minute, mops. wait for me!" midget sat down on the staircase window-seat, and in a moment king joined her there. "hello, mopsy-doodle! merry fourth of ju--new year's!" "hello, yourself! oh, king, isn't it a gorgeous day? what shall we do first?" "i dunno! we can't shoot things or make much noise, until father and mother get up. it would be mean to wake them." "oh, pshaw! they can't be asleep through all this racket that is going on. hear the shooting all around." "well, we'll see. let's get outdoors, anyhow." the children opened the front door, and there, sitting on the veranda steps, his head leaning against a pillar, sat cousin jack, apparently sound asleep. "will you look at that!" said king, in a whisper. "has he been here all night, do you s'pose?" "no, 'course not. but i s'pose he's been here some time. do you think he's really asleep?" "he looks so. what shall we do with him?" "dress him up," commanded marjorie, promptly, and pulling off her wide hair-ribbons, she proceeded to tie one around cousin jack's neck, and one around his head, giving that gentleman a very festive appearance. after she had arranged the bows to her satisfaction, cousin jack obligingly woke up,--though, as a matter of fact, he hadn't been to sleep! "why, if here isn't mehitabel!" he exclaimed; "and hezekiah, too! what a surprise!" "how do you like your decorations?" asked marjorie, surveying him with admiration. "oh, are these ribbons _real_? i thought i was dreaming, and had a fourth of july nightmare." "how long have you been here, cousin jack?" asked king. "well, i was waking, so i called early; i don't know at what hour, but i've been long enough alone, so i'm glad you two young patriots came down to help me celebrate. polly want a firecracker?" he held out a pack of small ones to marjorie, but she declined them. "no, thank you; give those to king. i'd rather have torpedoes." "all right, my girlie, here you are! and here's a cap to replace the ribbons you so kindly gave me." cousin jack drew from his pocket a tissue-paper cap, that had evidently come in a snapping-cracker. then he produced another one for king, and one which he laid aside for rosy posy. they were gay red, white, and blue caps, with cockades and streamers. "now, we'll be a procession," he went on. from a nook on the veranda, where he had hidden them, he produced a drum, a tambourine, and a cornet. the cornet was his own, and he presented the drum to king, and the tambourine to marjorie. "form in line!" he ordered; "forward,--march!" he led the line, and the two children followed. being a good cornet player, cousin jack made fine martial music, and king and midget had sufficient sense of rhythm to accompany him on the drum and tambourine. after marching round the house once, cousin jack went up the steps and in at the front door. upstairs and through the halls, and down again. nurse nannie and rosamond appeared at the nursery door, and were instructed to fall in line behind the others. then sarah, the waitress, was discovered, looking on from the dining-room, and she, too, was told to march. at last mr. and mrs. maynard appeared, laughing at this invasion of their morning nap. they sat in state in the veranda-chairs, as on a reviewing-stand, while the grand parade marched and countermarched on the lawn in front of them. "all over!" cried cousin jack, at last. "break ranks!" the company dispersed, and sarah returned, giggling, to her duties. "such a foine man as misther bryant do be!" she said to the cook. "shure, he's just like wan of the childher." and so he was. full of patriotic enthusiasm, cousin jack set off bombs and firecrackers, until the elder maynards declared that their ears ached, and the roisterers must come in to breakfast. "i must go home," announced their guest. "i have a wife and six small children dependent on me for support." as a matter of fact, the bryants had no children, and mrs. maynard declared she should telephone for cousin ethel to come to breakfast, too, so cousin jack consented to stay. the breakfast party was an unexpected addition to the day's festivities, but mrs. maynard was equal to the occasion. she scurried around and found flags to decorate the table, and tied a red, white, and blue balloon to the back of each chair, which gave the room a gay appearance. the vigorous exercise had produced good appetites, and full justice was done to ellen's creamed chicken and hot rolls and coffee. "who's for a dip in the ocean?" asked cousin jack, when breakfast was over. all were included in this pleasing suggestion, and soon a bathing-suited party threw themselves into the dashing whitecaps. cousin jack tried to teach marjorie to swim, but it is not easy to learn to swim in the surf, and she made no very great progress. but mr. maynard and mr. bryant swam out to a good distance, and king was allowed to accompany them, as he already was a fair swimmer. marjorie held fast to the rope, and jumped about, now almost carried away by a big wave, and now thrown back toward the beach by another. it was rather rough bathing, so the ladies of the party and midget left the water before the others. "_aren't_ we having fun!" exclaimed marjorie, as she trudged, dripping, through the sand, to the bath-house. "oh, cousin ethel, i'm _so_ glad you came down here." "i'm glad, too, dear. i believe jack enjoys you children more than he does any of his friends of his own age." "jack's just like a boy," said mrs. maynard, "and i think he always will be. he's like peter pan,--never going to grow up." and it did seem so. after the bath, mr. bryant marched the children down to the pier for ice cream. mrs. maynard remonstrated a little, but she was informed that fourth of july only came once a year, and extra indulgences were in order. so king and midget and cousin jack went gayly along the long pier that ran far out into the ocean. on either side were booths where trinkets and seaside souvenirs were sold, and cousin jack bought a shell necklace for midget, and a shell watch-fob for king. then he ordered a dozen little tin pails sent to his own house. "for my picnic," he explained, as midget looked at him wonderingly. "it's to be a sand-pail picnic, you know." as they neared the ice-cream garden, marjorie noticed a forlorn-looking little boy, near the entrance. so wistful did he look, that she turned around to look at him again. "who's your friend, mehitabel?" said mr. bryant, seeing her glance. "oh, i don't know, cousin jack!" she cried, impulsively; "but he seems so poor and lonesome, and we're all so happy. couldn't i go without my ice cream, and let him have it? oh, please let me!" "h'm! he isn't a very attractive specimen of humanity." "well, he isn't very clean, but, see, he has a nice face, and big brown eyes! oh, do give him some ice cream, cousin jack; i'll willingly go without." "i'll go without," said king, quickly; "you can have mine, mops." cousin jack looked quizzically at the children. "i might say i'd give you each ice cream, and the poor kiddie also. but that would be my charity. now, if you two really want to do the poor little chap a kindness, you may each have a half portion, and give him a whole plate. how's that?" "fine!" exclaimed marjorie; "just the thing! but, truly, cousin jack, it isn't _much_ sacrifice for us, for we'll have ice cream at the picnic, anyhow." "that's right, girlie; don't claim any more credit than belongs to you. well, next thing is to invite your young friend." so marjorie went over to the poor little boy, and said, kindly: "it's fourth of july, and we'd like you to come and eat ice cream with us." the child's face brightened up, but immediately a look of distrust came into his eyes, and he said: "say, is youse kiddin' me?" "no," said king, for marjorie didn't know quite what he meant; "we mean it. we're going to have ice cream, and we want you to have some with us." "kin i bring me brudder?" "where is he?" asked cousin jack, smiling at this new development of the case. "over dere, wit' me sister. kin i bring 'em both?" marjorie laughed outright at this, but mr. bryant said, gravely: "how many in your entire family? let me know the worst at once!" "dat's all; me brudder an' sister. kin they come, too?" "yes, if they're fairly clean," and the boy ran to get them. he came back bringing a boy but little smaller than himself, and a tiny girl. though not immaculate, they were presentable, and soon the six were seated at a round table. cousin jack conformed to his decree that the maynard children should have but a half-portion each, but he added that this was partly due to his consideration for their health, as well as his willingness that the charity should be partly theirs. but he told his three guests that they could eat as much as they chose; and noting their generally hungry appearance, he ordered a first course of sandwiches for them, which kindness was greatly appreciated. "gee! youse is a white man!" exclaimed the oldest visitor, as he scraped his saucer almost through its enamel. "what does he mean?" asked midget, laughing. "of course, you're a white man." "that's slang, marjorie, for a desirable citizen." "funny sort of slang," midget commented; "a white man is plain english, isn't it?" "i mean, he's white clear through," volunteered the boy, whose quick eyes darted from one face to another of his benefactors. "yes, i can understand that," said midget, slowly; "it just means you're good all through, cousin jack, and i quite agree to that." after the small visitors' hunger was entirely appeased, cousin jack presented them each with a flag and a packet of torpedoes, and sent them away rejoicing. "poor little scraps of humanity," he said; "i hope, mehitabel, you'll always bring a little sunshine into such lives when opportunity presents itself." "i will, cousin jack. are they very poor?" "no, not so very. but they never have any fun, or anything very good to eat. of course, you can't be an organized charity, but once in a while, if you can make a poor child happy by the expenditure of a small sum, do it." "we will," cried king, impressed by cousin jack's earnestness. "but we don't have much money to spend, you know." "you have an allowance, don't you?" "yes; we each have fifty cents a week, mops and kitty and i." "well, kitty isn't here, so i can't ask her; but i'm going to ask you two dear friends of mine, to give away one-tenth of your income to charity. now, how much would that be?" "five cents a week," replied marjorie. "well, will you do it? every week give a nickel, or a nickel's worth of peanuts or lemonade or something to some poor little kiddie who doesn't have much fun in life? and you needn't do it every week, if it isn't convenient, but lay aside the nickel each week, and then give a larger sum, as it accumulates." "sure we will, cousin jack," said king, and midget said, "yes, indeed! i'll be glad to. we can most always catch a poor child, somewhere." "well, if not, just save it up till you do. you'll find plenty of opportunities in the winter, in rockwell, i'm sure." "yes, sir-ee!" said midget, remembering the poor family whose house burned down not long ago. "and i'm glad you advised us about this, cousin jack. i'm going to ask the craig boys and hester to do it, too." "better be careful, mehitabel. i can advise you, because we're good chums, and i'm a little older than you, though i don't look it! but i'm not sure you ought to take the responsibility of advising your young friends. you might suggest it to them,--merely suggest it, you know, and if their agree and their parents agree, why, then, all right. and now home to our own luncheon. i declare it made me hungry to see those children eat!" promptly at three o'clock that afternoon the sand club gathered for the sand-pail picnic. by making two trips the maynards' big motor carried them all to the picnic grove, about a mile distant. here cousin jack provided all sorts of sports for them. at a target, they shot with bows and arrows, and the boys were allowed a little rifle-shooting. there was that funny game of picking up potatoes with teaspoons, followed by a rollicking romp at blindman's buff. then cousin jack marshalled his young friends into line, and they all sang "star-spangled banner," and "columbia," and "america," and cheered, and fired off mild explosives, and had a real fourth of july celebration. then the feast was brought on. the children sat cross-legged on the grass, and each one was given a tin sand-pail. but instead of sand, the pail was found to contain sandwiches and crisp little cakes known as sand-tarts. after these there were served dainty little paper pails, from a caterer's, filled with ice cream. "what a lovely sand picnic!" exclaimed marjorie, as she sat on the sand, blissfully disposing of her ice cream. "i'm going to call cousin jack, the sandman!" "ho! a sandman puts you to sleep!" cried tom craig; "let's get a better name than that for mr. bryant." "call him sandy claus," piped up dick, and they all laughed. "a little out of season, but it's all right, my boy," said cousin jack. "call me anything you like, as long as you call me early and often. now, shall we be trotting home again, to continue our revels?" with a sigh of utter content, marjorie climbed into the motor, and they went spinning home to dress for the "reception." at the reception more guests were invited, and bryant bower quite justified its pretty name. japanese lanterns dotted the grounds, and hung among the vines of the veranda. flags and bunting were everywhere, and a small platform, draped with red, white, and blue, had been erected for the receiving party. this consisted of king, midget, and rosy posy in patriotic costume. king, as uncle sam, presented a funny figure with his white beaver hat, his long-tailed blue coat, and red and white striped trousers. midget wore a becoming "miss columbia" costume, with a liberty cap and liberty pole and flag. rosamond was a chubby little goddess of liberty, but she preferred to run around everywhere, rather than stand still and receive. king and midget did the honors gracefully, and after all the guests had assembled, they took seats on the lawn to watch the fireworks. these were of a fine quality, and as the flowerpots and bombs burst into stars in the sky both children and grown-ups joined in loud applause. there was patriotic music, and more ice cream, and when, at last, it was all over, the sand club went together to thank cousin jack for the entertainment. "glad you liked it," he said, heartily; "and now, scamper home and to bed, all of you, so your parents won't say i made you lose your beauty sleep." chapter viii a revelation marjorie was practising. it was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her hour's practising must be done first. she was conscientious about it, and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted, one--two--three--four; one--two--three--four. mrs. corey, hester's mother, was calling on mrs. maynard, and the two ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano stood. marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises. usually, she didn't mind practising, but to-day the sand club was waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable. "one--two--three--four," she counted to herself, when something mrs. corey said arrested her attention. "your oldest daughter?" marjorie heard her exclaim; "you amaze me!" midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was there. but mrs. maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, "yes, my oldest girl. she is not our child. she is a foundling. we adopted her when an infant." "really?" said mrs. corey, much interested. "how did that happen?" "well," said mrs. maynard, "my husband desired it, and i consented. she has grown up a good girl, but of course i can't feel toward her as i feel toward my own children." "no, of course not," agreed mrs. corey. "the others are all your own?" "yes, they are my own." "she doesn't know this, does she?" "oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. she thinks i am her mother, and she thinks i love her as i do my own children. but it is hard for me to pretend affection for her, when i remember her humble origin." "your husband? does he care for her?" "he feels much as i do. you see, she is not of as fine a nature as our own children. of course he can't help seeing that. but we both do our best for the girl." "good for you, mrs. maynard; that's fine!" "do you really think so, mrs. corey? i'm afraid that----" but marjorie heard no more. she had stopped her practising at the first words of these awful disclosures. not her mother's own child! she, marjorie maynard! it couldn't be possible! but as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother was saying. dreadful it might be,--unbelievable it might be,--but true it must be. "one--two--three--four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but her fingers refused to move. she left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room. her pretty room that her mother,--no, that mrs. maynard,--had fixed up for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains. _not_ her mother! who, then, was or had been her mother? and then marjorie's calm gave way. she threw herself on her little white bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. her thoughts flew to her father,--but no, he wasn't her father! king wasn't her brother,--nor kitty her sister! nor rosy posy----? it was all too dreadful. at every fresh thought about it, it grew worse. dear old king, she had never realized before how much she loved him. and kitty! and father and mother! she _would_ call them that, even though they were no relation to her. for a long time marjorie cried,--great, deep, heart-racking sobs that wore her out. at last she settled down into a calm of despair. "i am going away," she said, to herself. "i won't stay here where they have to _pretend_ they love me! oh, mother, _mother_!" but no one heard the little girl's grief. mrs. maynard still sat on the veranda, talking to mrs. corey; king was down at sand court; and the nurse had taken rosamond out for a walk. "i _must_ go away," poor marjorie went on; "i _can't_ stay here, i should _suffocate_!" she sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter desolation. where could she go? not to cousin ethel's, she'd only bring her back home. _home!_ she hadn't any home,--no _real_ home! she thought of grandma sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! then she thought of grandma maynard. that was a curious thought, for though grandma maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months ago, she had begged marjorie to live with her and be her little girl. surely she must have _known_ that midget wasn't really her granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to live there. then grandma maynard wouldn't have to _pretend_ to love her. clearly, that was the only thing to do. she couldn't run away, with no destination in view. she had no claim on grandma sherwood or uncle steve, but grandma maynard _had_ wanted her,--really _wanted_ her. marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. it was almost three o'clock. she knew there was a train to new york about three, and she resolved to go on it. at first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not to, as she didn't want any of the things the maynards had given her. "oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even maynard! i don't know _what_ it is!" she put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. some instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon. as she went downstairs, she heard mrs. corey say, "i am astounded at these revelations!" and her mother replied, "dear friend, i knew you would be." marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. she shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. this way she could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the railroad station. she had a five-dollar gold piece that uncle steve had sent her on christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she carried in her pocketbook. but she left behind her pearl ring and all the little trinkets or valuables she possessed. she felt as if her heart had turned to stone. it wasn't so much anger at mr. and mrs. maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation,--as if the world had come to an end. at one moment she would think she missed king the most; then with the thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor little tortured heart would cry out, "oh, mother, _mother_!" she knew perfectly well the way to new york, and though the station agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing. for marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet air when she chose to be. with her ticket in her hand, she sat down to wait for the train. there were few people in the station at that hour, and no one who knew her. when the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone. really, she felt very much frightened. she had never been on a train alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people, and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous. and then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of _why_ she was going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerations. for perhaps half an hour she kept the tears back bravely enough; but as she rode on, and realized more and more deeply what it all meant, she could control herself no longer, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping. she was sitting next the window, and, as there were few passengers, no one was in the seat with her. but when she raised her head, exhausted by her outburst of tears, a burly red-faced man sat beside her. "come, come, little one, what's it all about?" he said. his tone was kind, but his personality was not pleasant, and marjorie felt no inclination to confide in him. "nothing, sir," she said, drawing as far away from him as possible. "now, now, little miss, you can't cry like that, and then say there's nothing the matter." marjorie wanted to rebuke his intrusion, but she didn't know exactly what to say, so she turned toward the window and resolutely kept looking out. the trees and fields flying by were not very comforting. every mile took her farther away from her dear ones, for they _were_ dear, whether related to her or not. she pressed her flushed cheeks against the cool window pane. she was too exhausted to cry any more. she seemed to have only enough strength to say, brokenly, "oh, mother, _mother_!" and then from sheer weariness of flesh she fell into a troubled sleep. meantime marjorie was missed at home. the sand club grew tired of waiting for her, and king went up to the house to investigate the delay. he trudged, whistling, up the driveway, and seeing mrs. corey, he whipped off his cap, and greeted her politely. "where's midget, mother?" he asked. "i don't know, son; isn't she with you?" "no'm, and i'm tired waiting for her." "is hester there?" asked mrs. corey. "yes, mrs. corey, hester's been with us an hour, and we're waiting for mopsy. she said she'd come as soon as she finished her practising." "she stopped practising some time ago," said mrs. corey. "i haven't heard the piano for half an hour or more." "i'll bet she's tucked away somewhere, reading!" exclaimed king; "i'll hunt her out!" "perhaps she's gone over to cousin ethel's," suggested mrs. maynard. "i'll hunt her up," repeated king, and he went into the house. "marjorie mops! i say! come out of that!" he cried, banging at the closed door of her bedroom. getting no reply, he opened the door and looked in, but she wasn't there. "you old scallywag mops!" he cried, shaking his fist at her empty room, "i never knew you to go back on your word before! and you said you'd come to sand court as soon as you could!" he looked in the veranda hammock, and in the library, and any place where he thought midget might be, absorbed in a book; he inquired of the servants; and at last he went back to his mother. "i can't find mopsy," he said. "then she _must_ be over at cousin ethel's. she does love to go over there." "well, she oughtn't to go when she's promised to come out with us. i never knew old midge to break a promise before." "perhaps cousin ethel telephoned for her," suggested mrs. maynard. "though in that case, she should have told me she was going. run over there and see, son." "i'll telephone over, that'll be quicker," said king, and ran back into the house. "nope," he said, returning; "she isn't there, and hasn't been there to-day. mother, don't you think it's queer?" "why, yes, king, it is a little queer. but she can't be far away. perhaps she walked down to the train to meet father." "oh, mother, that would be a crazy thing to do, when she knew we were waiting for her." "well, maybe she went walking with rosamond and nurse nannie. she's certainly somewhere around. run away now, king. mrs. corey and i are busy." king walked slowly away. "it's pretty queer," he said to hester and the craig boys; "mops is nowhere to be found." "well, don't look so scared," said tom; "she can't be kidnapped. if it was your baby sister, that would be different. but midget has just gone off on some wild-goose chase,--or she is hiding to tease us." "perhaps she wrote to kitty," suggested hester, "and went down to the post-office to mail it." "not likely," said king. "she knows the postman collects at six o'clock. well, i s'pose she _is_ hiding somewhere, reading a book. won't i give it to her when i catch her! for she _said_ she'd come out here, right after her practice hour." a dullness seemed to fall on the sand club members present. not only was marjorie their ringleader and moving spirit, but somehow king's uneasiness impressed all of them, and soon dick craig said, "i'm going home." king raised no objection, and, after sitting listlessly around for a few moments, the others all went home. but tom turned back. "i say," he began, "you know mopsy is somewhere, all right." "of course she's somewhere, tom, but she never did anything like this before, and i can't understand it. the only thing i can think of is, that she's gone down on the pier. but she never goes there alone." "well, there's lots of things she might be doing. come on, let's go down on the pier and take a look." the two boys walked out to the end of the pier and back again, but saw no sign of marjorie. on their way home, tom turned in at his own house. "good-by, old chap," he said; "don't look so worried. midget will be sitting up laughing at you when you get home." king said good-by, and went on. he felt a strange depression of heart, as if something must have happened to midget. he knew his mother felt no alarm, and perhaps it was foolish, but the fact remained that midge had never acted like that before. mr. maynard came home at six o'clock, and marjorie had not yet made an appearance. he looked very much alarmed, and at sight of his anxiety, mrs. maynard grew worried. "why, ed," she exclaimed, "you don't think there's anything wrong, do you?" "i hope not, helen, but it's so unusual. i can only think of the ocean. does she ever go down and sit on the beach alone?" "no," said king, positively; "she never does anything like that, alone. we're always together." "and you hadn't had any quarrel, or anything?" "oh, no, father; nothing of the sort. she went to practise right after luncheon, and said she'd be out in an hour." "i heard her practising, while mrs. corey was here," said mrs. maynard, reminiscently; "but i don't remember just when she stopped." "well," said mr. maynard, "it's extraordinary, but i can't think anything's wrong with the child. you know she always has been mischievous, and i think she's playing some game on us. we may as well go to dinner." but nobody could eat dinner. the sight of midget's empty chair began to seem tragic, and king choked and left the table. mrs. maynard burst into tears, and rose also. her husband followed her. "don't worry, helen," he urged; "she's sure to be safe and sound somewhere." "oh, i don't know, ed! such a thing as this never happened before! oh, find her, ed, _do_ find her!" king had run over to the bryants' and now returned, accompanied by those two very much alarmed people. "we must _do_ something!" exclaimed cousin jack. "of course something has happened to the child! she isn't one to cut up any such game on purpose. have you looked in her room?" "what for?" asked mrs. maynard, helplessly. "why, to see if you can discover anything unusual. i'm going up!" mr. bryant flew upstairs two steps at a time, and they all followed. but nothing unusual was to be seen. the pretty room was in order, and no clothing of any sort was lying about. mrs. maynard looked in the cupboard. "why, her blue linen is gone!" she said, "and here's the white piqué she had on at luncheon. and her blue hat is gone; she must have dressed up to go out somewhere to call, and unexpectedly stayed to dinner." "does she ever do that?" demanded cousin jack. "she never has before," answered mrs. maynard, falling weakly back on marjorie's bed. "why, this pillow is all wet!" they looked at each other in consternation. they saw, too, the deep imprint of a head in the dented pillow. surely, this meant tragedy of some sort, for if the child had sobbed so hard, she must have been in deep trouble. "we must find her!" said cousin jack, starting for the stairs. chapter ix the search it was fortunate that the bryants were there to take the initiative, for mr. and mrs. maynard seemed incapable of action. usually alert and energetic, they were so stunned at the thought of real disaster to marjorie that they sat around helplessly inactive. "come with me, king," said cousin jack, going to the telephone in the library. then he called up every house in seacote where marjorie could possibly have gone, and king helped by suggesting the names of acquaintances. but no one could give any news of the little girl; no one whom they asked had seen or heard of her that afternoon. cousin jack's face grew very white, and his features were drawn, as he said: "you stay here, ed, with helen and ethel; king and i will go out for a bit. come, king." kingdon said nothing; he snatched up his cap and went along silently by mr. bryant's side, trying to keep up with his companion's long, swift strides. to the beach they went; it was not yet quite dark, but of course they saw no sign of marjorie. "are you thinking she might have been washed away by the waves?" asked king, in a quivering voice. "that's all i _can_ think of," replied mr. bryant, grimly. "but it isn't likely, cousin jack. mopsy is really a heavyweight, you know. and there's not a very big surf on now." "that's so, king. but where _can_ she be?" then they went and talked with the fishermen, and then on to the life-saving station. the big, good-hearted men all knew marjorie, and all declared she had not been on the beach that afternoon,--at least, not within their particular locality. discouraged, cousin jack and king turned down toward the pier. their inquiries were fruitless; though many people knew midget, by sight, none had seen her. there was nothing to do but go back home. "have you found her?" cried cousin ethel, as they entered the house. "no; but the beach people haven't seen her, so i'm sure there's no accident of that sort." cousin jack wouldn't make use of the word drowning, but they all knew what he meant. mrs. maynard sat staring, in a sort of dull apathy. she couldn't realize that marjorie was lost, she couldn't believe an accident had befallen her, yet, where was she? "let's search the house," she said, jumping up suddenly. "i _must_ do _something_. couldn't she have gone somewhere to read quietly, and fallen asleep?" this was a possibility, and the house was searched from top to bottom by eager hunters. but no marjorie was found. as it neared midnight, the ladies were persuaded to go to bed. "you can do nothing, dear, by remaining up," said mr. maynard to his wife. "the bryants will stay with us to-night, so you and ethel go to your rooms, and king, too. jack and i will stay here in the library for a while." king demurred at being sent away, but his father explained that if he wanted to help, all he could do was to obey orders. so king went upstairs, but not to his own room. about an hour later he came down again, to find his father and mr. bryant still sitting in the library waiting for morning. "father," said king, his eyes shining bright beneath his tousled hair, "i've been rummaging in midget's room. i thought i might find out something to help us. and she's taken her pocketbook, and the gold piece uncle steve gave her last christmas. i know, because i know where she always kept it,--and it's gone." "well, king," said his father, thoughtfully, "what do you make out from that?" "only that she has gone somewhere especial. i mean somewhere to spend that money,--not just for a walk on the beach, or down to the pier." "that's encouraging," said cousin jack, "for if she went away on some special errand, she's more likely to be safe and sound, somewhere. did you notice anything else missing, king?" "not a thing. and you know how wet her pillow was. well, i think she heard about some poor person or poor family, and she cried about them, and then she took her gold piece and went to help them." "that's ingenious, king," said mr. maynard, "and it may be true. i hope so, i'm sure. but why should she stay away so long and not let us know?" "well, you see, the poor family may live at some distance, and not have any telephone, and they may be ill, or something, and she may be there yet, helping. you know mopsy is awful kind-hearted. remember the simpsons' fire? she forgot everything else in caring for them." "that's so, my son; at any rate, it's the most comforting theory we've had yet, and i'll go and tell your mother about it. it will help her, i know." mr. maynard went away, and king remained downstairs. "i'm not going to bed, cousin jack," he said; "i'm old enough now to stay up with you men, in trouble like this." "all right, king. you're showing manly traits, my boy, and i'm proud of you. now, old chap, between you and me, i don't subscribe to your poor-family theory. it's possible, of course, but it doesn't seem probable to me." "well, then, cousin jack, what can we do next?" "we can't do anything till morning; then i think we must see the police." "oh, that seems so awful!" "i know, but if it's the means of finding marjorie?" "then, of course, we'll do it! how early can we see them?" "we can telephone as early as we like, i suppose. but i've little confidence in the powers of the police down here. they're all right to patrol the beach, but they're not like city policemen." at last the night wore away, and daybreak came. they telephoned the police, and in a few minutes two of them arrived at the maynard house for consultation. "i know the child well," said one of them, "i often see her about,--a well-behaved little lady, but full o' fun, too. d'ye think she might have been kidnapped, now?" "it might be," said mr. bryant, "though she's pretty big for that. and, too, she took extra money with her." "then she may have been goin' somewhere by rail." "that's so! i never thought of that!" and cousin jack almost smiled. "but where would she go?" said mr. maynard, hopelessly. "she never travelled alone, and though impulsively mischievous, sometimes, she wouldn't deliberately run away." the policemen went away to begin their quest, and the maynards and their guests went to breakfast. no one felt like eating, yet each urged the others to do so. "where's middy?" inquired baby rosamond, at table. "middy gone 'way?" "yes, dear," said cousin jack, for no one else could speak. "middy's gone away for a little while." "i know," said the child, contentedly, "middy gone to gramma's to see kitty!" "why, perhaps she did!" exclaimed mr. maynard. but mrs. maynard had no such hope. it was too unlike marjorie to do such a thing. "well, let's find out," urged king. "let's get uncle steve on the long-distance wire." "don't alarm grandma," said mrs. maynard. "there's no use stirring her up, until we know ourselves what has happened." "leave it to me," said cousin jack. "i'll find out." after some delay, he succeeded in getting uncle steve on the telephone. then he asked for kitty. "hello, susannah!" he cried, assuming a merry voice, in his kind desire not to alarm her. "this is your cousin jack!" "oh, hello, cousin jack!" exclaimed kitty, in delight. "how nice of you to call me up! how is everybody?" "we're well, thank you! how are you all?" "oh, we're all right." "are you lonesome, away from your family?" "no, not lonesome, though i'd like to see them. tell midget there are two hundred incubator chicks now." "well, that _is_ a lot! now, good-by, kitsie; i can't run up too big a telephone bill for your father. we all send love. be a good girl. good-by." cousin jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. it had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to kitty, and the implied assurance that marjorie was _not_ there nearly made him give way. "she isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what kitty had said. and then the telephone rang, and it was the police department. mr. maynard took the receiver. "we've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with suspense. "she bought a ticket to new york, and went there on the three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. nothing further is known, as yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that train, we will." "new york! impossible!" cried cousin ethel, when she heard the message, and mrs. maynard fainted away. marjorie! on a train, going to new york alone! "come on, king," said cousin jack, abruptly, and leaving the others to care for mrs. maynard, these two strode off again. straight to the railroad station they went to interview the agent themselves. he corroborated the story. he did not know marjorie's name, but he described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her identity. but he could tell them no more. she had bought her ticket and taken the train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do. "did she look as if she had been crying?" asked king, almost crying himself. "why, yes, now you speak of it, her face _did_ look so. her eyes was red, and she looked sorter sad. but she didn't say nothin', 'cept to ask for a ticket to new york." "return ticket?" put in mr. bryant. "no, sir; a single ticket. just one way." the conductor couldn't be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long one, and his home far away. "i can't understand it," said king, as they walked homeward; "and i can't believe it. if midget went to new york alone, she had lost her mind,--that's all." but when they reached home, they found the maynards quite hopeful. it had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, marjorie had decided to visit grandma maynard, and had started off there alone. "i'm trying to get them on the long-distance," mr. maynard announced, quite cheerily, as they entered. "let me take it," said cousin jack. "if she _isn't_ there, we don't want to alarm them, either." "that's so!" said mr. maynard. "all right, jack, take it. bless you, old fellow, for your help." but when connection had been made, and cousin jack found himself in communication with grandma maynard, he didn't know what to say. he caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said: "how do you do, mrs. maynard? you don't know me, but i'm jack bryant, a guest at ed maynard's house in seacote. now, won't you tell me when marjorie's birthday comes?" "ah, i've heard of you, mr. bryant," said grandma maynard, pleasantly. "i suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party. well, her birthday is next week,--the fifteenth of july." "oh, thank you. she is getting a big girl, isn't she? when,--when did you see her last?" cousin jack's voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening, didn't notice it. "about two months ago. they were here in may. i love marjorie, and i wish i could see her again, but there's little hope of it. she wrote to me last week that they would be in seacote all summer." "yes, that is their plan," said cousin jack. he could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by. but though grandma maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for marjorie's safety, because of anything he had said. "she isn't there," he said, quietly; "but i still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look." but what a direction! marjorie, alone, going to new york, endeavoring to find grandma maynard's house, and not getting there! where had she been all night? where was she now? there were no answers to these questions. and now mr. maynard took the helm. he cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly. "helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been. king, i am going out to find marjorie. you cannot go with me, for i want to leave your mother in your care. you have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother. ethel, i'd be glad if you would stay here with helen, and, jack,--will you come with me?" "of course," replied mr. bryant. "and, king," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. i may call you at any moment. get your sleep, my boy,--if i should be gone over night,--but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you." "yes, father, i'll look after mother, and i'll be right here if you call me. where are you going?" "i don't know, my son. i only know i must hunt for marjorie with such help and such advice as i can procure. come on, jack." after affectionate farewells, the two men went away. "first for that conductor," said mr. maynard. "i cannot wait till afternoon; i shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home." at length he learned that the conductor lived in asbury park. he was off duty at that hour, and mr. maynard tried to get him by telephone, but the line was out of order. "to his house we go, then," and the two men boarded the first possible train. at asbury park they found his house, but the conductor's wife, mrs. fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his rest. but after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady became sympathetic and helpful. "of course i'll call him," she cried; "oh, the poor mother! my heart aches for her!" mr. fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. it was about noon, and he was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o'clock. "why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "i remember that girl. i didn't think much about her,--for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road. but, somehow, i don't think that child went to new york,--no, i don't think she did." "where did she get off?" asked mr. maynard, eagerly. "ah, that i don't know. you see, the summer crowds are travelling now and i don't notice individuals much." "can't you tell by your tickets?" asked mr. bryant. "no, sir; i don't see's i can. you know, lots of people _did_ go to new york on my train, and so, i've lots of new york tickets, but of course i couldn't tell if i had hers. and yet,--seems to me,--just seems to me,--that child got off at a way station." "then," said mr. maynard, with a businesslike air, "i must telephone or telegraph or go personally to every way station between seacote and new york. it's a strange case. i can only think my daughter became suddenly demented; i can think of no other reason for her conduct. can you, jack?" "no, ed, i can't. and yet, marjorie is a child who always does unexpected things. some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind _might_ account for this strange freak, quite naturally." "i can't see how. but we will do what we can. good-day, mr. fischer, and thank you for your help and interest." chapter x jessica brown meantime, where was marjorie? to go back to where we left her, in the railroad train, she had fallen asleep from utter exhaustion of nerve and body. but her nap was of short duration. she woke with a start, and found, to her surprise, that she was leaning her head against somebody's shoulder. she looked up, to see the red-faced man gravely regarding her, though he smiled as their eyes met. "feel better, little miss?" he said, and again marjorie felt a strange repulsion, though he spoke kindly enough. her mind was bewildered, she was nervous and frightened, yet she had a positive conviction that she ought not to talk to this strange man. she did not like his face, even if his voice was kind. "yes, thank you," she said, in distantly polite tones, and again she squeezed herself over toward the window, and away from her seatmate. she sat up very straight, trying to act as grown-up as possible, and then the train stopped at a large station. there were crowds of people hurrying and scurrying about on the platform, and marjorie was almost sure she had reached jersey city, where she knew she must change for new york. she wanted to inquire, but the conductor was not in sight, and she didn't like to ask the man beside her. so she rose, as if to leave the car. the red-faced man rose also, and stepped back as she passed him. in a moment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on. everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she saw by a large sign that she was at newark! she had never before been in newark, though she knew in a general way where it was. she went uncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. it was after five. marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to jersey city, and so to new york, but her courage had failed her, and she couldn't bear the thought of travelling any further. and yet, how could she stay where she was? also, she began to feel very hungry. the exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisome journey, made her feel hollow and faint. she sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of her lonely and desolate situation. she tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence. "marjorie maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped,--overwhelmed by the thought that she had no right even to that name! presently a voice beside her said: "now, little miss, won't you let me help you?" she turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes. he didn't look very refined, he didn't even look good, but the sound of a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man. "how can you help me?" she said, miserably. "well, fust off, where've ye set out fur?" the man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech that impressed marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone. "new york," she replied. "why'd ye get out at newark?" "i made a mistake," she confessed. "an' what be ye goin' to do now?" "i don't know." "ah, jest what i thought! an' then ye ask, how kin i help ye?" "well, how can you?" under the spur of his strong voice, marjorie's spirits had revived the least bit, and she spoke bravely to him. "now, that's more peart-like. wal, in the fust place i kin take ye home with me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' i guess that's what ye need most." "where do you live?" "'bout five miles out in the country." "how do you get there?" "wal, i ain't got none o' them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but i've got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or so." "why do you want to take me home with you?" asked marjorie, for she couldn't help a feeling that there was something wrong. "why, bless your heart, child, bekase you're alone and forlorn and hungry and all done out. an' it's my privit opinion as how ye've run away from home." "no, not that," said midget, sadly; "i haven't any home." "ye don't say so! wal, wal, never mind fer to-night. you go 'long with me, an' zeb geary, he'll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow." there was no mistaking the kindness now, and marjorie looked up into the man's red face with trust and gratitude. "i'd be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow," she said; "but first i want to own up that i didn't 'zactly trust you,--but now i do." "wal, wal, thet shows a nice sperrit! now, you come along o' me, an' don't try to talk nor nothin'. jest come along." he took midget's hand, and they went down the steps, and along the street for a block or two, to a sort of livery stable. "set here a minute," said mr. geary, and he left marjorie on a bench, which stood outside, against the building. after a time he returned, with an ancient-looking vehicle, known as a rockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse. "git in back," he said, and marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad to care much whither she might be taken. they jogged along at a fair pace, but mr. geary, on the front seat, offered no conversation, merely looking back occasionally, as if to assure himself that his guest was still with him. after a mile or two, marjorie began to think more coherently. she wondered what she would have done if she hadn't chanced to fall in with this kind, if rough, friend. she wondered whether she could ever have reached grandma maynard's house in safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she had anticipated, and in new york they would be worse still. at any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for the night, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours. it was well after six o'clock when the jogging old horse turned into a lane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch. an old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. "wal, zeb," she called out, "did ye get back?" "yes, sary, an' i brought ye a visitor for the night." "a what! wal, i do declar'!" and mrs. geary stepped down and peered into the back seat of the rockaway. "who in creation is that?" "i don't know," returned her husband. "ye don't know! i swan, zeb geary, you must be plumb crazy! whar'd ye get her?" "thar, thar, now, sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. she's plumb beat out!" "come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of marjorie's winsome face and sad eyes. "come along o' me,--i'll take keer o' ye." marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went with her hostess, in at the kitchen door. it wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as eliza's, at grandma sherwood's; it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order. "now, now, little miss," said mrs. geary, hobbling about, "fust of all, let's get some supper down ye. when did ye eat last?" "this noon," said marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy, merry luncheon table at seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and sobbed as if she had never cried before. "bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. there, there, have a sup o' warm milk! oh, my! my!" in deference to mrs. geary's solicitude, marjorie tried hard to conquer her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when mr. geary came in. "don't bother her any to-night, mother," he said, after a sharp glance at marjorie; "she's all on edge. feed her up good, and tuck her into bed." "yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea. you'll like that, now?" "thank you," said marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the dimly lighted kitchen. after a satisfying supper, mrs. geary took the child up to a low, slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. the old woman bathed marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and then helped her to undress. she brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child. then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary was she that it seemed comfortable. mrs. geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor little marjorie dropped asleep almost at once. "what do you make of it, father?" asked the old woman, returning to the kitchen. "she run away from her home fer some reason. said she hadn't got no home. stepmother, i shouldn't wonder. we'll find out to-morrow, an' i'll tote her back." "mebbe there'll be a reward." "mebbe so. but we'll do our best by her, reward or no. but if so be they is one, i'll be mighty glad, fer i had pore luck sellin' that hay to-day." "wal, chirk up, father; mebbe things'll grow brighter soon." "mebbe they will, sary,--mebbe they will." in her unaccustomed surroundings, marjorie woke early. the sun was just reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the trees. she had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation, but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain refreshed, by her night's sleep. she lay in her poor, plain bed and considered the situation. "it doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad i feel about it, it's true. i'm not a maynard, and never was. i don't know who i am, or what my name is. and i don't believe i'd better go to grandma maynard's. perhaps she doesn't know i'm not really her granddaughter, and then she wouldn't want me, after all. for i'd have to tell her. so i just believe i'll earn my own living and be self-supporting." this plan appealed to marjorie's imagination. it seemed grand and noble and heroic. moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp, early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the night before. "yes," she thought on, "i ought to earn my living,--for i've no claim on fa--on mr. maynard. perhaps these people here can find me some work to do. at any rate, i'll ask them." she jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard mr. and mrs. geary already in the kitchen. "my stars!" said her hostess, as she appeared; "how peart you look! slept good, didn't ye?" "fine!" said midget; "good-morning, both of you. can't i help you?" mrs. geary was transferring baked apples from a pan to an old cracked platter. though unaccustomed to such work, marjorie was quick and deft at anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged and placed on the table. she assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly as she worked. too gayly, mrs. geary thought, and she glanced knowingly at her husband, for they both realized marjorie's flow of good spirits was forced,--not spontaneous. after breakfast was over, midget said, "now, i'll wash up the dishes, mrs. geary, and you sit down and take a little rest." "land sake, child! i ain't tired. an' you ain't used to this work, i see you ain't." "that doesn't matter. i can do it, and i must do something to pay for my board,--i have very little money." "hear the child talk! wal, you kin help me with the work, a little, an' then we must come to an understandin'." marjorie worked with a nervous haste that betrayed her inexperience as well as her willingness, and after a time the plain little house was in order. mr. geary came in from doing his out-of-door "chores," and marjorie saw the "understandin'" was about to be arrived at. but she was prepared; she had made up her mind as to her course, and was determined to pursue it. "now, fust of all," said mr. geary, kindly, but with decision, "what is your name?" "jessica brown," said marjorie, promptly. she had already assured herself that as she had no real right to the name she had always used, she was privileged to choose herself a new one. jessica had long been a favorite with her, and brown seemed non-committal. mr. geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, and jessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evident station in life, so he made no comment. "where do you live?" he went on. "i have no home," said marjorie, steadily; "i am a findling." "a what?" "a findling,--from the asylum." the term didn't sound _quite_ right to her,--but she couldn't think of the exact word,--and having used it, concluded to stick to it. zeb geary was not highly educated, but this word, so soberly used, struck his humorous sense, and he put his brawny hand over his mouth to hide his smiles. "yep," he said, after a moment, "i understand,--i do. and whar'd ye set out fer?" "i started for new york, but i've decided not to go there." "oh, ye hev, hev ye? an' jes' what do ye calkilate to do?" "well, mr. geary," marjorie looked troubled,--"and mrs. geary, i'd _like_ to stay here for a while. i'll work for you, and you can pay me by giving me food and lodging. i s'pose i wouldn't be worth very much at first, but i'd learn fast,--you know,--i do everything fast,--mother always said so,--i,--i mean, the lady i used to live with, said so. and i'd try very hard to please you both. if you'd let me stay a while, perhaps you'd learn to like me. you see, i've _got_ to earn my own living, and i haven't anywhere to go, and not a friend in the world but you two." these astonishing words, from the pretty, earnest child, in the dainty and fashionable dress of the best people, completely floored the old country couple. "well, i swan!" exclaimed mr. geary, while mrs. geary said, "my stars!" twice, with great emphasis. "please," marjorie went on, "please give me a trial; for i've been thinking it over, and i don't see what i can possibly do but 'work out.' isn't that what you call it? and if i learn some with you, i might work out in new york, later on." "bless your baby heart!" exclaimed mrs. geary, wiping her eyes which were moist from conflicting emotions. "stay here you shall, if you want to,--though land knows we can't well afford the keep of another." "oh, are you too poor to keep me?" cried marjorie, dismayed. "i don't want to be a burden to you. i thought i could help enough to pay for my 'keep.'" "so ye kin, dearie,--so ye kin," said old zeb, heartily. "we'll fix it some way, mother, at least for the present. now, jessiky, don't ye worrit a mite more. we'll take keer on ye, and the work ye'll do'll more'n pay fer all ye'll eat." this was noble-hearted bluff on zeb's part, for he was hard put to it to get food for himself and his old wife. he was what is known as "shif'less." he worked spasmodically, and spent hours dawdling about, accomplishing nothing, on his old neglected farm. but, somehow, a latent ambition and energy seemed to reawaken in his old heart, and he determined to make renewed efforts to "get ahead" for this pretty child's sake. and meantime, if she liked to think she was helping, by such work as those dainty little hands could do, he was willing to humor her. beside all this, zeb didn't believe her story. he still thought she had run away from a well-to-do home; and he believed it was because of an unloving stepmother. but he was not minded to worry the child further with questions at the present time, and it was part of his nature calmly to await developments. "let it go at that, mother," he advised. "take jessiky as your maid-of-all-work, on trial,"--he smiled at his wife over marjorie's bowed head,--"an' ef she's a good little worker, we'll keep her fer the present." "my stars!" said mrs. geary, and then sat in helpless contemplation of these surprising events. "and i _will_ be a good worker!" declared marjorie, "and perhaps, sometime, we can sort of decorate the house, and make it sort of,--sort of prettier." "we can't spend nothin'," declared mr. geary, "'cause we ain't got nothin' to spend. so don't think we kin, little miss." "no," said marjorie, smiling at him, "but i mean, decorate with wild flowers, or even branches of trees, or pine cones or things like that." a lump came in midget's throat, as she remembered how often she had "decorated" with these things in honor of some gay festivity at home. oh, what were they doing there, now? had they missed her? would they look for her? they _never_ could find her tucked away here in the country. and kitty! what _would_ she say when she heard of it? and _all_ of them! and mother,--_mother_! but all this heart outcry was silent. her kind old friends heard no word or murmur of complaint or dissatisfaction. if the forlorn old house were distasteful to marjorie, she didn't show it; if her room seemed to her uninhabitable, nobody knew it from her. she ran out to the fields, and returned with an armful of ox-eyed daisies, and bunches of clover; and, with some grapevine trails, she made a real transformation of the dingy, bare walls. "well, i swan!" mr. geary said, when he saw it; and his wife exclaimed, "my stars!" chapter xi the reunion after leaving the conductor's house in asbury park, mr. maynard and mr. bryant went to a telephone office, and pursued the plan of calling up every railroad station along the road between seacote and new york. but no good news was the result. it was difficult to get speech with the station men, and none of them especially remembered seeing a little girl of marjorie's description get off the train. "what can we do next?" asked mr. maynard, dejectedly; "i can't go home and sit down to wait for police investigation. i doubt if they could ever find marjorie. i _must_ do something." "it seems a formidable undertaking," said mr. bryant, "to go to each of these way stations; and yet, ed, i can't think of anything else to do. we have traced her to the train, and on it. she must have left it somewhere, and we must discover where." mr. maynard looked at his watch. "jack," he said, "it is nearly time for that very train to stop here. let us get on that, and we may get some word of her from the trainmen other than the conductor." "good idea! and meanwhile we'll have just time to snatch a sandwich somewhere; which we'd better do, as you've eaten nothing since breakfast." "neither have you, old chap; come on." after a hasty luncheon, the two men boarded at asbury park, the same train which marjorie had taken at seacote the day before. conductor fischer greeted them, and called his trainmen, one by one, to be questioned. "sure!" said one of them, at last, "i saw that child, or a girl dressed as you describe, get off this train at newark. she was a plump little body, and pretty, but mighty woe-begone lookin'. she was in comp'ny with a big, red-faced man, a common, farmer-lookin' old fellow. it struck me queer at the time, them two should be mates." mr. maynard's heart sank. this looked like kidnapping. but the knowledge of where marjorie had alighted was help of some sort, at least. after discussing further details of her dress and appearance, mr. maynard concluded that it was, indeed, midget who had left the train at newark with the strange man, and so he concluded to get off there also. "we're on the trail, now," said jack bryant, cheerily; "we're sure to find her." mr. maynard, though not quite so hopeful, felt a little encouraged, and impatiently the two men sprang off the train at newark. into the station they went and interviewed an attendant there. "yep," he replied, "i seen that kid. she was with old zeb geary, an' it got me, what he was doin' with a swell kid like her!" "where did they go?" asked mr. maynard, eagerly. "i dunno. prob'ly he went home. he lives out in the country, and he takes a little jaunt down to the shore now and then. he's sort of eccentric,--thinks he can sell his farm stuff to the hotel men, better'n any other market." "how can i get to his house?" "wanter see zeb, do you? well, he has his own rig, not very nobby, but safe. i guess you could get a rig at that stable 'cross the way. an' they can tell you how to go." "couldn't i get a motor-car?" "likely you could. go over there and ask the man." the station attendant had duties, and was not specially interested in a stranger's queries, so, having rewarded him, as they thought he deserved, the two men hastened over to the livery stable. "zeb geary?" said the stable keeper. "why, yes, he lives five miles out of town. he leaves his old horse here when he goes anywhere on the train. it's no ornament to my place, but i keep it for the old fellow. he's a character in his way. yes, he went out last night and a little girl with him." "could we get a motor here, to go out there?" "right you are! i've good cars and good chauffeurs." in a few moments, therefore, mr. maynard and mr. bryant were speeding away toward zeb geary, and, as they hoped, toward marjorie. while the car was being made ready, mr. maynard had telephoned to king that they had news of marjorie, and hoped soon to find her. he thought best to relieve the minds of the dear ones at home to this extent, even if their quest should prove fruitless, after all. "i can't understand it," said mr. maynard, as they flew along the country roads. "this geary person doesn't sound like a kidnapper, yet why else would midget go with him?" "i'm only afraid it _wasn't_ marjorie," returned mr. bryant. "but we shall soon know." * * * * * marjorie had worked hard all day. partly because she wanted to prove herself a good worker, and partly because, if she stopped to think, her troubles seemed greater than she could bear. but a little after five o'clock everything was done, supper prepared, and the child sat down on the kitchen steps to rest. she was tired, sad, and desolate. the slight excitement of novelty was gone, the bravery and courage of the morning hours had disappeared, and a great wave of homesickness enveloped her very soul. she was too lonely and homesick even to cry, and she sat, a pathetic, drooped little figure, on the old tumble-down porch. she heard the toot of a motor-horn, but it was a familiar sound to her, and she paid no attention to it. then she heard it again, very near, and looked up to see her father and cousin jack frantically waving, as the car fairly flew, over many minor obstacles, straight to that kitchen doorway. "marjorie!" cried mr. maynard, leaping out before the wheels had fairly stopped turning, and in another instant she was folded in that dear old embrace. "oh, father, father!" she cried, hysterically clinging to him, "take me home, take me home!" "of course i will, darling," said mr. maynard's quivering voice, as he held her close and stroked her hair with trembling fingers. "that's what we've come for. here's cousin jack, too." and then midget felt more kisses on her forehead, and a hearty pat on her back, as a voice, not quite steady, but determinedly cheerful, said: "brace up now, mehitabel, we want you to go riding with us." marjorie looked up, with a sudden smile, and then again buried her face on her father's shoulder and almost strangled him as she flung her arms round his neck. then she drew his head down, while she whispered faintly in his ear. three times she had to repeat the words before he could catch them: "are you my father?" he heard at last. the fear flashed back upon him that midget's mind was affected, but he only held her close to him, and said, gently, "yes, marjorie darling, my own little girl," and the quiet assurance of his tone seemed to content her. "wal, wal! an' who be you, sir?" exclaimed a gruff voice, and mr. maynard looked up to see zeb geary approaching from the barn. "you are mr. geary, i'm sure," said cousin jack, advancing; "we have come for this little girl." "wal, i'm right down glad on't! i jest knew that purty child had a home and friends, though she vowed she hadn't." "and you've been kind to her, and we want to thank you! and this is mrs. geary?" "yep, that's sary. come out here, mother, and see what's goin' on." out of shyness, mrs. geary had watched proceedings from the kitchen window, but fortified by her husband's presence, she appeared in the doorway. "they've been so good to me, father," said marjorie, still nestling in his sheltering arms. "wal, we jest done what we could," said mrs. geary. "i knowed that jessiky belonged to fine people, but she didn't want to tell us nothin', so we didn't pester her." "and we ain't askin' nothin' from you, neither," spoke up zeb. "she's a sweet, purty child, an' as good as they make 'em. an' when she wants to tell you all about it, she will. as fer us,--we've no call to know." "now, that's well said!" exclaimed mr. bryant, holding out his hand to the old man. "and, for the present, we're going to take you at your word. if you agree, we're going to take this little girl right off with us, because her mother is anxiously awaiting news of her safety. and perhaps, sometime later, we'll explain matters fully to you. meantime, i hope you'll permit us to leave with you a little expression of our appreciation of your real kindness to our darling, and our gratitude at her recovery." a few whispered words passed between the two gentlemen, and then, after a moment's manipulation of his fountain pen and checkbook, mr. bryant handed to old zeb geary a slip of paper that took his breath away. "i can't rightly thank you, sir," he said, brokenly; "i done no more'n my duty; but if so be's you feel to give me this, i kin only say, bless ye fer yer goodness to them that has need!" "that's all right, mr. geary," said cousin jack, touched by the old man's emotion; "and now, ed, let's be going." mrs. geary brought marjorie's hat and her little purse, and in another moment they were flying along the country road toward newark. marjorie said nothing at all, but cuddled into her father's arm, and now and then drew long, deep sighs, as if still troubled. but he only held her closer, and murmured words of endearment, leaving her undisturbed by questions about her strange conduct. in newark they telephoned the joyful news to mrs. maynard, and then took the first train to seacote. all through the two-hour ride, marjorie slept peacefully, with her father's arm protectingly round her. the two men said little, being too thankful that their quest was successfully ended. "but i think her mind is all right," whispered mr. maynard, as mr. bryant leaned over from the seat behind. "she has some kind of a crazy notion in her head,--but when she's thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out." the maynards' motor was waiting at seacote station, and after a few moments' ride, marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people. "mother, _mother_!" she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her. though unnerved herself, mrs. maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child. "_are_ you my mother?" wailed marjorie, in agonized tones; "_are_ you?" "yes, my child, _yes_!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice. "then why,--_why_ did you tell mrs. corey i was a findling?" "tell mrs. corey _what_?" "why, when i was practising, you were talking to her, and i heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when i was a baby,--and that i didn't really belong to you and father?" "oh, marjorie! oh, my baby!" and dropping into the nearest armchair, with marjorie in her lap, mrs. maynard laughed and cried together. "oh, ed," she exclaimed, looking at her husband, "it's those theatricals! listen, marjorie, darling. our dramatic club is going to give a play called 'the stepmother,' and mrs. corey and i were learning our parts. that's what you heard!" "truly, mother?" "truly, of course, you little goosie-girl! and so you ran away?" "yes; i couldn't stay here if i wasn't your little girl,--and father's,--and king's sister,--and all. and you said i was different from your own children and,----" "there, there, darling, it's all right now. and we'll hear the rest of your story to-morrow. now, we're going to have some supper, and then tuck you in your own little bed where you belong. have you had your supper?" "no,--but i set the table," and marjorie began to smile at the recollection of the geary kitchen. "you see, mother, i've been maid-of-all-work." "and now you've come back to be maid-of-all-play, as usual," broke in cousin jack, who didn't want the conversation to take a serious turn, for all present were under stress of suppressed emotion. "i say, mops, you ought to have known better," was king's brotherly comment, but he pulled off her black hair-ribbons in the old, comforting way, and midget grinned at him. "let's dispense with these trappings of woe," said cousin jack, dropping the black ribbons in a convenient waste-basket. so midget went out to supper without any ribbons, her mop of curls tumbling all over her head and hanging down her shoulders. "my, but i'm hungry!" she said, as she saw once again her own home table, with its pretty appointments and appetizing food. "you bet you are!" said king, appreciatively; "tell us what you had to eat in the rural district." "boiled beef," said midget, smiling; "and gingerbread and turnips!" "not so awful worse," commented king. "no? well, s'pose you try it once! i like these croquettes and saratoga potatoes a whole heap better!" "well, i 'spect i do, too. i say, mops, i'm glad you didn't break your word to come out and play,--at least, not intentionally." "no, i never break my word. but i guess if you thought you didn't have any father or mother or brother or sister, you'd forget all about going out to play, too." "i haven't any brother," said king, looking very sad and forlorn. "i'll be a brother to you," declared cousin jack, promptly; "you behaved like a man, last night, old fellow,--and i'm proud to claim you as a man and a brother." "pooh, i didn't do anything," said king, modestly. "yes, you did," said his mother. "you were fine, my son. and i never could have lived through to-day without you, either." "dear old kingsy-wingsy!" said midget, looking at him with shining eyes. and then,--for it was their long-established custom,--she tweaked his windsor scarf untied. as this was a mark of deep affection, king only grinned at her and retied it, with an ease and grace born of long practice. "well, mehitabel," said cousin jack, "i always said you were a child who could do the most unexpected things. here you've been and turned this whole house upside down and had us all nearly crazy,--and here you are back again as smiling as a basket of chips. and yet you did nothing for which any one could blame you!" "indeed they _can't_ blame her!" spoke up mrs. maynard; "the child thought i was talking to mrs. corey, instead of reading my part in the play. marjorie sha'n't be blamed a bit!" "that's just what i said," repeated cousin jack, smiling at the mother's quick defense of her child; "why, if anybody told me i was a,--what do you call it?--a findling,--i'd run away, too!" "don't run away," said cousin ethel, laughing. "i'd have to run with you, or you'd get lost for keeps. and i'd rather stay here. but i think we must be starting for bryant bower, and leave this reunited family to get along for awhile without our tender care." "but don't think we don't realize how much we are indebted to you," said mr. maynard, earnestly, for the two good friends in need had been friends indeed to the distracted parents. "well, you can have a set of resolutions engrossed and framed for us," said cousin jack, "or, better yet, you can give me a dollar bill, in full of all accounts. by the way, mehitabel, it's lucky you came home from your little jaunt in time for your birthday. i incidentally learned that it will be here soon, and we're going to have a celebration that will take the roof right off this house!" "all right, cousin jack; i'm ready for anything, now that i know i've got a father and mother." "and a brother," supplemented king, "and _such_ a brother!" he rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy at the thought of his own perfections, and marjorie lovingly pinched his arm. "and a couple of sisters," added cousin ethel; "i like to speak up for the absent." "yes, and two dearest, darlingest cousins," said marjorie, gleefully. "oh, i think i've got the loveliest bunch of people in the whole world!" chapter xii a letter of thanks "mother," said marjorie, the next day, "what is a bread-and-butter letter?" "why, dearie, that's a sort of a humorous term for a polite note of acknowledgment, such as one writes to a hostess after making a visit." "yes, that's what i thought. so i'm going to write one to mrs. geary." "you may, if you like, my child; but, you know your father gave those old people money for their care of you." "yes, i know; but that's different. and i think they'd appreciate a letter." "very well, write one, if you like. shall i help you?" "no, thank you. king and i are going to do it together." "what did you call it, mops?" asked her brother, as she returned to the library, where he sat, awaiting her. "a bread-and-butter letter; mother says it's all right." "well, but you had other things to eat besides bread and butter." "yes, but that's just the name of it. now, how would you begin it, king?" "'dear mrs. geary,' of course." "well, but i want it to be to him, too. he was real nice,--in his queer way. and if he hadn't looked after me, where would i have been?" "that's so. well, say, 'dear mr. and mrs. geary, both.'" so marjorie began: "'dear mr. and mrs. geary both: "'this is a bread-and-butter letter----'" "i tell you, mops, they won't like it. they're not up in social doings, and they won't understand that bread and butter means all the things. i think you ought to put 'em all in." "well, i will then. how's this? "'--and a turnip letter, and a boiled-beef letter, and a baked-apple letter, and a soft-boiled egg letter.'" "that's better. it may not sound like the fashionable people write, but it will please them. now thank them for taking care of you." "'i thank you a whole heap for being so good to me, and speaking kindly to me in the railroad train, when i wasn't so very polite to you.'" "weren't you, mops?" "no; i squeezed away from him, 'cause i thought he was rough and rude." "well, you can't tell him that." "no; i'll say this: "'i wasn't very sociable, sir, because i have been taught not to talk to strangers, but, of course, those rules, when made, did not know i would be obliged to run away.'" "you weren't _obliged_ to, midget." "yes i was, king! i just simply _couldn't_ stay here if i didn't belong, could i? could you?" "no, i s'pose not. i'd go off and go to work." "well, isn't that what i did? "'but you were kind and good to me, mr. geary and mrs. geary both, and i am very much obliged. i guess i didn't work very well for you, but i am out of practice, and i haven't much talent for houseworking, anyway. _you_ seem to have, dear mrs. geary.' "that's a sort of a compliment, king. really, she isn't a very good housekeeper." "oh, that's all right. it's like when people say you have musical talent, and you know you play like the dickens." "yes, i do. well, now i'll finish this, then we can go down to the beach." "'and so, dear mr. and mrs. geary both, i write to say i am much obliged----' "oh, my gracious, king, i ought to tell them how it happened. about my mistake, you know, thinking mother was talking in earnest." "oh, don't tell 'em all that, you'll _never_ get it done. but i suppose they are curious to know. well, cut it short." "'you see, dear mr. and mrs. geary both, i am not a findling, as i supposed.'" "that's not findling, midget,--you mean foundling." "i don't think so. and, anyway, they mean just the same,--i'm going to leave it. "'i find i have quite a large family, with a nice father and mother, some sisters and a brother. you saw my father. also, i have lovely cousins and four grand-parents and an uncle. so you see i am well supplied with this world's goods. so now, good-by, dear mr. and mrs. geary both, and with further thanks and obliges, i am, "'your friend, "'marjorie maynard. "'p.s. the jessica brown was a made-up name.' "do you think that's all right, king?" "yep, it's fine! seal her up, and write the address and leave it on the hall table, and come on." and so the "bread-and-butter" letter went to mr. and mrs. geary both, and was kept and treasured by them as one of their choicest possessions. "i knew she was a little lady by the way she pretended not to notice our poor things," said old zeb. "i knew by her petticoats," said his wife. * * * * * and so the episode of marjorie's runaway passed into history. mrs. maynard, at first, wanted to give up her part in the play of "the stepmother," but she was urged by all to retain it, and so she did. as mr. maynard said, it was the merest coincidence that marjorie overheard the words without knowing why they were spoken, and there was no possibility of such a thing ever happening again. so mrs. maynard kept her part in the pretty little comedy, but she never repeated those sentences that had so appalled poor marjorie, without a thrill of sorrow for the child and a thrill of gladness for her quick and safe restoration to them. and the days hurried on, bringing marjorie's birthday nearer and nearer. on the fifteenth of july she would be thirteen years old. "you see," said cousin jack, who was, as usual, director general of the celebration, "you see, mehitabel, thirteen is said to be an unlucky number." "and must i be unlucky all the year?" asked marjorie, in dismay. "on the contrary, my child. we will eradicate the unluck from the number,--we will cut the claws of the tiger,--and draw the fangs of the serpent. in other words, we shall so override and overrule that foolish superstition about thirteen being unlucky that we shall prove the contrary." "hooray for you, cousin jack! i'm lucky to have you around for this particular birthday, i think." "you're always lucky, mehitabel, and you always will be. you see, this business they call luck is largely a matter of our own will-power and determination. now, i propose to consider thirteen a lucky number, and before your birthday is over, you'll agree with me, i know." "i 'spect i shall, cousin jack. and i'm much obliged to you." "that's right, mehitabel. always be grateful to your elders. they do a lot for you." "you needn't laugh, cousin jack. you're awful good to me." "good to myself, you mean. not having any olive-branches of my own, i have to play with my neighbors'. as i understand it, mehitabel, you're to have a party on this birthday of yours." "yes, sir-ee, sir! mother says i can invite as many as i like. you know there are lots of girls and boys down here that i know, but i don't know them as well as i do the craigs and hester. but at a party, i'll ask them all." "all right. now, this is going to be a good-luck party, to counteract that foolish thirteen notion. you don't need to know all about the details. your mother and i will plan it all, and you can just be the lucky little hostess." so marjorie was not admitted to the long confabs between her mother and cousin jack. she didn't mind, for she knew perfectly well that delightful plans were being made for the party, and they would all be carried out. but there was much speculation in sand court as to what the fun would be. "i know it will be lovely," said hester, with a sigh. "you are the luckiest girl i ever saw, marjorie. you always have all the good times." "why, hester, don't you have good times, too?" "not like you do. your mother and father, and those bryants just do things for you all the time. i don't think it's fair!" "well, your mother does things for you,--all mothers do," said tom craig. "not as much as marjorie's. my mother said so. she said she never saw anything like the way marjorie maynard is petted. and it makes her stuck up and spoiled!" "did your mother say my sister was stuck-up and spoiled?" demanded king, flaring up instantly. "well,--she didn't say just that,--but she is, all the same!" and hester scowled crossly at midget. "why, hester corey, i am not!" declared marjorie. "what do i do that's stuck-up?" "oh, you think yourself so smart,--and you always want to boss everything." "maybe i am too bossy," said marjorie, ruefully, for she knew that she loved to choose and direct their games. "yes, you are! and i'm not going to stand it!" "all right, hester corey, you can get out of this club, then," said tom, glaring at her angrily; "marjorie maynard is queen, anyway, and if she hasn't got a right to boss, who has?" "well, she's been queen long enough. somebody else ought to have a chance." "huh!" spoke up dick; "a nice queen you'd make, wouldn't you? i s'pose that's what you want! you're a bad girl, hester corey!" "i am not, neither!" "you are, too!" "jiminy crickets!" exclaimed king; "can't this club get along without scrapping? if not, the club'd better break up. i'm ashamed of you, dick, to hear you talk like that!" "hester began it," said dick, sullenly. "oh, yes; blame it all on hester!" cried that angry maiden, herself; "blame everything on hester, and nothing on marjorie. dear, sweet, angel marjorie!" "now, hester corey, you stop talking about my sister like that, or i'll get mad," stormed king. "she's queen of this club, and she's got a right to boss. and you needn't get mad about it, either." "you can be queen, if you want to, hester," said midget, slowly. "i guess i am a pig to be queen all the time." "no, you're not!" shouted tom. "if hester's queen, i resign myself from this club! so there, now!" "go on, and resign!" said hester; "nobody cares. i'm going to be queen, marjorie said i could. give me your crown, marjorie." midget didn't want to give up her crown a bit, but she had a strong sense of justice, and it did seem that hester ought to have her turn at being queen. so she began to lift the crown from her head, when king interposed: "don't you do it, midget! we can't change queens in a minute, like that! if we _do_ change, it's got to be by election and nomination and things like that." "it isn't!" screamed hester; "i won't have it so! i'm going to be queen!" she fairly snatched the crown from marjorie's head, and whisked it onto her own head. as it had been made to fit midget's thick mop of curls, it was too big for hester, and came down over her ears, and well over her eyes. "ho! ho!" jeered dick; "a nice queen you look! ho! ho!" but by this time hester was in one of her regular tantrums. "i _will_ be queen!" she shrieked; "i will, i tell you!" "come on, mops, let's go home," said king, quietly. the maynard children were unaccustomed to outbursts of temper, and king didn't know exactly what to say to the little termagant. "all right, we'll go home, too," said tom; "come on, boys!" they all started off, leaving hester in solitary possession of sand court. the child, when in one of her rages, had an ungovernable temper, and, left alone, she vented it by smashing everything she could. she upset the throne, tore down the decorations, and flew around like a wildcat. marjorie, who had turned to look at her, said: "you go on, king; i'm going back to speak to hester." "i'm afraid she'll hurt you," objected king. "no, she won't; i'll be kind to her." "all right, midge; a soft answer turneth away rats, but i don't know about wildcats!" "well, you go on." and marjorie turned, and went back to sand court. "say, hester," she began a little timidly. "go away from here, stuck-up! spoiled child! i don't want to see you!" as a matter of fact, hester presented a funny sight. she was a plain child, and her shock of red hair was straight and untractable. her scowling face was flushed with anger, and the gold paper crown was pushed down over one ear in ridiculous fashion. marjorie couldn't help laughing, which, naturally, only irritated hester the more. "yes, giggle!" she cried; "old smarty-cat! old proudy!" "oh, hester, don't!" said midget, bursting into tears. "how can you be so cross to me? i don't mean to be stuck-up and proud, and i don't think i am. you can be queen if you want to, and we'll have the election thing all right. please don't be so mean to me!" "can i be queen?" demanded hester, a little mollified; "can i, really?" "why, yes, if the boys agree. they have as much say as i do." "they don't either! you have all the say! you always do! now, promise you'll make the boys let me be queen, or,--or i won't play!" hester ended her threat rather lamely, as she couldn't think of any dire punishment which she felt sure she could carry out. "i promise," said marjorie, who really felt it was just that hester should be queen for a time. "all right, then," and hester's stormy face cleared a little. "see that you keep your promise." "i always keep my promises," said marjorie, with dignity; "and i'll tell you what i think of _you_, hester corey! i think you ought to be queen,--it _isn't_ fair for me to be it all the time. but i think you might have asked me in a nicer way, and not call names, and smash things all about! there, that's what i think!" and marjorie glared at her in righteous indignation. "maybe i ought," said hester, suddenly becoming humble, as is the way of hot-tempered people after gaining their point. "i've got an awful temper, marjorie, but i can't help it!" "you _can_ help it, hester; you don't try." "oh, it's all very well for you to talk! you never have anything to bother you! nothing goes wrong, and everybody spoils you! why should _you_ have a bad temper?" "now, hester, don't be silly! you have just as good a home and just as kind friends as i have." "no, i haven't! nobody likes me. and everybody likes you. why, the craig boys think you're made of gold!" marjorie laughed. "well, hester, it's _your_ own fault if they don't think you are, too. but how can they, when you fly into these rages and tear everything to pieces?" "well, they make me so mad, i have to! now, i'm going home, and i'm going to stay there till you do as you promised, and get the boys to let me be queen." "well, i'll try----" began marjorie, but hester had flung the torn gilt crown on the ground, and stalked away toward home. midget picked up the crown and tried to straighten it out, but it was battered past repair. "i'll make a new one," she thought, "and i'll try to make the boys agree to having hester for queen. but i don't believe tom will. i know it's selfish for me to be queen all the time, and i don't want to be selfish." seeing hester go away, tom came back, and reached sand court just as midget was about to leave. "hello, queen sandy!" he called out; "wait a minute. i saw that spitfire going away, so i came back. now, look here, mopsy maynard, don't you let that old crosspatch be queen!" "i can't, unless we all elect her," returned midget, smiling at tom; "but i wish you would agree to do that. it isn't fair, tom, for me to be queen all the time." "why isn't it? it's your club! you got it up, and hester came and poked herself in where she wasn't wanted." "well, we took her in, and now we ought to be kind to her." "kind to such an old meany as she is!" "don't call her names, tom. i don't believe she can help flying into a temper, and then, when she gets mad, she doesn't care what she says." "i should think she didn't! well, make her queen if you want to, but if you do, you can get somebody else to take my place." "oh, tom, don't act like that," and marjorie looked at him, with pleading eyes. "yes, i _will act_ like that! just exactly like that! i won't belong to any court that hester corey is queen of!" marjorie sighed. what _could_ she do with this intractable boy? and, she almost knew that king would feel the same way. perhaps, if she could win tom over to her way of thinking, king might be more easily influenced. "tom," she began, "don't you like me?" "yes, i do. you're the squarest girl i ever knew." "then, don't you think you might do this much for me?" "what much?" "why, just let hester be queen for a while." "no, i don't. that wouldn't be any favor to you." "yes, it would. if i ask you, and you refuse, i'll think you're real unkind. and yet you say you like me!" marjorie had struck a right chord in the boy's heart. he didn't want hester for queen, but still less did he want to refuse midget her earnest request. "oh, pshaw!" he said, digging his toe in the sand; "if you put it that way, i'll _have_ to say yes. don't put it that way, midget." "yes, i _will_ put it that way! and if you're my friend, you'll say yes, yourself, and then you'll help me to make the other boys say yes. will you?" "yes, i s'pose so," said tom, looking a little dubious. chapter xiii thirteen! marjorie's thirteenth birthday dawned bright and clear. her opening eyes rested on some strange thing sticking up at the foot of her bed, but a fully-awakened glance proved it to be a big no. , painted on a square of white pasteboard, and decorated with painted four-leaved clovers. the motto "good luck" was traced in ornamental letters, and the whole was in a narrow wood frame. "that's my birthday greeting from cousin jack and cousin ethel!" marjorie said to herself; "i recognize her lovely painting, and it's just like them, anyway. i'll hang that on my bedroom wall, till i'm as old as methusaleh." "happy birthday, darling!" said her mother, coming in, and sitting on the side of the bed; "many happy returns of the day." "oh, dearie mother! i'm so glad i've got you! and i'm _so_ glad you're really my very own mother! give me thirteen kisses, please, ma'am!" "merry birthday, midget!" called her father, through the crack of the door. "you two had better stop that love-feast and get down to breakfast!" so marjorie sprang up, and made haste with her bathing and dressing, so that in less than half an hour she was dancing downstairs to begin her lucky birthday. her presents were heaped round her plate, and the parcels were so enticing in appearance, that she could scarcely eat for impatience. "breakfast first," decreed her father, "or i fear you'll become so excited you'll never eat at all." so marjorie contented herself with pinching and punching the bundles, while she ate peaches and cream and cereal. "oh, what _is_ in this squnchy one?" she cried, feeling of a loosely done-up parcel. "it smells so sweet, and it crackles like silk!" "kitty sent that," answered her mother, smiling, "and she wrote me that she made it herself." but at last the cereal-saucer was empty, and the ribbons could be untied. kitty's gift proved to be a lovely bag, of pink and blue dresden silk. "what's it for?" asked king, not much impressed with its desirability. "oh, for anything!" cried marjorie. "handkerchiefs,--or hair-ribbons,--or,--or just to hang up and look pretty." "pretty foolish," opined king, but he greeted with joy the opening of the next bundle. "jumping hornets!" he exclaimed; "isn't that a beauty! _just_ what i wanted!" "whose birthday is this, anyhow?" laughed marjorie, as she carefully unrolled the tissue-paper packing from a fine microscope. uncle steve had sent it, and it was both valuable and practical, and a thing the children had long wished for. "well, you'll let a fellow take a peep once in a while, won't you?" "yes, if you'll be goody-boy," said midget, patronizingly. grandma sherwood's gift was a cover for a sofa-pillow, of rich oriental fabric, embroidered in gold thread. "just the thing for my couch, at home," said midget, greatly pleased. "just the thing to pitch at you, after it gets stuffed," commented king. "go on, mops, open the big one." the big one proved to be a case, from mother and father, containing a complete set of brushes and toilet articles for marjorie's dressing-table. they were plain shapes, of ivory, with her monogram on each in dark blue. "gorgeous!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "just what i longed for,--and so much nicer than silver, 'cause that has to be cleaned every minute. oh, mothery, they are lovely, and fathery, too. consider yourselves kissed thirteen hundred times! oh, what's this?" "that's my present," said king. "open it carefully, mops." she did so, and revealed a pincushion, but a pincushion so befrilled and belaced and beflowered one could scarce tell what it was. "i picked it out myself," said king, with obvious pride in his selection. "i know how you girls love flummadiddles, and i took the very flummadiddlyest the old lady had. like it, mops?" "like it! i _love_ it! i adore it! and it will go fine with this beauty ivory set." "yes, you'll have a louis umpsteenth boudoir, when you get back to rockwell." "i shan't use it down here," said marjorie, fingering the pretty trifle, "for the sea air spoils such things. but when i get home i'll fix my room all up gay,--may i, mother?" "i 'spect so. it's time you had a new wallpaper, anyway, and we'll get one with little pink rosebuds to match king's pincushion." the bryants' gift came next. it was in a small jeweller's box, and was a slender gold neck chain and pendant, representing a four-leafed clover in green enamel on gold, on one petal of which were the figures thirteen in tiny diamonds. "oh, ho! diamonds!" cried king. "you're altogether too young to wear diamonds, mops. better give it to me for a watch fob." "i'm not, am i, father?" said marjorie, turning troubled eyes to her father. "no, midget. not those little chips of stones. a baby could wear those. and by the way, where is baby's gift?" "my p'esent!" cried rosy posy, who had sat until now silent, in admiration of the unfolding wonders. "my p'esent, middy! it's a palumasol!" "then it's this long bundle," said marjorie, and she unwrapped a beautiful little parasol of embroidered white linen. "oh, rosy posyeums!" she cried. "this is _too booful_! i never saw such a pretty one!" "me buyed it! me and muvver! oh, it's _too_ booful!" and the baby kicked her fat, bare legs in glee at her own gift. grandma and grandpa maynard sent a silver frame, containing their photographs, and grandma sent also a piece of fine lace, which was to be laid away until marjorie was old enough to put it to use. it was her custom to send such a piece each year, and marjorie's collection was already a valuable one. there were many small gifts and cards from friends in rockwell, and from some of the seacote children, and when all were opened, midget begged king to help her take them to the living-room, where they might be displayed on a table. and then the bryants arrived, and the house rang with their greetings and congratulations. "unlucky midget!" cried cousin jack. "poor little unlucky mopsy midget mehitabel! oh, what a sad fate to be thirteen years old, and to be so loaded down with birthday gifts that you don't know where you're at! "mopsy midget mehitabel may has come to a most unlucky day! nothing will happen but feasting and fun, and gifts,--pretty nearly a hundred and one! jolly good times, and jolly good wishes, a jolly good party with jolly good dishes. every one happy and everything bright, good luck is here--and bad luck out of sight. 'tis the luckiest day that ever was seen, for marjorie maynard is just thirteen!" "oh, cousin jack, what a beautiful birthday poem! i'm sure there _couldn't_ be a luckier little girl than i! i've got everything!" "and we've got _you_!" cried her father, catching her in his arms with a heart full of gratitude that she was safe at home with them. * * * * * the party was to begin at four o'clock, and the guests were invited to stay until seven. in good season marjorie was dressed, and down on the veranda ready to receive her little friends. she wore a pretty, thin white frock, with delicate embroidery, and the pendant that had been her birthday gift. the family were all assembled when she came down, and though it would be half an hour before they could expect the guests, they all seemed filled with eager anticipation. "what's the matter?" asked midget, looking from one smiling face to another. "nothing, nothing!" said king, trying to look unconcerned. "nothing, nothing," said cousin jack, pulling a wry face. but mrs. maynard said, "there's another birthday surprise for you, marjorie dear. it has just come, and it's in the living-room. go and hunt for it." marjorie danced into the house, and they all followed. she began looking about for some small object, peering into vases and under books, till her father said: "look for something larger, midget; something quite large." "and be careful of your frock," warned her mother, for midget was down on her hands and knees, looking under the big divan. "keep on your feet!" advised king. "and look everywhere." "pooh! if i keep on my feet, i can't find anything big!" exclaimed midget. "where could it be hidden?" "that's for you to find out!" returned king. "i'll give you a hint," said cousin jack. "turn, mehitabel, turn." marjorie turned slowly round and round, but that didn't help her any. "turn, turn, turn, turn," cousin jack kept saying in a monotone, and suddenly it flashed on marjorie that he meant for her to turn something else beside herself. she turned the key of a bookshelf door, and opened it, but found nothing but books. "turn, turn, turn, turn," droned cousin jack. "oh," thought marjorie, "the closet!" and flying to the door of a large closet in the room, she turned the knob, the door flew open, and there she saw,--uncle steve and kitty! "oh, kit!" she cried, and in a moment the two girls were so tangled up that detriment to their party frocks seemed inevitable. but they were persuaded to separate before too much damage was done, and then marjorie turned to greet uncle steve. "i daren't rumple your fine feathers," he said, standing 'way off, and extending his fingertips to her. "but i'm _terrible_ glad to see you, and to find that you've grown up as good as you are beautiful." this made marjorie laugh, for she didn't think she was either. "how _did_ you happen to come?" she cried, for she couldn't realize that kitty was really there. "oh, it was just a stroke of good luck," said cousin jack. "you know to-day is your lucky day." "'deed it is!" declared marjorie. "come on, kit, let's go and sit in the swing till the people come to the party." the sisters had time for a short, merry chat, and then the guests began to arrive. there were about twenty-five boys and girls, and with the grown-ups this made quite a party. it was fun, indeed, to have both cousin jack and uncle steve present, for these two men just devoted themselves to the cause, and made so much fun and merriment that they seemed like big children themselves. they gave a burlesque wrestling match on the lawn that sent the young people off into peals of laughter. they made up funny dialogue, and were always playing good-natured tricks on some of the children. then cousin jack said: "now we will play the good luck game. into the hall, all of you!" the children scampered into the hall, and on the wall they saw a large placard which read: "pins one hairpins two four-leafed clovers five horse-shoes ten pennies fifteen black cats twenty-five." each guest was given a small fancy basket, with ribbons tied to the handle. then they were instructed to hunt all the rooms on the lower floor, the veranda, and the nearby lawns, and gather into their baskets such of the above mentioned articles as they could find. a prize would be given to the one who had the most valuable collection, according to the values given on the placard. at the word "go!" they scuttled away, and hunted eagerly, now and then stooping to pick up a pin from the floor, or reaching up to get a horseshoe from the mantelpiece. the rooms had been literally sown with the small objects; the clovers and horseshoes being cut from pasteboard and painted, and the black cats being tiny china, wooden, or bronze affairs. cousin jack must have had an immense store of these findings, for the baskets filled rapidly, and yet there seemed always more to be found. "how are you getting along, hester?" asked marjorie as she met her. "can't find any hardly. i never have any luck! i s'pose you have a basket full!" "nearly," said marjorie, laughing at hester's ill-nature in the midst of the others' merriment. "say, hester, i'll tell you what! i'll change baskets with you. want to?" "will you?" and hester's eyes sparkled. "oh, marjorie, will you?" "yes, i will, on condition that you'll be nice and pleasant, and not go around looking as cross as a magpie!" "all right, give me your basket," and hester put on a very bright smile in anticipation of winning the game. "what did you do that for?" asked kitty, who saw the transfer of baskets. "oh, because. never mind now, kit, i'll tell you to-morrow," and midget danced away with hester's almost empty basket hanging from her arm. she picked up a few more things here and there, and then cousin jack rang a bell to announce that the game was over. the baskets, each having its owner's name on a card tied to it, were all put on the hall table, and mrs. maynard and cousin ethel appraised the contents, while the children went to another game. this time uncle steve conducted affairs. several tables in the living-room were surrounded by the players, and each was given a paper and pencil. "i see," uncle steve began, "that this is a good luck party. so each of you write the words 'good luck' at the top of your paper. have you done so? good! now, i hope you will all of you have all good luck always, but if you can't get it all, get part. so try your hand at it by making words of four letters out of those two words you have written. use each letter only once,--unless it is repeated, like _o_ in 'good.' however, that's the only one that _is_ a repeater, so use the others only once in any word you make. the words must be each of four letters,--no more and no less. and they must all be good, common, well-known english words. now go ahead, and the best list takes a prize." how the children scribbled! how they nibbled their pencils and thought! how they whispered to each other to ask if such a word was right! marjorie was quick at puzzles, but she didn't think it would be polite to take the prize at her own party, so she didn't hand in her list. neither did kitty nor king. so when the lists were handed in, uncle steve rapidly looked them over. "the longest list," he announced, "contains ten words." "oh, dear!" sighed hester. "isn't that just my bad luck! i had nine." "so did i," said several others, but it was tom craig's list that had ten, so he received the prize. his list, as uncle steve read it out, was: cook, loud, duck, cool, cold, lock, look, dock, clod, gold. the prize was a box of candy made in the shape of a four-leafed clover, so it was really four boxes. tom generously offered to pass the sweets around at once, but uncle steve advised him not to, as supper would be served pretty soon. the children all liked the game, and clamored for a repetition of it, but cousin jack said it was his turn for a game now, and if they'd all stay at the tables, he'd give it to them. "this is my own game," he said, "because it is called jackstraws, and my name is jack. i am not a man of straw, however, as you'd soon find if you tried to knock me over! the game is almost like ordinary jackstraws, but with slight additions." then there were passed around bunches of jackstraws for each table. they were just like ordinary jackstraws, except they were of different colors, and a little card told how to count. white ones were one; red ones, two; blue ones, five; silver ones, ten; and gold ones, twenty. then one marked good luck counted fifteen, and another, marked _thirteen_, counted twenty-five. this proved that thirteen was _not_ an unlucky number! it's always fun to play jackstraws, and the children went at it with a zest. midget, at the next table, was not surprised to hear hester complaining, "oh, you joggled me! that isn't fair! i ought to have another turn! i _never_ have any luck!" marjorie smiled across at her, and, seeming to remember the condition of the basket exchange, hester tried to smile, and succeeded fairly well. milly fosdick won that prize, and they all laughed when it turned out to be a straw hat of indian make. it was of gay pattern basket work, and adorned with beads and feathers. milly was delighted with it, and said she should always keep it as a souvenir. by that time the ladies had completed their task, and the prize for the good luck hunt fell to hester corey. this was the prettiest prize of all, being a beautifully illustrated copy of grimms' "fairy tales," and hester was enchanted with it. she took it eagerly, and never seemed to think for a moment that perhaps it wasn't quite fairly won; nor did she thank marjorie for the assistance she gave. then they all went out to supper. and such a supper as it was! the table was decorated with green four-leafed clovers, and gilt horseshoes, and black cats, and yellow new moons. and every one had a little rabbit's foot, mounted like a charm, for a souvenir; and also a bright lucky penny of that very year. and the sandwiches were cut like clovers, and the cakes like new moons, and the ice-cream was shaped like horseshoes, and everybody wished everybody else good luck all through marjorie's thirteenth year. and when the young guests went away they all sang: "good luck, ladies; good luck, ladies; good luck, ladies; we're going to leave you now." chapter xiv queen hester "kit's my bestest birthday present," declared marjorie, as they sat together in the veranda swing the morning after the party. kitty pulled her sister's curls in absent-minded affection, and remarked, thoughtfully: "mopsy, i don't seem to care much for that red-headed hester girl." "she's a queer thing," marjorie returned, "but i sort of like her, too. you see, kit, she has a fearful temper, and she can't help being spiteful." "oh, fiddlesticks, mops! anybody can help being spiteful if they want to." "no, she can't, kit. she flies into a rage over nothing. and then she's sorry afterward." "will she be at the sand court thing, or whatever you call it, to-day?" "yes, all the club will be there. come on, let's go." the sisters ran down to sand court and found king and the craig boys already there. "old crosspatch hasn't come yet," observed dick, after they had all said "hello!" "dick," said midget, "i wish you wouldn't call our sand witch such unkind names." "well, she _is_ a crosspatch." "well, never mind if she is. don't let's call names, anyway." and then hester arrived. it was easily seen she was prepared for a fray. she was not smiling, and she said "hello" with a very sour expression of face. then she turned to midget. "did you make me a new crown?" she said. "are you going to let me be queen?" "we have to vote about that," returned marjorie, "and i do hope, my courtiers, that we won't have any squabbling before our royal visitor, miss princess sand,--sand--well, san diego is the only name i can think of for kit!" "hail, princess sandeago!" cried tom, and all the courtiers ducked almost to the ground in low bows. "now," went on marjorie, "our first business this morning is the election of a new queen." "queens aren't elected," growled tom, "they,--they,--what _do_ they do? oh, they succeed!" "that's exactly what they do!" cried midget. "and _i'm_ going to succeed! i mean i'm going to succeed in my plan of having hester succeed me! i asked father about elections, and he said people could be instructed to vote a certain way. so i hereby instruct you all, my beloved courtiers, to vote for a new queen. the same to be our beloved sand witch." "beloved grandmother!" exclaimed tom, irrepressibly. "no, my grand sandjandrum," went on midget, looking sternly at him, "she isn't your grandmother, but she's to be your new sovereign, so you may as well make up your mind to it." as hester began to think midget was going to make the change, whether the boys wanted to or not, she suddenly became very light-hearted and smiled at everybody. "i'll be a good queen," she said, ingratiatingly, "and i'll do whatever you want me to." and then king waked up to the fact that since midget desired this change, and since it might have the effect of keeping hester pleasant and good-natured, perhaps it was a good plan after all. so he said: "all right; i'll vote as queen sandy instructs." tom looked at him in surprise, and then, remembering he had practically promised to do as marjorie asked, he said: "well, i will too. but only on condition that the new queen promises to be pleasant and nice all the time." "i will," declared hester, earnestly, her face fairly radiant now at the thought of wearing the crown. "you ought to take an oath of office and say so," advised kitty, who was critically watching the proceedings. "what's that mean?" demanded hester. "why, swear that you won't lose your temper." "oh, i wouldn't _swear_!" cried hester, in dismay. "kit doesn't mean bad swearing," explained king. "she means official swearing, or something like that. all queens do it, and juries, and presidents, and everything. it's only promising or vowing." "well, i'll promise or vow," agreed hester, "but i won't swear." "all right," said marjorie. "you must hold up both hands, and say 'i promise or vow to be a good queen and not get mad at my courtiers.' say it now." so hester raised both hands as high as she could and repeated marjorie's words. "now you've taken your oath of office, and you're queen," said kitty, who was unconsciously taking charge of affairs. "where's the crown, mops?" "the new queen tore it up the other day," said midget, demurely. "then she must make a new one," commanded kitty. "never mind; for to-day this will do." the princess san diego hastily twisted some vines into a wreath, and laid it gently on the brilliant locks of the new queen. "i crown you queen sandy!" she said, dramatically. "it's all right, kit," said king, looking quizzical, "but just how do you happen to be running this court?" "oh, i might as well," returned kitty carelessly. "i don't think the rest of you are very good at it." "that's so," admitted tom. "i guess we do squabble a lot." "it isn't only that," said kitty, "but you don't have much order and ceremony." "i've noticed that," put in dick. "we just talk every-day sort of talk. i think we ought to be grander." "so do i," agreed kitty. "here, hester, give me that crown; i'll be queen for to-day, and show you how." there was nothing bumptious or even dictatorial in kitty's manner; she merely wanted to show them how a queen ought to act. so she put the vine wreath on her own head, and breaking a branch from a tall shrub nearby for a sceptre, she seated herself on the dilapidated throne. "i pray you sit," she said, condescendingly, to her court. "ha! where is my page?" "there is no page, o queen," said the grand sandjandrum, looking mortified. "thus i create one!" announced kitty, calmly. "sand crab, kneel before me!" harry sprang forward to obey, and kneeled at kitty's feet. "thus i anoint thee page!" declared the queen, dramatically tapping him three times on his shoulder. "rise, sir page, and attend upon me!" "yes, ma'am! what shall i do?" asked the new page, greatly flustered. "stand thou here at my right hand. it may be i might have an errand or two now and then." "aye, aye, o queen!" declaimed dick, who was catching the spirit of kitty's rule. "well spoke, fair sir. stand thou there, i prithee. and now, courtiers, is there any business to be discussed?" "nay, o queen," said tom, "we but wait thy pleasure." "then my pleasure is now to install the new queen. and, prithee, my courtiers, when that the new queen is enthroned, then does the receding queen become the sand witch?" "yea, o fair queen," said marjorie, coming up with mincing steps and bowing before kitty. "from now on i am the sand witch of this court, and i humbly beg thy favor." "favor be thine!" announced the temporary queen. "and now, o my courtiers, lead to me queen hester sandy, queen of sand court!" reconciled at last to this state of things, king and tom sprang to escort hester. dick and harry marched gravely behind, while midget stalked along ahead, and thus quite an imposing procession approached queen kitty and ranged themselves before her. "o queen," kitty began, "you have already taken oath of office, o queen! so now naught remains but to take the seat of royalty, the honored throne of sand court, o queen!" and then hester scored her success. she stepped up on the sand mound that was the throne, and bowed her head while kitty transferred the vine wreath that represented the crown. then hester drew herself up majestically, waved her sceptre, and declaimed: "i, the queen of sand court, accept this honor that is thus thrust upon me!" there were some astonished faces among the courtiers at this speech, but nobody interrupted. "i, queen sandy, promise to be a good queen to my beloved courtiers, and never to lose my temper or speak cross, but to emulate the sweet and sunlighty disposition of our departing and beloved queen, who is now a sand witch. wherefore, my courtiers, i beseech your fealty and faith, and i present my compliments, and the compliments of this court to our visitor, the princess san diego. this lovely lady has been a great help, and we now salute her. i bid thee all salute!" they all saluted by bowing low to kitty; indeed, the page bowed so low that he tumbled over, but soon scrambled up again. "and now," went on queen sandy, "i bid thee salute our sand witch. she is a witch of goodness and joy. we all love her, the court honors her, and one and all we now salute her!" more low bows followed, and then the court resumed its upright attitude and awaited orders. "there is no more saluting necessary," explained the gracious queen. "you boy courtiers can't expect it. now the court is dismissed and the sand club will play something." the queen came down from the throne, and courtly manners and speeches were laid aside. "let's fix up the court instead of playing," suggested kitty, and as all thought this a good idea, they went at it. everybody worked with a will, for it was fun to get the court in order again, and kitty and midget were so fond of fixing up and decorating that when the task was over, sand court was far handsomer than ever before. shell borders outlined the throne and the courtier's seat, and the old legless chair was so draped with cheesecloth and green vines that it was a picture in itself. then it was luncheon time, and the courtiers said good-bye and parted to go to their homes. "she's a funny girl," said kitty, as the maynard trio reached their house. "as soon as she got what she wanted, she was sweet as pie. but if you hadn't given up the queen to her, mops, she would have been madder'n hops." "i know it," said midget, "but that wasn't the reason i did it. i did it 'cause i thought it was fairer for her to have a turn at being queen." "and it was," said kitty, judicially. "i think you did right, mopsy; but, all the same, she'll never keep that promise to be sweet and pleasant." "oh, kitty, she'll have to! why, she vowed it!" "oh, pshaw, she'll get mad and forget all about that vow. say, mops, what do you think? i've learned to make cake." "you have! who taught you?" "eliza did, up at grandma's. it was fine. i'll teach you, if you like." "do!" urged king. "then midge can make little cakes for the sand club. ellen makes 'em sometimes, but she says it's a bother." permission being granted by mrs. maynard, the girls tried cake-making that very afternoon. "i'll help yez, shall i?" asked ellen, as the two energetic damsels raided her pantry. "no, ellen," said marjorie. "miss kitty is going to teach me. you go,--go--why, ellen, you take an afternoon out!" "it isn't me day out, miss midget, but i'll go to me room, an' if yez wants me, yez can send sarah afther me, sure." "can i help?" asked king, who wanted to be in the fun. "yes, you can stone raisins," said kitty, kindly. at home in rockwell, marjorie had always been chief directress in all their doings, but down here kitty was more like a visitor, and the others politely deferred to her. so king went contentedly to work, stoning raisins, and the girls made the cake. "i didn't bring my recipe book," said kitty, "but i guess i remember how to make it. you see, eliza is going to teach me to make lots of things, so i've quite a big book for recipes." "how many have you so far?" asked midget, greatly interested. "well, only this one; but it's sponge cake, you know. i shall have more later." "yes, of course," said midget, politely, and suddenly feeling that her younger sister was getting very grown-up, with her recipe book and her sponge cake. "now," proceeded kitty, "if i'm to show you, midget, you must pay close attention." "i will,--oh, i will!" "first, you break the eggs, and separate them, white from yolk, like this,--see!" but whether she was rattled at having such an interested audience, or whether she was not very expert as yet, kitty couldn't make the eggs "separate" neatly. every one she broke persisted in spilling out its yellow and white together. "let me try," said marjorie, but her efforts were not much more successful. bits of shell would fall in the bowl, and even if she got most of the white in safely, some yellow would spill in, too. "does it matter much?" asked king. "oh, i don't believe so," said kitty. "i guess we'll beat the eggs all up together, white and yellow both." kitty put in the dover eggbeater with an air of experience, and whisked its wheel "round and round." "let me in, too," said midget. "there's another beater i found in the cupboard." there was room in the big bowl for both beaters, and the two girls whizzed the wheels around like mad. "hold on!" cried king. "you're flirting that yellow stuff all over!" "well, anyway, it's well beaten," declared kitty, looking at the frothy yellow mass with satisfaction. "now we put in the flour,--no, the sugar, i think." "butter?" suggested marjorie. "no, there's no butter in it. this is _sponge_ cake." properly subdued, marjorie awaited orders. "sugar," kitty decided at last; "and bring a cup." midget brought the cup, and kitty measured the sugar, and dumped it into the bowl of egg. "i can't think whether it's three or four cups full," she said, holding a cup full uncertainly over the bowl. "dump it in!" advised king. "i like 'em pretty sweet." so in went the sugar, and midget was allowed to stir, while kitty measured flour. "we have to sift this four times," she announced, with an air of great wisdom. "i'll do this part." she did, but she was so energetic about it, and the flour sieve so uncertain on its three iron legs, that much of the flour flew over the table, the floor, and the clothing of the workers. "hold up, kit!" cried marjorie, as a cloud of flour almost blinded her. "i can't see to beat, if you fly that flour around so!" "well, it has to be sifted four times," apologized kitty, and turned it into the sieve again. much was lost in transit, and king declared it was already sifted as fine as it would ever be, but kitty was unmoved by comment or criticism. "now it's all right," she said, peering into the pan of finally prepared flour, and ignoring the white dust that was all over everything. "but first a cup of hot water must go in." "i'll pour it," said king, rising quickly, and taking the tea-kettle from kitty, who was in imminent danger of scalding herself. "just a cup full!" said kitty, warningly, as the hot water ran over the brimming cup and fell to the floor. "never mind," said king, "we'll only use what's in the cup," and carrying it as carefully as possible he poured it into the bowl of batter that marjorie was faithfully beating. "oh, not all at once!" cried kitty. "it should have been put in little by little." "can't help it now," said midget, cheerfully. "i guess it won't matter. now in with the flour, kit; and you must have baking powder." "i don't think eliza put in any baking powder," said kitty, dubiously. "oh, she _must_ have!" said midget. "that's what baking powder is for,--to bake with. it's on that shelf, kitty." kitty was uncertain about the baking powder, so took marjorie's advice. "but i don't know how much," she said, as she opened the tin box. "about a tablespoonful to a cup of flour," said marjorie. "i think i heard mother say that once." she was not at all sure, but she greatly wanted to help kitty if possible. "all right," said kitty, and having already put in three cups of flour, she added to the mixture three heaping tablespoonfuls of baking powder. "now for the raisins," she said. "i didn't know sponge cake ever had raisins in it," said marjorie. "it doesn't, usually," said kitty, "but i thought it would add an extra touch." she stirred them in, and then they poured the batter into a cake tin. "it does look lovely," said midget, tasting it with a spoon. "it tastes pretty good, but not as good as it looks. i guess it'll be lovely when it's baked. open the oven, king." king threw open the oven door with a flourish, and the girls pushed the big pan inside. "shut it quick!" warned kitty. "the cake falls unless you do! it must bake three-quarters of an hour." and then they all waited patiently for the time to take it out. chapter xv a motor ride "isn't it done yet?" asked king, after half an hour had elapsed. "nope," returned kitty, positively. "it can't be done till three-quarters of an hour, and it's only a half." "smells done!" exclaimed marjorie, sniffing "i believe it's burning, kit." "pshaw, it can't be burning. that isn't a hot fire, is it, king?" "no," replied king, after removing one of the range covers and scrutinizing the fire. "that's what the cook books call a moderate fire." "then that's all right," and kitty wagged her head in satisfaction. "sponge cake requires a mod-rit fire." "but it's leaking out, kitty!" cried marjorie, dancing about the kitchen. "oh, look, it's leaking out!" sure enough, smoke was coming out through the edges of the oven door, and a sticky substance began to ooze through. "the door isn't shut quite tight," began kitty, but before she could finish, king flung the oven door wide open. "better see what's up!" he said, and as the smoke poured out in a volume, and then cleared away a little, a strange sight confronted them. the cake dough had apparently multiplied itself by ten, if not more. it had risen and run all over the sides of the pan, had dripped down through the grating to the bottom of the oven, and had bubbled up from there all over the sides and door. in fact the oven was lined with a sticky, sizzling, yellow material that had turned brown in some places, and was burned black in others. "something must have gone wrong," said kitty, calmly, as she looked at the ruins. "i was almost sure it didn't need any baking powder. that's what blew it up so." "h'm," said king. "i don't believe i care for any. wonder what became of the raisins?" "you can see them here and there," said marjorie. "those burned black spots are raisins. phew! how it smokes! i'm going out." "let's call ellen," said kitty, "she said to." being summoned, ellen arrived on the scene of action. "arrah, miss kitty," she said; "shure, an' i thought ye cuddent make cake. now, why did ye thry, an' put all in such a pother? belikes ye want to make me throuble." "no, ellen," said kitty, smiling at her. "i didn't do it purposely for that. i thought it would be good. you see, i did make it once, and it was good." "ah, go 'long wid yez,--all of yez! shure i'll be afther clanin' up. an' niver a shcold i'll shcold yez if ye'll kape outen o' my kitchen afther this." "good for you, ellen!" shouted king. "i thought you'd raise a row! nice ellen, good ellen! good-bye, ellen!" "good-bye, ye bad babies! i'll make ye some tea-cakes now as ye can eat!" "isn't she a duck!" exclaimed kitty. "oh, that's 'cause you're sort of company. if you hadn't been here, and we'd done that she'd have tuned up, all right!" this was king's opinion, and marjorie agreed with him. "we never go in the kitchen," she said. "i guess ellen was so surprised she didn't know _what_ to say." "well," said kitty, quite undisturbed by the circumstances, "you see, at grandma's, eliza helps me, and sort of superintends what i put in." "yes, i see," said king. "now you do a lot of cooking after you get back there, kit, and try to learn your recipes better." kitty laughed and promised, and then the three children wandered into the dining-room to see what their elders were doing. "can't we start at once?" cousin ethel was saying. "oh, here are the kiddies now! come in, you three blessings in disguise! do you want to go on a jamboree?" "what's that?" asked kitty. "oh, a lovely motor ride, with two cars, and stay all night, and lots of lovely things like that!" "oh, goody!" cried marjorie. "are we really going? mother's been talking about a trip like that!" "i guess we will," said mr. maynard. "we haven't had an ourday for some time. how would you like to take the opportunity for one while we have kitty-girl among us?" "gorgiferous! gay!" cried marjorie, and king threw his cap high in the air and caught it deftly on his head. "when do we start?" "as soon as we can get off," said mr. maynard, looking at his watch. "scamper, you kiddies, and get into appropriate rigs." "oh, what fun!" cried marjorie, as they flew upstairs. "what shall we wear, mothery?" "you'll find your frocks laid out in your rooms," said mrs. maynard, who was prepared for this question. "then put on your motor coats and take your motor bonnets with you,--but you needn't wear them unless you choose." the girls danced away, and soon were in full regalia. they went flying downstairs to learn more of the particulars of the trip. nurse nannie and rosy posy were on the porch waiting, the little one greatly excited at thought of the journey. "oh, what a grand ourday, father!" cried midget, giving him one of her most ferocious "bear hugs." "we have so much vacation down here, i thought we wouldn't catch any ourdays!" "well, this is an extra thrown in for good measure. i suppose you don't care, midget, which car you ride in?" "not a bit! we keep together, don't we?" "yes, as much as possible. cousin jack will drive his own car, and pompton, of course, will drive ours." "it all happened so swift i can hardly realize it," said kitty. "only a minute or two ago i was making cake in the kitchen, and now here i am!" "making _what_?" asked king, teasingly, but when he saw kitty look red and embarrassed he turned the subject. kitty had told her mother about the cake episode, but mrs. maynard said it was an accident due to inexperience, and nothing further need be said about it. "i'll divide up the passengers," said cousin jack as, with the two cars standing in front of the door, no one knew just which to get in. "ethel and i will take marjorie and king with us, for i think kitty will want to ride with her mother, and babykins, too." "all right," agreed mr. maynard, and then he packed uncle steve and mrs. maynard and kitty on the back seat, nannie and rosamond next in front, and he climbed up beside pompton. some suitcases and a basket of light luncheon were stowed away, and off they started, ellen and sarah waving to them from the steps as they flew down the drive. it was a perfect day for motoring. not too hot, not too breezy, and no dust. their destination was lakewood, but for quite a distance their road lay along by the shore before they turned inland. marjorie sat back, beside cousin ethel, and king sat in front with cousin jack. "let's play roadside euchre," said midget. "we go too fast for that," said king. "we couldn't see the things to count them." "what is it, mehitabel?" asked cousin jack. "we aren't going so very fast." "why, you count the things on each side of the road. you and i are on the right, you know, cousin jack, so we count all on this side. then cousin ethel and king count all on their side." "all what?" "well, a horse and vehicle counts one; a vehicle with two horses counts two; and a horse without any wagon or carriage counts five. an automobile counts ten; a herd of cows, fifteen; and a load of hay, twenty. a cat in a window counts twenty-five, and people count five apiece. any animal, not a horse counts ten." "but, as i am driving," said cousin jack, "i can turn either side, and so make them count as i like." "no, you must turn just as you would, anyway. of course, as you turn to the right, king and cousin ethel will count most of the vehicles we pass; but we'll make up some other way. oh, here's a flock of chickens! i forgot to tell you, chickens count one each." the motor seemed to go right through the flock of chickens, but cousin jack was a careful driver and didn't harm one of them. there was a terrific squawking and peeping and clucking as the absurd bipeds ran about in an utterly bewildered manner. the children and cousin ethel managed to count them fairly well, but cousin jack had to manage his motor. "how many?" he asked as the last hen was left behind. "fourteen for our side," announced midget, triumphantly. "and nine for us," said king. "never mind, we'll make up later." but they kept fairly even. to be sure, when they met motor-cars, or any vehicles, they had to turn out to the right, which gave the count to king's side. but on the other hand, motors sometimes passed them from behind, and if they went along on the right side they were marjorie's count. houses were as apt to be on one side as the other, and these added their count of dogs, cats, chickens, and cows, as well as occasional human beings. going through small towns was the most fun, for then it required quick counting to get all that belonged to them. a flock of birds on either side was counted, but a flock of birds that crossed their path was omitted, as it would have counted the same for each. the game grew more and more exciting. sometimes one side would be more than a hundred ahead, and then the balance would swing back the other way. about six o'clock they neared lakewood. "the game stops as we turn into the main street," said cousin jack, "and the prize is this: whichever of you two children win shall select the dessert at the hotel dinner to-night." "all right," said marjorie, "but it isn't only us children. we each have a partner who must help us in the selection." cousin jack agreed to this, and in a moment the car swung into the main street of lakewood. midget and king, who had kept account of their hundreds on a bit of paper, began to add up, and it was soon found that marjorie and cousin jack's side had won by about two hundred points. "good work!" cried king. "we losers congratulate you, and beg you'll remember that we love ice cream!" they were following the maynards' _big_ car, and soon both cars stopped and all alighted and went into a beautiful hotel called "holly-in-the-woods." "oh, how lovely!" whispered marjorie to kitty, as she squeezed her sister's arm. "isn't this fun, kit?" "i should say so!" returned kitty. "the best ourday ever!" then the children were whisked away to tidy up for dinner, and fresh white frocks were found in the suitcases. midget and kitty tied each other's ribbons, and soon were ready to go downstairs again. the bryants met them in the hall, and took them down. "isn't it like fairyland!" said marjorie, enchanted by the palms and flowers and lights and music. she had never before been in such an elaborate hotel, and she wanted to see it all. they walked about, and looked at the various beautiful rooms, and then mr. and mrs. maynard came, and they all went to the dining-room. a table had been reserved for them, and marjorie felt very grown up and important as the waiter pushed up her chair. after their long ride, their appetites were quite in order to do justice to the good things put before them, and when it was time for dessert, cousin jack announced that he and marjorie were a committee of two to select it. "though of course," he added, "any one who doesn't care for what we choose is entirely at liberty to choose something else." so the two gravely studied the menu, and kept the others in suspense while they read over the long list. many names were in french, but marjorie skipped those. "ice cream," kitty kept whispering, in low but distinct stage whispers; and at last cousin jack proposed to midget that they choose what was billed as a "lakewood souvenir." marjorie had no idea what this might be, but she agreed, for she felt sure it was something nice. and so it was, for it turned out to be ice cream, but so daintily put up in a little box that it was like a present. the box was carved with crinkly paper, and had a pretty picture of lakewood scenery framed in gilt on the top. after every one had eaten his ice cream, the boxes were carried away as souvenirs. then they all went out and sat on the terrace while the elders had coffee. the three children did not drink coffee, so they were allowed to run around the grounds a little. "how long are we going to stay here?" asked kitty. "till to-morrow afternoon, i think," replied king. "i heard father say he thought he'd do that." "i think it's beautiful," said midget, "but i'd just as lieve be riding, wouldn't you, kit?" "oh, i don't care. i like 'em both,--first one and then the other." kitty was of a contented disposition, and usually liked everything. but the other two were also easily pleased, and the three agreed that they didn't care whether they were motoring or staying at the lovely hotel. "now, then, little maynards, bed for yours!" announced their father, as he came strolling out to find them. "father," said marjorie, grasping his hand, "is this really an ourday?" "yes, midget; of course it is. you don't mind the bryants sharing it, do you?" "no, not a bit. only,--to-morrow can't i ride with you? if it's our ourday, i like better to be by you." "of course you can!" cried mr. maynard, heartily. "we'll fix it somehow." "but don't tell cousin ethel and cousin jack that i don't want to ride with them," went on midget, "because it might hurt their feelings. but you know,--when i thought i didn't have any father,--i thought about all our ourdays, and----" midget's voice broke, and mr. maynard caught her to him. "my darling little girl," he said, "i'm so glad you're back with us for our ourdays, and you shall ride just where you want to." "let her take my place," said kitty, kindly. "i'd just as lieve go in the other car, and i don't wonder midget feels like that." so it was settled that kitty should ride with the bryants next day, and then the three children were sent to bed, while the elders stayed up a few hours later. the girls had a large room, with two beds, and with a delightful balcony, on which a long french window opened. "isn't it wonderful?" said marjorie, softly, as she stepped over the sill, and stood in the soft moonlight, looking down on the hotel flower gardens. "yes, indeedy," agreed kitty; "i say, mops, i'd like to jump down, flip! into that geranium bed!" "oh, kitty, what a goose you are! don't do such a thing!" "i'm not going to. i only said i'd like to; and i'd play it was a sea,--a geranium sea, and i'd swim around in it." "kit, you're crazy! come on to bed, before you do anything foolish." "i'm not going to do it, really, mops! but i like to imagine it. i'd waft myself off of this balcony, and waft down to the scarlet of the geraniums and fall in." "yes, and be picked up with two broken legs and a sprained ankle!" "well--and then i'd see a little boat, on the red geranium sea,--i'd be a fairy, you know,--and i'd get in the little boat----" "you come and get in your little bed, miss kitty," said nannie, from the window, and laughing gayly, the two girls went in and went to bed. "anyway, i'm going to dream of that red geranium bed," announced kitty, as she cuddled into the smooth, white sheets. "all right," said midget, drowsily; "dream anything you like." chapter xvi red geraniums wearied by the journey, and the fun of it, marjorie fell at once into a deep, quiet sleep. kitty's sleep was deep, too, but not quiet. the child tossed around and waved her arms, muttering about a geranium sea, and a little boat on it. nurse nannie puttered about the room for some time, picking up things, and laying out the girls' clothes for the next day. then she put out the lights and went away to her own room. it was, perhaps, ten o'clock when kitty threw back the bedclothing, and slowly got out of bed. she was sound asleep, and she walked across the room with a wavering, uncertain motion, but went straight to the french window, which was still part way open. kitty had sometimes walked in her sleep before, but it was not really a habit with her, and the family had never thought it necessary to safeguard her. it was a still, warm night, and when she stepped out on the balcony, there was no breeze or waft of cool air to awaken her. she paused at the low rail of the little balcony, and murmured, "oh, the lovely soft red flowers! i will lie down on them!" and over the railing she went, plump down into the geranium bed! as is well known, a fall is not apt to hurt a somnambulist, for the reason that in sleep the muscles are entirely relaxed; but the jar woke kitty, and she found herself, clad only in her little white nightgown, lying in the midst of the red blossoms. she did not scream; on the contrary, she felt a strange sense of delight in the odorous flowers and the scent of the warm, soft earth. but in a moment she realized what had happened, and scrambled up into a sitting posture. "my gracious! it's kit!" exclaimed a voice, and from among the group of people on the veranda cousin jack ran down to her. the others followed, and in a moment kitty was surrounded by her own people. she flew to her mother's arms, and cousin ethel quickly drew off her own evening wrap and put it around kitty. "how _did_ you happen to fall?" asked her father, who soon saw she was not hurt, or even badly jarred. "i was asleep, i guess," kitty returned; "anyway i dreamed that i wanted to jump in the red geranium sea,--so i jumped." "you jumped! out of the window?" "yes,--that is, off of the little balcony. you see, i was asleep until i landed. then i found out where i was." kitty was quite calm about it, and cuddled into the folds of cousin ethel's satin cloak, while she told her story. "of course, i shouldn't have jumped if i had been awake," she said; "but you can't help what you do in your sleep, can you?" "no," said uncle steve; "you weren't a bit to blame, kitsie, and i'm thankful you came down so safely. but i think that window must be fastened before you go to sleep again. one such escapade is enough for one night." the other guests on the veranda looked curiously at the group, but kitty was protected from view by her own people, and, too, the big cloak hid all deficiencies of costume. "well, we have to get used to these unexpected performances," said mr. maynard, "but i do believe my children are more ingenious than others in trumping up new games." "we are," said kitty, "but usually it's midget who does the crazy things. king and i don't cut up jinks much." "that's so," agreed uncle steve. "last summer miss mischief kept us all in hot water. but this year, kitsie has been a model of propriety. she never walks out of second-story windows when she's at our house. i guess i'd better take her back there." "not to-morrow," said kitty. "wait till next day, won't you, uncle steve?" "all right; day after to-morrow, then. but we mustn't stay away from grandma longer than that." "and now i think our adventurous little explorer must go back to her dreams," said mrs. maynard. "who wants to carry her upstairs?" as uncle steve was the biggest and strongest of the three men, he picked up the young sleepwalker, and started off with her. mrs. maynard followed, and they soon had kitty safely in bed again, with the french window securely fastened against any further expeditions. the mother sat by the little girl until she went to sleep, and this time her slumber was untroubled by dreams of geranium seas with fairy boats on them. next morning, marjorie was greatly interested in kitty's story. "oh, kit," she exclaimed, "i wish i had seen you step off! though, of course, if i _had_ seen you, you wouldn't have done it! for i should have waked you up. well, it's a wonder you didn't smash yourself. come on, let's hurry down and look at that flower bed." but by the time the girls got down there, the hotel gardener had remade the flower bed, and it now looked as if no one had ever set foot on it. "pshaw!" said marjorie, "they've fixed it all up, and we can't even see where you landed. did it make a big hole, kit?" "i don't know, mops. about as big as i am, i suppose. can't you imagine it?" marjorie laughed. "yes, i can imagine you landing there, in your nightgown and bare feet! how you must have looked!" "i s'pose i did. but, somehow, mops, when i found myself there, it didn't seem queer at all. i just wanted to float on the red flowers." "kit, i do believe you're half luny," observed king; "you have the craziest ideas. but i'm jolly glad you didn't get hurt, you old sleep-trotter!" and the boy pulled his sister's curls to express his deep affection and gratitude for her safety. kitty was none the worse for her fall. the soft loam of the newly made flower bed had received her gently, and not even a bruise had resulted. but the elders decided that hereafter the exits from kitty's bedroom must be properly safeguarded at night, as no one could tell when the impulse of sleep-walking might overtake her. there was plenty to do at lakewood. uncle steve took the children for a brisk walk through the town, and bought them souvenirs of all sorts. the shops displayed tempting wares, and the girls were made happy by bead necklaces and pretty little silk bags, while king rejoiced in queer indian relics found in a curio shop. then back to the hotel, for a game of tennis and a romp with cousin jack, and in the afternoon a long motor ride, with occasional stops for ice cream soda or peanuts. and the next day kitty and uncle steve went home. they concluded to take the train from lakewood, and not return again to seacote. "grandma will be getting anxious to see us," uncle steve declared. "i did not intend to stay as long as this when i left home." "good-bye, old kitsie," said midget; "don't walk into any more red seas, and write to me often, won't you?" "yes, i will, midge; but you don't write very often, yourself." "i know it; it's a sort of a bother to write letters. but i love to get them." "well, the summer will be over pretty soon," returned kitty, "and then we'll all be back in rockwell." the maynard children were philosophical, and so they parted with cheery good-byes, and the train steamed away with uncle steve and kitty waving from the window. "now, for our own plans," said mr. maynard. "what shall we do next, jack?" "i know what i'd like," said cousin ethel. "what is it, my angel?" asked her husband. "you may most certainly have anything you want." "well, instead of going right back to seacote, i'd like to go to atlantic city." "you would!" said mr. bryant. "and would you like to go around by chicago, and stop at san francisco on your way home?" "no," said cousin ethel, laughing; "and i don't think atlantic city is so very far. we could go there to-day, stay over to-morrow, and back to seacote the day after. what do you think, jack?" "i think your plan is great! and i'm more than ready to carry it out, if these maynards of ours agree to it." "i'd like it," declared marjorie. "i've never been to atlantic city." "but it isn't exactly a summer place, is it?" asked mrs. maynard. "neither is lakewood," said cousin ethel. "but it's a cool spell just now, and i think it would be lots of fun to run down there." "all right," said mr. maynard, "let's run." and run they did. considering they had nine people and two motors, and several suitcases to look after, they displayed admirable expedition in getting started, and just at dusk they came upon the brilliant radiance of the lights of atlantic city. "this was a fine idea of yours, ethel," said mrs. maynard. "this place looks very attractive." "oh, isn't it!" cried marjorie. "i think it's grand! can't we stay up late to-night, mother?" "you may stay up till nine o'clock, midget, and we'll go down and see the crowds on the boardwalk." so after dinner they went down to the gay thoroughfare known as the boardwalk. it was crowded with merry, laughing, chattering people, and midget danced along in an ecstasy of enjoyment. "i never saw such a lot of people!" she exclaimed. "where are they all going?" "nowhere in particular," said her father. "they're just out here to look at each other and enjoy themselves." "see those funny chairs, on rollers," went on midget. "oh, can't we ride in them? everybody else does." "of course we must," said her father. "it's part of the performance." he engaged three rolling chairs, and as each chair held two people, he said, "how shall we divide up?" "i'll take mehitabel," said cousin jack, "and hezekiah can go with my wife. then you two elder maynards can use the third. how's that?" this arrangement was satisfactory and they started off, a strong man pushing each chair. "don't you think this is fun, cousin jack?" asked marjorie, as she watched the crowds and the lights, and old ocean rolling big black waves up on the shore. "yes, mehitabel, i think it's gay. there's a certain something at this place that you never see anywhere else." "yes, it's quite different from seacote, isn't it? everybody here seems to be in a hurry." "that's only because it's such a big and lively crowd. here we are at the pier. i think we'd better go in and hear the music." so they dismissed the chairmen, and went far down the long pier to listen to a concert. a children's dance was being held, and marjorie sat down, enraptured at the sight. lots of boys and girls about her own age, in fancy costumes, were dancing and pirouetting in time with the fine music. one little girl, especially, marjorie admired. she was a pretty child, in a white frock and blue sash, and she wore a wreath of small rosebuds on her curly, flaxen hair. she seemed to be the best of all the dancers, and twice she danced alone, doing marvellous fancy steps and receiving great applause from the audience. "isn't she lovely!" exclaimed midget. "i wish i could dance like that." "you never can, mopsy," said king. "you're too heavy. that girl is a featherweight." "she looks nice," said midget. "i'd like to know her." and then, as it was nearing nine o'clock, they left the dancing pavilion, and made their way back to their hotel. marjorie kept close to her parents, for the crowd seemed to grow denser all the time, and if she lost sight of her people, she feared she'd be swept away from them forever. they were staying at madden hall, and as they reached it, there, too, music was being played, and some people were dancing in the big ballroom. but there were no children about, so midget trotted off to bed cheerfully, with lots of pleasant anticipations for the morrow. at breakfast, next morning, she was looking around the dining room, when she spied the same little girl who had danced so prettily the night before. "oh, mother," she exclaimed, "there she is! that pretty girl that danced. see, at the next table but two. yes, it _is_ the same one!" "sure it is," agreed king. "she's staying here. perhaps we can get acquainted with her, mops." "could we, mother? would it be right?" "we'll see about it," said mrs. maynard, smiling at her impulsive daughter. after breakfast the maynard party walked out on the veranda, and midget soon saw the little girl, in a big rocking chair not far away. "may i go over and speak to her, mother?" she said. "why, yes, midget, if you like. she looks like a nice child. run along." so midget went over and took the next rocking chair, for there were many chairs, ranged in long rows. "i came over to talk to you," she said; "i saw you dance last night, and i think you do dance lovely." "do you?" said the little girl. she seemed diffident, but pleased at marjorie's words. "you see, it was a children's carnival, and mamma let me dance. i never danced in a place like that before, and i was a little scared at first." "you didn't look scared. you just looked lovely. what's your name? mine's marjorie maynard. i live in rockwell, when i'm home." "mine's ruth rowland, and i live in philadelphia, when i'm home. but we're spending the summer in seacote. we just came down here for a week." "in seacote! why, that's where we're spending the summer. we have a house on fairway avenue." "oh, i know that house. i remember seeing you there when i've passed by. isn't it funny that we should happen to meet here! we live farther down, past the pier, you know." "yes, i know. will you come to see me after we both get back there?" "yes, indeed i will. when are you going back?" "to-morrow, i think. when are you?" "in a few days. do you know cicely ross?" "no, i don't know very many children in seacote. do you know the craig boys?" "no. i guess we don't know the same people. but i know hester corey, and you do, too, 'cause i've seen her playing in your yard." "oh, yes, hester plays with us a lot." "she's a funny girl, isn't she?" "well, she's nice sometimes, and sometimes she isn't. here's my brother king. king, this is ruth rowland, and what do you think? she lives in seacote! i mean, for the summer she's staying there." "good!" cried king. "we can play together then, after we go back." the three children rapidly became good friends, and soon ruth proposed that they all go for a ride in a roller chair. "they have wide chairs," she said, "that will hold all three of us." midget ran to ask her mother if they might do this, but mrs. maynard was not willing that the children should go alone. "but nannie and rosamond may go, too, in another chair," she said, "and then i shall feel that you are looked after." so down to the boardwalk they went, and nurse nannie and rosy posy took one chair, and the three children took another. they selected a wide one which gave them plenty of room, and off they started. it was a lovely, clear day, and the blue sky and the darker blue ocean met at the far distant horizon, with whitecaps dotted all over the crests of the waves. a few ships and steamers were to be seen, but mostly the children's attention was attracted to the scenes on shore. "i thought it was lovely last night," said midget, "but it's even nicer now. the booths and shops are so gay and festive, and the ladies all look so pretty in their summer frocks and bright parasols." they stopped occasionally, for soda water or candy, and once they stopped at a camera place and had their pictures taken in the rolling chairs. king proposed this, because he saw a great many people doing it, and as the man finished up the pictures at once, the children were delighted with the postcards. "i'll send one to kit," said midget, "she'll love it. and i'll send one to grandma maynard." ruth had several of the pictures, too, and she said she should send some to friends in philadelphia. "she's an awfully nice girl," said marjorie to her mother, when telling of their morning's doings. "i'm so glad she's at seacote. we're going to have lots of fun when we get back." "i'm glad, too," said mrs. maynard. "for you have so few acquaintances there, and ruth is certainly a very sweet child." chapter xvii what hester did "i won't have her!" declared hester. "i'm queen of this court, and i won't have any new members taken in. you had no right, marjorie maynard, to ask her to belong, without consulting me!" "why, hester, i had so! you may be queen, but you don't own the whole sand club! and ruth rowland is a lovely girl. how can you dislike her, when you know how sweet and pretty she is. she says she knows you." "yes, i do know her. stuck-up, yellow-haired thing!" sand court was in full session, and all had been going on amicably until marjorie had chanced to mention meeting ruth at atlantic city, and said she had asked her to come to the sand club meetings. at this, hester had flown into one of her rages, and declared that ruth should not become a member of their little circle. "look here, hester corey," said tom craig, "you promised, if you could be queen, to be always sweet and pleasant. do you call this keeping your promise?" "pooh, who cares! i only promised, if the club stayed just the same. if you're going to put in a lot of new members without asking me, my promise doesn't count." "ruth isn't 'a lot,'" said marjorie, laughing at hester's fury. but her laughter only made queen sandy more angry than ever. "i don't care if she isn't! she's a new member, and i won't have _any_ new members,--so, there, now!" "say, hester," began king, "i don't think you're boss of this club. just because you're queen, you don't have any more say than the grand sandjandrum, or me, or anybody." "i do, too! a queen has _all_ the say,--about everything! and i say there sha'n't be any more people in this club, and so there sha'n't!" hester stamped her foot and shook her fist and wagged her head in the angriest possible way, and if the others hadn't been so exasperated by her ill-temper they must have laughed at the funny picture she made. her new crown was tumbled sideways, her hair ribbons had come off, and her face, flushed red and angry, was further disfigured by a disagreeable scowl. and just at this moment ruth arrived. she came in, smiling, neatly dressed in a clean print frock, and broad straw hat with a wreath of flowers round it. "hello, marjorie," she said, a little shyly, for she didn't know the craig boys, and she couldn't help seeing that hester was in a fit of temper. "hello, ruth," said marjorie, running to her, and taking her by the hand. "come on in; this is sand court. these are the craig boys,--tom, dick, and harry. and this is our queen,--but i think you know hester corey." "yes," began ruth, but hester cried out: "i don't want her to know me! she sha'n't join our club, i say!" ruth looked bewildered at first, and then her sweet little face wrinkled up, and the tears came into her big blue eyes. "don't cry, ruth," said midget, putting her arm round her; "hester is sort of mad this morning, but i guess she'll get over it. don't mind her." "i won't get over it," screamed hester. "i'm not going to have ruth rowland in this club!" "for goodness gracious sakes, children, what _is_ the matter?" a grown-up voice exclaimed these words, and then mr. jack bryant entered sand court. he took in the situation at a glance, but pretended to be ignorant of the true state of things. "what's up, o queen?" he said, addressing hester. "oh, sunny-faced, honey-voiced queen of sand court, what, i prithee, is up?" "nothing," growled hester, looking sullen. "nay, nay, not so, sweet queen; i bethink me there is much up, indeed! else why these unusual consternations on the faces of thy courtiers?" of course, cousin jack knew all about the doings of sand court. he had often been with them, and delighted them all by talking "court language," but to-day nobody responded to his pleasantry. ruth and marjorie were on the verge of tears, the boys were all angry at hester, and hester herself was in one of her wildest furies. she refused to answer cousin jack, and sat on her throne, shrugging her shoulders and twitching about, with every cross expression possible on her pouting face. mr. bryant became more serious. "children," he said, "this won't do. this sand club is a jolly, good-natured club, usually, and now that i see you all at sixes and sevens, i want to know what's the matter. midget, will you tell me?" "i want ruth rowland to be in our club," said marjorie, straightforwardly; "and hester doesn't want her. and hester says that because she is queen, we must all do as she says." "ah, ha; urn, hum. well, hester, my dear child, _why_ don't you want ruth in the club?" "because i don't!" and the queen looked more disagreeable than ever. "because you _don't_! well, now, you see, my dear, that is just no reason at all, so ruth can be a member, as far as you're concerned." "no, she can't! i won't have her in!" "why?" "because i don't like her!" "ah, now we're getting at it. and suppose any of the club shouldn't like you; then you couldn't be a member, could you?" "they _do_ like me!" declared hester. "_like_ you! like _you_! a girl that flies into rages, and says unkind things? oh, no, nobody could like a girl like that! now, i'll fix it. you, hester, won't have ruth in the club, you say. well, then if you're not in the club yourself, of course ruth could come in. so, the rest of the club can choose which of you two girls they'd rather have, as it seems impossible to have you both. king, as the oldest, i'll ask you first. will you choose to have hester or ruth in this club?" "ruth," said king, promptly. "she doesn't quarrel all the time." "next, tom. which do you choose?" "ruth," replied tom. "why, tom craig!" cried hester, in surprise; "you never saw that girl till to-day!" "no, but i've seen you," he replied; "and i can tell you, hester, i'm tired of these scraps you're always putting up! i believe we'll have better times with ruth rowland." "marjorie," cousin jack went on, "which girl do you choose?" "i'd like them both," said midget, who couldn't quite bring herself to denounce hester entirely. "but hester won't have ruth. you must choose one or the other." "then i choose ruth, cousin jack. for hester does make me a lot of trouble." midget sighed deeply, for, truly, hester had caused strife in the club from its very beginning. the two smaller boys voted decidedly for ruth, and then cousin jack turned to hester. "you see," he said, but not unkindly, "the club has unanimously expressed its preference for ruth. i don't see that you can do anything but take your hat and go home." hester looked at him in amazement. "what do you mean?" she cried. "i _won't_ go home! i'm queen, and i'll stay here and _be_ queen! ruth can go home!" "no," said mr. bryant, more decidedly this time; "ruth is not going home. you're to go home, hester. i happen to know that the maynard children and the craig boys have already shown patience and unselfishness toward your tyranny and unreasonableness--now, they're not going to be imposed on any longer. i'll have a voice in this matter myself. either you'll stay in the club and agree to have ruth for a member also, and be pleasant and kind to her, or else you can take your hat and go home." mr. bryant spoke quietly, but very firmly. he knew all the club had been through, in putting up with hester's tantrums, and he thought it only fair that they should be relieved of this troublesome member. "i won't have ruth in," she repeated, but she dropped her eyes before mr. bryant's stern glance. "i'm sorry, hester, but if you won't have ruth in, then you must go home, yourself, and i will ask you to go at once." "all right, i'm glad to go!" and hester pulled off her crown and threw it on the ground, and stamped on it. then she broke in two her pretty gilt sceptre, and threw that down. she flung her hat on her head and marched out of sand court with angry glances at each one. she flirted her skirts and twitched her shoulders, and though she said nothing, she was as furious a little girl as can well be imagined. ruth was almost frightened, for she was unaccustomed to such scenes. nor were the maynards used to them, except as they had seen hester in her rages now and then. cousin jack looked after the child a little sadly. he was sorry that she could behave so, but he had made up his mind that midget and king had been imposed on by hester for a long time, and he had determined to put a stop to it. the advent of ruth gave a good opportunity, and he availed himself of it. a silence fell on them all. they watched hester as she slowly went out of sand court. but as she started across the lawn, she saw a garden hose with which a man had been sprinkling the grass. he had gone off and left it lying on the ground, partly turned off. hester picked it up, turned it on to run full force, and whirling herself quickly around pointed it straight at ruth. in a moment the child was-soaked,--her pretty fresh dress hung limp and wet, her curls were drenched, and the swift stream of water in her face almost knocked her over. marjorie sprang to ruth's side, and received a drenching herself. king ran to hester to take the hose from her, but she turned it full in his face and sent him sprawling to the ground. the craig boys were treated the same way, and when mr. bryant manoeuvred to get behind hester and pinion her arms, she wheeled and sent the splashing stream all over him. "you little vixen!" cried cousin jack, as, unheeding the water, he grasped her right arm. but the child was wonderfully agile and like an eel she squirmed out of his grasp, and wielding her ungainly weapon with her left hand, she again sprayed the water on the two girls. "you stop that, hester corey!" yelled king, as he scrambled to his feet, and in another moment he and cousin jack succeeded in getting the hose away from hester. "she ought to have it turned on her!" said cousin jack, looking at the little fury, now dancing up and down in her angry rage. "but, i don't want anything more to do with you, miss. go home at once, and tell your mother all that has happened." glad to get away without further reprimand, hester, her wrath spent now, walked slowly across the lawn and out of the gate. "she's a terror!" cousin jack commented; "now forget it, kiddies, and let's go into the house and get dried out. are you girlies much wet?" "not so awfully," replied marjorie. "mostly our hair and, oh, yes, the front of ruth's skirt is soaked!" "well, we'll build a fire in the library, and hang ourselves up to dry. come on, all you sand boys and girls." they went in the house, and while they dried their hair and clothes, cousin jack told them funny stories and made no mention of hester or of the sand club. "now we're going to play a game," he announced, after everybody was dry, and the fire had died away to ashes. "here are the things to play it with." he produced what looked like some rolls of ribbon, and six pairs of scissors. but it wasn't ribbon, it was the white paper that comes rolled in with ribbon, when bought by the piece. this paper was about an inch wide and he had enough to cut six pieces, each about ten feet long. these pieces he fastened by one end to the wainscoting with thumb tacks, and giving the other end of each piece to one of the children, he bade them stand in a row, far enough away to hold their paper strips out straight across the room. then, at his given signal, each one was to begin to cut, with the scissors, straight through the middle of the paper, lengthwise, the game being to cut clear to the end without tearing the paper. of course, if carefully done, this would divide each paper into two strips of equal width. but the game was also to see which reached the end first, and the winner was promised a prize. if the scissors inadvertently cut off either strip, the player was "out." "go!" cried cousin jack, "and strive only for the greatest speed consistent with safety. if you go too fast, you're very likely to snip off your strips; and if you go too slow, somebody else will beat you. hurry up, ruth, you're going evenly, but you'll never get there at that rate! oh, hold up, harry! if you go so fast you'll snip it off. you're terribly close to one edge, now! ah, there you go! one strip is chopped right off. well, never mind, my boy, stand here by me, and watch the others. what, tom out, too? well, well, tom, the more haste the less speed! careful, midget, you'll be out in a minute. there you go! out it is, for mehitabel! well, we have three still in the running. easy does it, king! you're getting along finely. hurry up, ruth. you can go faster than that, and still be safe. dick just says nothing and saws wood. that's it, dick, slow and sure!" those who were "out" watched the others with breathless interest. it would have been an easy task had there been no competition. to cut a long paper into two strips is not difficult, but to cut that paper in haste, with others looking on and commenting, is more trying. the scissors seem bewitched. the paper twists and curls, and one's fingers seem to be all thumbs. king was doing well, but he gave an impatient jerk as the paper curled round his finger, and then he was out. dick worked steadily, and ruth plodded slowly along. as they neared the end at the same time the watchers grew greatly excited. "i bet on ruth!" cried king; "go it, ruth! get up! g'lang there!" "go on, dick," cried marjorie. "clk! clk! go 'long!" on sped the cutters, but just as it seemed as if they must finish at the same time, dick gave a little nervous jerk at his paper, and it tore right off. "oh," said midget, "you're out, dicksie!" and then ruth, slowly and carefully, cut the last few inches of her paper, and held up her two strips triumphantly. she looked so sweet and happy about it that they all declared she ought to have been the winner, and dick said, shyly: "i'm glad you won." the prize was a shell box that cousin jack had brought from atlantic city, and ruth dimpled with pleasure as she took it. "thank you so much, mr. bryant," she said, prettily; "i never won a prize before, and i shall always keep it." "i'm glad you won it, ruth," said cousin jack, "and i want you to let it help you forget any unpleasantness of to-day. will you forget all that happened at sand court, and just remember that the maynards and the craigs are kind and polite children, and never mind about anybody else. and come again some time, and play in sand court, won't you? and i'll promise you a good and pleasant time." ruth agreed gladly to all this, and then she went home, so happy that the memory of her pleasant hours made her almost forget hester's rudeness. "now, kiddies," said mr. bryant, after she had gone, "i want you, too, to forget all about hester's performance. don't talk it over, and don't say hard things of hester. just forget it, and think about something nice." "all right, cousin jack," said midget, "we'll do as you say. come on, boys, let's race down to the beach!" the children ran away, and after a consultation with mrs. maynard, mr. bryant set out to make a call on mrs. corey. his was not a pleasant task, but he felt it his duty to tell her frankly of hester's behavior, and to say that mr. and mrs. maynard couldn't allow her further to impose on their children. mrs. corey didn't resent this decree, but she was greatly pained at the necessity therefor. "i don't know what to do with hester," she said, sadly. "the child has always been subject to those ungovernable rages. i hope she will outgrow them. i feel sorry for her, for it is not really her fault. she tries to be more patient, and sometimes succeeds; then suddenly her temper breaks out at most unexpected moments." mr. bryant did not say what he thought; that hester was a spoiled child, and that had her mother taught her how sinful such a temper was, she could have learned to control it, at least, to a degree. but he said that the maynards could not allow hester to come to sand court any more, unless with the thorough understanding and agreement that ruth was to be a member of the sand club, and that marjorie was to be queen again. he said that hester had forfeited all right to be queen, and that as midget practically formed the club, the right to be queen was hers. mrs. corey agreed to all this, expressed great chagrin that hester had acted so rudely, and promised to talk to the child and try to induce a better spirit of kindness and good comradeship. and cousin jack went away, feeling that he had served the little maynards a good turn, if it had been a difficult and unpleasant duty to perform. chapter xviii a fine game one saturday morning, the maynards and the bryants sat on the veranda of "maynard manor," and every one of them was gazing at the sky. "it will,--i know it will," said mrs. maynard, hopelessly. "it won't,--i know it won't!" exclaimed marjorie, smiling at her mother. "it's bound to," declared cousin jack, "and there's no use thinking it won't!" of course, they were talking about the rain, which hadn't yet begun to fall, but which, judging from the ominous gray sky and black clouds, would soon do so. "yep, there are the first drops now!" cried king, as some black spots suddenly appeared on the veranda steps. "yep! that settles it!" marjorie agreed, "we'll have to give up the trip. what can we do, nice, instead?" they had planned an all-day motor trip. mr. maynard was always at home on saturdays, and he liked nothing better than to take his family and friends for a ride. "the nicest thing just now would be to scoot indoors!" said cousin jack, as the drops came faster and thicker, and a gust of wind sent the rain dashing at them. so they all scurried into the house, and gathered in the big living-room to discuss the situation. "it does seem too bad to have it rain on a saturday," said cousin ethel, looking regretfully out of the window. "rain, rain, go away, come again another day," chanted midget, drumming on the pane with her finger tips. "oh, if i were a kiddy, i shouldn't mind it," said cousin jack, teasingly, to marjorie. "there are lots of things you can play. but us poor grown-ups have no fun to look forward to but motoring, and now we can't do that." "oh, if i were a grown-up, _i_ shouldn't mind it," said midget, laughing back at him. "grown-ups can do anything they like, but kiddies have to do as they're told." "ah, yes," and cousin jack sighed deeply, "but we have sorrows and cares that you know nothing of." "yes," returned marjorie, "and _we_ have sorrows and cares that _you_ know nothing of! i'd like you to change places with us for a day, and see----" "all right, we will!" exclaimed cousin jack. "that's a fine game! for to-day, we grown-ups will be the children and you and king can play mother and father to us!" "oh, what larks!" cried king. "let's begin right away! will you, mother?" mrs. maynard laughed. "i'll try it," she said, "but not for all day. say till afternoon." "well, till five o'clock this afternoon," suggested marjorie; "will you, father, will you?" "i'll play any game the rest play," said good-natured mr. maynard. "what do you want me to do?" "well, you must obey us implicitly! king is father, and i'm mother, and you four are our children; helen and ed, and ethel and jack, your names are! oh, what fun! king, what shall we do first?" "hear their lessons, i guess. now, my dears, i know it's vacation, but you really ought to study a little each day, to keep your minds from rusting out." this was a favorite speech of mrs. maynard's, and as king quoted it, with a twinkle in his eye, it was recognized at once, at least, by the four maynards. "all right," cried marjorie, dancing about in excitement, "sit in a row, children. why, ed, your hands are a sight! go at once, and wash them, my boy, and never appear before me again with such an untidy appearance!" mr. maynard obediently left the room, and when he returned a few moments later, his hands were immaculately clean. also, he was munching a cooky, apparently with great delight. "give me one!" demanded cousin jack. "and me!" "and me!" begged both the ladies, trying to act like eager children. mr. maynard drew more cookies from his pockets and gave them to the others, not, however, including king and marjorie. "now, children, finish your cookies, but don't drop crumbs on the floor," said midget, choking with laughter at cousin jack, who was cramming large bits of his cake into his mouth. "please, mother, may i go and get a drink of water?" he mumbled. "yes, jack, go. and then don't ever take such big bites of cooky again! you children have the worst manners i ever saw!" and then each one had to have a drink of water, and there was much laughter and scrambling before they were again in order for their lessons. "geography, first," said king, picking up a magazine to serve as a pretended text-book. "edward, bound missouri." "missouri is bounded on the north,--by,--by,--kansas, i guess." "pshaw! he doesn't know his lesson! let me say it!" exclaimed cousin jack. "missouri is bounded on the north by kentucky, on the east by alabama, on the south by new jersey, and on the west by philadelphia. it is a great cotton-growing state, and contains six million inhabitants, mostly hoosiers." "fine!" cried marjorie, "every word correct! next, ethel, what is the capital of the united states?" "seacote," said cousin ethel, laughing. "sure it is!" agreed king; "now that's enough jography. next, we'll have arithmetic. helen, how much is eighteen times forty-seven?" "i don't know," said mrs. maynard, helplessly. "don't know your multiplication table! fie, fie, my dear! you must stay in after school and study it. edward, how much _is_ eighteen times forty-seven?" "six hundred and fifty-nine, father." "right, my boy! go up head." "now, i'll give an example," said midget. "if edward has three eggs and jack has two eggs, how many have they together?" "can't do it!" declared cousin jack, "'cause ed and i are never together at breakfast, and that's the only time we have eggs!" "then here's another!" cried midget; "how can you divide thirteen apples evenly among four people?" "you can't!" said cousin jack, "that's the answer." "no, it isn't! who knows?" "invite in nine more people," suggested mr. maynard. "no; that's not it! oh, it's easy! don't you know, mother? i mean, _helen_?" but they all gave it up, so marjorie announced the solution, which is, "make apple sauce!" "history lesson, now," said king. "edward, who discovered america?" "pocahontas," replied mr. maynard. "right. who was pocahontas?" "a noble indian princess, who was born july th, ." "very good. ethel, describe the battle of bunker hill." "i can't; i wasn't there." "you should have gone," reprimanded king, severely. "didn't you read the newspaper accounts of it?" "yes, but i didn't believe them." "jack bryant, can you describe this famous battle?" "yes, sir. it was fought under the shadow of the bunker hill monument. at sundown the shadow ceased, so they all said, 'disperse ye rebels, and lay down your arms!' so they laid down their arms and went to sleep." "very well done, master bryant. now, we're going to speak pieces. each pupil will speak a piece or write a composition. you may take your choice." "i'll speak a piece! let me speak first!" exclaimed cousin ethel, jumping up and down. "may i speak now, teacher!" "yes, ethel, dear," said midget, kindly; "you may speak your piece first. stand up here, by me. make your bow." so cousin ethel came up to marjorie, and acted like a very shy and bashful child. she put her finger in her mouth, and dropped her eyes and wriggled about, and picked at her skirt, until everybody was in peals of laughter. "be quiet, children," said midget, trying to control her own face. "now, everybody sit still while ethel bryant recites." cousin ethel made a very elaborate dancing-school bow, and then, swaying back and forth in school-child fashion, she recited in a monotonous singsong, these lines: "mud pies "the grown-ups are the queerest folks; they never seem to know that mud pies always have to be made just exactly so. you have to have a nice back yard, a sunny pleasant day, and then you ask some boys and girls to come around and play. you mix some mud up in a pail, and stir it with a stick; it mustn't be a bit too thin--and not a bit too thick. and then you make it into pies, and pat it with your hand, and bake 'em on a nice flat board, and my! but they are grand!" mrs. bryant declaimed, with suitable gestures, and finally sat down on the floor and made imaginary mud pies, in such a dear, childish way that her audience was delighted, and gave her really earnest encores. "do you know another piece, ethel?" asked marjorie. "yes, ma'am," and mrs. bryant resumed her shy voice and manner. "then you may recite it, as your little schoolmates seem anxious to have you do so." so again, mrs. bryant diffidently made her bow, and recited, with real dramatic effect: "an unvisited locality "i wisht i was as big as men, to see the town of after ten; i've heard it is so bright and gay, it's almost like another day. but to my bed i'm packed off straight when that old clock strikes half-past eight! it's awful hard to be a boy and never know the sort of joy that grown-up people must have when they're in the town of after ten. i'm sure i don't know what they do, for shops are closed, and churches too. perhaps with burglars they go 'round, and do not dare to make a sound! well, soon i'll be a man, and then i'll see the town of after ten!" "oh, cousin ethel, you're lovely!" cried marjorie, forgetting her rôle for the moment. but king took it up. "yes, little ethel," he said, "you recite very nicely, for such a young child. now, go to your seat, and helen maynard may recite next." "mine is a natural history poem," said mrs. maynard, coming up to the teacher's desk. "it is founded on fact, and it is highly instructive." "that's nice," said king. "go ahead with it." so mrs. maynard made her bow and though not bashful, like mrs. bryant, she was very funny, for she pretended to forget her lines, and stammered and hesitated, and finally burst into pretended tears. but, urged on and encouraged by the teachers, she finally concluded this gem of poesy: "the whistling whale "a whistling whale once built his nest on the very tiptop of a mountain's crest. he wore a tunic and a blue cocked hat, and for fear of mice he kept a cat. the whistling whale had a good-sized mouth, it measured three feet from north to south; but when he whistled he puckered it up till it was as small as a coffee-cup. the people came from far and near this wonderful whistling whale to hear; and in a most obliging way he stood on his tail and whistled all day." "that's a truly noble poem," commented king, as she finished. "take your seat, helen; you have done splendidly, my little girl!" "now, teddy maynard, it's your turn," said marjorie. "after jacky," declared mr. maynard, and nothing would induce him to precede his friend. "mine is about a visit i paid to the zoo," said mr. bryant, looking modest. "i wrote it myself for a composition, but it turned out to be poetry. i never can tell how my compositions are going to turn out." "recite it," said marjorie, "and we'll see if we like it." "it's about wild animals," went on cousin jack, "and it tells of their habits." "that's very nice," said king, condescendingly; "go ahead, my boy." so cousin jack recited this poem: "the ways of the wild "there's nothing quite so nice to do as pay a visit to the zoo, and see beasts that, at different times, were brought from strange and distant climes. i love to watch the tapirs tape; i stand intent, with mouth agape. then i observe the vipers vipe; they're a most interesting type. i love to see the beavers beave; indeed, you scarcely would believe that they can beave so cleverly, almost as well as you or me. and then i pass along, and lo! panthers are panthing to and fro. and in the next cage i can see the badgers badging merrily. oh, the dear beasties at the zoo, what entertaining things they do!" "that's fine!" exclaimed midget. "i didn't know we were going to have a _real_ entertainment!" "very good, jacky!" pronounced king. "i shall mark you ten in declamation. you're a good declaimer. now, teddy maynard, it's your turn." "mine is real oratory," declared mr. maynard, as he rose from his seat. "but i find that so many fine oratorical pieces fizzle out after their first lines, that i just pick out the best lines and use them for declamation. now, you can see how well my plan works." he struck an attitude, bowed to each of his audience separately, cleared his throat impressively, and then began to declaim in a stilted, stagey voice, and with absurd dramatic gestures: "the art of elocution "the noble songs of noble deeds of bravery or glory are much enhanced if they're declaimed with stirring oratory. i love sonorous words that roll like billows o'er the seas; these i recite like cicero or like demosthenes. "and so, from every poem what is worthy i select; i use the phrases i like best, the others i reject; and thus, i claim, that i have found the logical solution of difficulties that attend the art of elocution. "whence come these shrieks so wild and shrill? across the sands o' dee? lo, i will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee! for this was tell a hero? for this did gessler die? 'the curse is come upon me!' said the spider to the fly. "when britain first at heaven's command said, 'boatswain, do not tarry; the despot's heel is on thy shore, and while ye may, go marry.' let dogs delight to bark and bite the british grenadiers, lars porsena of clusium lay dying in algiers! "old grimes is dead! ring out, wild bells! and shall trelawney die? then twenty thousand cornishmen are comin' thro' the rye! the blessed damozel leaned out,--she was eight years old _she said_! lord lovel stood at his castle gate, whence all but him had fled. "rise up, rise up, xarifa! only three grains of corn! stay, lady, stay! for mercy's sake! and wind the bugle horn. the glittering knife descends--descends--hark, hark, the foeman's cry! the world is all a fleeting show! said gilpin, 'so am i!' "the sea! the sea! the open sea! roll on, roll on, thou deep! maxwelton braes are bonny, but macbeth hath murdered sleep! answer me, burning shades of night! what's hecuba to me? alone stood brave horatius! the boy--oh, where was he?" "oh, father!" cried marjorie, as mr. maynard finished, "did you really make that up? or did you find it in a book?" but mr. maynard wouldn't tell, and only accepted the praise heaped upon him, with a foolish smirk, like an embarrassed schoolboy. "now, children, school is out," said midget, "and it's about luncheon time. so go and tidy yourselves up to come to the table. you're always sending us to tidy up, mother, so now you can see what a nuisance it is! run along, and come back as quickly as you can, for luncheon is nearly ready." the four grown-ups went away to tidy up, and king and midget made further plans for this new game. it was still raining, so there was no hope of going motoring, and they concluded they were having enough fun at home to make up for it. but when the four "children" returned, they looked at them a moment in silent astonishment, and then burst into shrieks of laughter. mr. maynard and mr. bryant had transformed themselves into boys, by brushing their hair down very wet and straight, and wearing large, round collars made of white paper, and tied with enormous bows. they looked funny enough, but the two ladies were funnier still. mrs. maynard had her hair in two long pigtails tied with huge ribbons, and cousin ethel had her hair in bunches of curls, also tied with big bows. they both wore white bib aprons, and carried foolish-looking dolls which they had made out of pillows, tied round with string. "you _dear_ children!" cried midget; "i think you are lovely! come along to luncheon." the "children" politely let king and midget go first, and they followed, giggling. sarah, the waitress, was overcome with amusement, but she managed to keep a straight face, as the comical-looking procession filed in. king and marjorie appropriated their parents' seats, and the others sat at the sides of the table. "no, helen, dear," said midget, "you can't have any tea. it isn't good for little girls. you may have a glass of milk, if you wish." "i don't think these lobster croquettes are good for jack," said king, looking wisely at midget; "they're very rich, and he's subject to indigestion." "i am not!" declared cousin jack, looking longingly at the tempting croquettes, for which ellen was famous. "there, there, my child," said marjorie; "don't contradict your father. perhaps he could have a half of one, king." "yes, that would scarcely make him ill," and king gave cousin jack a portion of one small croquette, which he ate up at once, and found to be merely an aggravation. "oh, no! no pie for edward," said marjorie, when a delicious lemon meringue made its appearance. "pie is entirely unsuitable for children! he may have a nice baked apple." and mr. maynard was plucky enough to eat his baked apple without a murmur, for he remembered that often he had advised mrs. maynard against giving the children pie. to be sure, the pie would not harm the grown people, but mr. maynard had agreed to "play the game," and it was his nature to do thoroughly whatever he undertook. chapter xix more fun "now, helen," said marjorie, as they left the dining-room, "you must practise for an hour." "oh, mother, i don't feel a bit like it! mayn't i skip it to-day?" this was, in effect, a speech that marjorie often made, and she had to laugh at her mother's mimicry. but she straightened her face, and said, "no, my child; you must do your practising, or you won't be ready for your lesson when the teacher comes to-morrow." "all right, mother," said mrs. maynard, cheerfully, and sitting down at the piano, she began to rattle off a gay waltz. "oh, no, helen," remonstrated marjorie, "that won't do! you must play your scales and exercises. see, here's the book. now, play that page over and over for an hour." marjorie did hate those tedious "exercises," and she was glad for her mother to see how poky it was to drum at them for an hour. as a rule, marjorie did her practising patiently enough, but sometimes she revolted, and it made her chuckle to see mrs. maynard carefully picking out the "five-finger drills." "keep your hands straight, helen," she admonished her mother. "keep the backs of them so level that a lead pencil wouldn't roll off. i'll get a lead pencil." "no, don't!" exclaimed mrs. maynard, in dismay. she liked to play the piano, but she was far from careful to hold her hands in the position required by midget's teacher. "yes, i think i'd better, helen. if you contract bad habits, it's so difficult to break them." roguish marjorie brought a lead pencil, and laid it carefully across the back of her mother's hand, from which it immediately rolled off. "now, helen, you must hold your hand level. try again, dearie, and if it rolls off, pick it up and put it back in place." mrs. maynard made a wry face, and the other grown-ups laughed, to see the difficulty she experienced with the pencil. "one--two--three--four," she counted, aloud. "count to yourself, helen," said marjorie. "it's annoying to hear you do that!" this, too, was quoted, for mrs. maynard had often objected to the monotonous drone of marjorie's counting aloud. but the mother began to see that a child's life has its own little troubles, and she smiled appreciatively at midget, as she picked up the pencil from the floor for the twentieth time, and replaced it on the back of her hand, now stiff and lame from the unwonted restraint. "you dear old darling!" cried midget, flying over and kissing the patient musician; "you sha'n't do that any longer! i declare, king, it's clearing off, after all! let's take the children out for a walk." "very well, we will. oh, here comes ruth! come in, ruth." ruth rowland came in, and looked greatly mystified at the appearance of the elder members of the group before her. but king and midget explained what was going on, and said: "and you can be aunt ruth, come to call on us and our children." ruth's eyes danced with fun, and she sat down, saying to marjorie, "i'm glad to see the children looking so well; have any of them the whooping-cough? i hear it's around some." "i have," declared cousin jack, and then he began to cough and whoop in a most exaggerated imitation of the whooping-cough. indeed, in his paroxysms, he almost turned somersaults. "i hab a bad cold id by head," declared mr. maynard, and he began a series of such prodigious sneezes that all the others screamed with laughter. "well, your children aren't so very well, after all, are they?" commented ruth, as they watched the two men cutting up their capers. "the girls are," said marjorie, looking affectionately at her two "daughters." "oh, i'm not!" declared mrs. maynard; "i have a fearful toothache," and she held her cheek in her hand, and rocked back and forth, pretending dreadful pain. "and i have the mumps!" announced cousin ethel, puffing out her pretty pink cheeks, to make believe they were swollen with that ailment. "well, you're a crowd of invalids!" said king; "i believe some fresh air would do you good. out you all go, for a walk. get your hats, kiddies, and be quick about it." the grown-ups scampered away to get their hats, and the ladies put up their hair properly and took off their white aprons. the two men discarded their big collars and ties, but the game was not yet over, and the group went gayly out and down toward the beach. "may we go in bathing, mother?" asked mr. maynard. "not in bathing, my son," returned marjorie; "the waves are too strong. but, if you wish, you may all take off your shoes and stockings and go 'paddling.'" however, none of the quartette of "children" accepted this permission, so they all sat on the sand and built forts. "now, i guess we'll all go to the pier, and get ice cream," said king. "how would you like that, kiddies?" "fine!" said cousin jack. "it's getting warmer, and i'm hungering for ice cream. come on, all." "gently, my boy, gently," said king, as cousin jack scrambled to his feet, upsetting sand all over everybody. "now, walk along nicely and properly, don't go too fast, and we'll reach the pier in good time." "turn out your toes," directed marjorie; "hold up your head, ethel. don't swing your arms, edward." as a matter of fact the four grown people found it a little difficult to follow these bits of good advice they had so often given carelessly to the children, and they marched along rather stiffly. "try to be a little more graceful, helen," said king, and they all laughed, for mrs. maynard was really a very graceful lady, and was spoiling her gait by over-attention to midget's rules. at the pier, king selected a pleasant table, and ranged his party around it. "bring three plates of ice cream, and four half-portions," he directed the waiter. and when it was brought, he calmly gave the four small pieces to his parents and the bryants. cousin jack's face fell, for he was warm and tired, and he wanted more than a spoonful of the refreshing delicacy. but a surreptitious glance at his watch showed him it was almost five o'clock; so he accepted his plate without a murmur. "it's very nice, mother," he said demurely, eating it by tiny bits, scraped from the edges as he had sometimes seen marjorie do, when her share had been limited to half a plate. "i'm glad you like it, son," she returned; "don't eat too fast,--hold your spoon properly,--take small bites of cake." ruth was convulsed by this new sort of fun, and asked marjorie if they had ever played the game before. "no," cousin jack answered for her, "and i'm jolly well sure we never will again! i've had enough of being 'a child again, just for to-night!' and, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, it's now five o'clock! the jig is up! the game is played out! the ball is over! here, waiter; bring some ice cream, please. full-sized plates, all around!" the amused waiter hurried away on his errand, and mr. and mrs. maynard sat up suddenly, as if relieved of a great responsibility. "bring some cake, too," said mrs. maynard, "and a pot of tea. don't you want some tea, ethel?" "indeed, i do, helen; i'm exhausted. jack, if you ever propose such a game again!" "i didn't propose it, my dear! now, will you look at that! everything always gets blamed on me!" and now there was plenty of ice cream for everybody, and the children were allowed to have all they wanted, and they were all glad to get back to their rightful places again. "but it was fun!" said marjorie, and then she told ruth all about the funny things they had done before she arrived on the scene. then they all walked around by ruth's house to take her home, and then they walked around by bryant bower to take the bryants home, and then the maynards went home themselves. "i'm going to write kit all about it," said marjorie; "she'd have loved that game, if she'd been here." "she loves any make-believe game," said king. "you write to her, midget; i've got to write up _the jolly sandboy_ paper." "i should think you had! you haven't done one for two weeks." "i know it; but it's because nobody sends in any contributions. i can't make it all up alone." "'course you can't. when i write to kitty, i'll ask her if she hasn't some things we could put in it. she and uncle steve are always making up poetry and stories." "good idea, mops! tell her to be _sure_ to send me a lot of stuff, first thing she does!" "well, i will;" and marjorie set to work at her letter. it was finished by dinner time, for marjorie's letters to her sister were not marked by any undue precision of style or penmanship, and as marjorie laid it on the hall table to be mailed, she told king that she had given kitty his message. "father," said midget, at dinner, that night, "what day did cousin jack say was pocahontas' birthday?" "i don't remember, my dear; but i'm quite sure he doesn't really know, nor any one else. i fancy he made up that date." "well, do you know of anybody, anybody nice and celebrated, whose birthday comes about now?" "the latter part of july? no, midget, i don't. why?" "oh, 'cause i think it would be nice to have a celebration, and you can't celebrate without a hero." "do you call pocahontas a hero?" asked king, quizzically. "well, she's a heroine,--it's all the same. when do you s'pose her birthday was, father?" "i've no idea, midget; and cousin jack hasn't, either. but if you want to celebrate her, you can choose any day. you see, it isn't like a birthday that's celebrated every year, washington's, lincoln's, or yours. if you're just going to celebrate once, you can take one day as well as another." "oh, can i, father? then, we'll have it next week. i'll choose august first,--that's a nice day." "what's it all about, midge?" asked king. "oh, nothing; only i took a notion for a celebration. we had such good times on fourth of july and on my birthday, i want another birthday." "i think it's a good idea to choose some uncelebrated person like pocahontas," said mrs. maynard; "for if you don't celebrate her i doubt if anybody ever will." "and you see we can have it all sort of indian," went on midget. "you know we've a good many indian baskets and beads and things,--and, father, couldn't you build us a wigwam?" "oh, yes, a whole reservation, if you like." "no, just one wigwam. and we'll only have the sand club. i don't mean to have a party." "all right, i'm in for it," declared king, and right after dinner, the two set to work making plans for the celebration. "cousin jack will help, i know," said marjorie; "remember how he played indians with us, up in cambridge, last year?" "yep, 'course i do. he'll be fine! he always is." "let's telephone, and ask him right away." "all right;" and in a few moments cousin jack's cheery "hello!" came over the wire. "well!" he exclaimed, "if it isn't those maynard scamps again! now, see here, mehitabel, it's time you and hezekiah went to bed. it's nearly nine o'clock." "but, cousin jack, i just want to ask you something." "not to-night, my angel child. whatever you ask me to-night, i shall say no to! besides, i'm reading my paper, and i can't be disturbed." "but, cousin jack----" "the interstate commerce commission has to-day handed down a decision in favor of----" "oh, king, he's reading out of his newspaper, just to tease us! you try him." king took the telephone. "please, cousin jack, listen a minute," he said. but all the reply he heard was: "ephraim hardenburg has been elected chairman of the executive committee of the great coal tar company, to succeed james h.----" king hung up the receiver in disgust. "no use," he said; "cousin jack just read more of that newspaper stuff! never mind, midget, we can wait till we see him. i guess i will scoot to bed, now; i'm awful sleepy." but when cousin jack heard of their project, a day or two later, he was more than willing to help with the celebration. "well, i just guess!" he cried. "we'll have a jamboree that'll make all the good indians wish they were alive now, instead of four hundred thousand years ago! we'll have a wigwam and a wampum and a tomahawk and all the ancient improvements! hooray for pocahontas!" "gracious, jack! you're the biggest child of the lot!" exclaimed mrs. maynard, who sat on the veranda, watching the enthusiasm going on. "of course, i am, ma'am! i'm having a merry playtime this summer with my little friends, and as i have to work hard all winter, i really need this vacation." "of course you do! but don't let those two energetic children wear you out." "no, ma'am! more likely i'll wear them out. now, for the wigwam, kiddies. have you a couple of navajo blankets?" "yes, we have! and a bulgarian one, or whatever you call it, to piece out," cried midget, as she ran to get them. "just the thing!" declared cousin jack. "put them aside, we won't use them till the day of the show. 'cause why? 'cause it _might_ rain,--but, of course it won't. now, for feathers,--we want lots of feathers." "old hat feathers?" asked midget. "ostrich plumes? nay, nay, me child. good stiff quill feathers,--turkey feathers preferred. well, never mind those,--i'll fish some up from somewhere. now, blankets for the braves and fringed gowns for the squaws. i'll show you how, mehitabel, and you and your respected mother can do the sewing act." well, cousin jack planned just about everything, and he and the children turned the house upside down in their quest for materials. but mrs. maynard didn't mind. she was used to it, for the maynard children would always rather "celebrate" than play any ordinary game. chapter xx a celebration the first of august was a perfect day for their celebration. they had concluded to hold a sand court session first, for the simple reason that so much matter for _the jolly sandboy_ had arrived from kitty that king said his paper was full, and he thought it would be nice to help along the celebration. cousin jack declined an invitation to be present at the reading, saying that the pocahontas part was all he could stand, so the court convened without him. ruth was queen for the day. this was for no particular reason, except that marjorie thought it would be a pleasure to the little new member, so she insisted on ruth's wearing the crown. very dainty and sweet the little queen looked, with her long flaxen curls hanging down from the extra gorgeous gilt-paper crown, that marjorie had made specially for this occasion. as the session began, a meek little figure appeared at the court entrance, and there was hester! "now, you hester!" began tom craig, but hester said: "oh, please let me come! i _will_ be good. i won't say a single cross word, or boss, or anything." "all right, hester," said midget, kindly, "come on in. if the queen says you may we'll all say so. do you, o queen?" ruth looked doubtful for a minute, for she was a little afraid of hester's uncertain temper; but, seeing marjorie's pleading look, she consented. "all right," she said; "if hester won't throw water on me." "no, i won't!" declared hester, earnestly. "well," said king, "just as long as hester behaves herself she may stay. if she carries on like fury, she's got to go home." hester sat down and folded her hands in her lap, looking so excessively meek that they all had to laugh at her. "now," said the queen, "we're gathered here together, my loyal subjects, to listen to,--to, what do you call it?" "_the jolly sandboy_," prompted king. "_the jolly sandbag_," said the queen, misunderstanding. but she was soon put right, and king proceeded to read his paper. "it's 'most all done by uncle steve and kitty," he said, "and it's so nice, i thought you'd all like to hear it." "we would," they said, and so king began. "uncle steve's part is all about animals," he said. "it's a sort of natural history, i guess. first is a poem about the camel. "the camel is a curious beast; he roams about all through the east. he swiftly scours the desert plain, and then he scours it back again. "the camel's legs are very slim, and he lets people ride on him. across the sandy waste he flies, and kicks the waste in people's eyes. "he kneels for people to get on, then pulls his legs up, one by one; but here's what troubles them the worst-- to know which leg he'll pull up first. "sometimes, when he is feeling gay, the camel likes to run away; and, as he's just indulged that whim, i can't write any more of him." "i think that's lovely," said the queen, enthusiastically. "your uncle is a real poet, isn't he?" "our family all can write poetry," said marjorie, seriously. "father and mother both write beautiful verses." "now, here's the next one," went on king. "this is about all sorts of different animals,--and it's funny, too: "the whale is smooth, and black as jet his disposition sweet; he neatly combs his hair, and yet he will not wipe his feet. "the wombat's clever and polite, and kind as he can be; and yet he doesn't bow quite right when he goes out to tea. "the snake is bright and understands whatever he is taught; and yet he never will shake hands as cordial people ought. "'most everybody loves the newt; but i've heard people tell, that though he's handy with a flute he can't sew very well. "so animals, as you may see, some grave defects display; they're not like human beings. we are perfect every way." "oh, that's a fine one!" cried hester. "mayn't i copy that, and have it to keep?" "of course," said king. "i'll make you a copy on the typewriter. now, here's a silly one. i mean nonsensical, you know. but i like it: "the funny flapdoodle "there was a flapdoodle of france, who loved to cut capers and dance; he had one red shoe and the other was blue, and how he could shuffle and prance! "one day he was kicking so high that a breeze blew him up in the sky; the breeze was so strong it blew him along till the flapdoodle just seemed to fly. "he flew 'way up into the stars, and, somehow, he landed on mars. said the flapdoodle: 'i do not like to fly; i think i'll go back on the cars.' "so a railroad was rapidly built, and they wrapped him all up in a quilt; for the flapdoodle said: 'if i stick out my head i fear that i'll somehow get kilt!' "the railroad train whizzed very fast, but they landed him safely at last; and through future years he related, with tears, the dangers through which he had passed." "oh, that's the best of all!" said midget; "i love that kind of funny verses. isn't uncle steve clever to write like that! any more, king?" "yes, one more. it isn't about animals, but it's a sort of a nonsense poem, too. it's called 'a queer hospital.' "there's a hospital down on absurdity square, where the queerest of patients are tended with care. "when i made them a visit i saw in a crib a little umbrella who had broken his rib. "and then i observed in the very next bed a bright little pin who had bumped his poor head. "they said a new cure they'd decided to try on an old needle, totally blind in one eye. "i was much interested, and soon i espied a shoe who complained of a stitch in her side. "and a sad-looking patient who seemed in the dumps was a clock, with a swell face because of the mumps. "then i tried very hard, though i fear 'twas in vain to comfort a window who had a bad pane. "and i paused just a moment to cheerily speak with a pale cup of tea who was awfully weak. "as i took my departure i met on the stair a new patient, whom they were handling with care, a victim perhaps of some terrible wreck-- 'twas a squash who had fatally broken his neck." "this is the nicest _jolly sandboy_ paper we've had yet," said tom, as king finished. "yes, it is," agreed marjorie. "but i thought kit wrote some of it, king." "she did. i'll read hers now. it's an alphabet, all about us down here. kitty wrote it, but she says uncle steve helped her a little bit with some of the lines. it's called 'the seacote alphabet.' "a is the automobile we all love. b is the boat in the water we shove. c is the coast that stretches along. d is for dick, our sandow so strong. e's cousin ethel, so sweet and refined. f, father maynard, indulgent and kind. g, grandma sherwood, who dresses in drab. h is for hester and harry sand crab. i, for ice cream, the maynards' mainstay. j, cousin jack, always ready to play. k is for king, and for kitty, (that's me). l is for lakewood, where i went to sea. m, mother maynard, and marjorie, too. n for nurse nannie, who has lots to do. o for the ocean, with big breakers bold. p for the pier, where candy is sold. q for queen sandy, in regal array. r, rosy posy, so dainty and gay. s is for seacote, and sand court beside. t is for tom, the trusty and tried. u, uncle steve, who's helping me write. v for these verses we send you to-night. w, the waves, that dash with such fuss. x the excitement when one catches us. y for you youngsters, i've given your names. z is the zeal you show in your games." "my! isn't that scrumptious!" exclaimed hester. "you're a terribly smart family, marjorie." "oh, i don't know," said midget, modestly. "kit's pretty clever at writing rhymes, but king and i can't do it much. we make up songs sometimes, but kitty makes the best ones." "i wish i could do it," said ruth; "but i couldn't write a rhyming thing at all." "well, that's all there is in _the jolly sandboy_ this week," said king. "i didn't write any myself, and the things you others gave me, i've saved for next week. now, shall we go and celebrate pocahontas' birthday?" "is it really her birthday?" asked ruth. "no, we're just pretending it is. but you see, poor poky never had her birthday celebrated; i mean,--not legally, like washington,--so we're going to give her a chance." the sand club trooped up to the house, and found cousin jack waiting for them. he was a little surprised to see hester, but he greeted her pleasantly, and hester looked so meek and mild, one would hardly believe she had a high temper at all. a wigwam had been built on the lawn, and though it was only a few poles covered with blankets, it looked very indian and effective. the maynards had contrived costumes for all, and in a few moments the girls had on gay-fringed skirts and little shawls, with gaudy headdresses, and the boys had a nondescript indian garb, and wonderful feathered headpieces, that hung grandly down their backs like big chiefs. also they had pasteboard tomahawks, and cousin jack taught them a war-whoop that was truly ear-splitting. "first," said mr. bryant, "we'll all sing the blue juniata, as that is a pretty indian song, and so, sort of appropriate to pocahontas." so they all sang it, with a will, and the song of "the indian girl, bright alfarata," was, in a way, a tribute to pocahontas. "now," mr. bryant went on, "some one must tell the story of pocahontas. harry, will you do it?" but the sand crab was too shy to speak in public, so cousin jack asked ruth to do it. "i don't know it very well," said ruth, "but i guess it was like this: captain john smith was about to be tommyhawked all to pieces by admiring indians. as the fell blows were about to fell, up rushes a beautiful indian maiden, with her black hair streaming in the breeze. 'fear thou not!' she said, wildly; 'i will save thee!' whereupon she flang herself upon him, and hugged him till he couldn't be reached by his tormentors. the wild indians were forced to desist, or else pierce to the heart their own pocahontas, beloved daughter of their tribe. so they released captain john smith, and so pocahontas married captain john rolfe instead, and they lived happy ever after. hence is why we celebrate her birthday." ruth clearly enjoyed the telling of this tale, and threw herself into it with dramatic fervor. the others listened, enthralled by her graphic recital and thrilling diction. "my!" exclaimed midget, as she finished, "i didn't know you knew so many big words, ruth." "i didn't, either," said ruth, calmly; "they sort of came to me as i went along." "well, that's just as smart as writing poetry," declared king, and ruth was greatly pleased at the compliments. "now, my dear young friends," cousin jack said, by way of a speech, "the exercises will now begin. as you know, we are celebrating the birthday of a noble indian princess. therefore, our sports or diversions will all be of an indian character. first, we will have an indian club drill." he produced indian clubs for all, the boys' being heavier ones than the girls. these were new to the maynards, but cousin jack soon taught them how to use them, and instructed them in a simple drill. hester learned more quickly than marjorie, for she was more lithe and agile, and swung her clubs around with greater ease. ruth seemed to know instinctively how to use them, which was partly due to her proficiency in fancy dancing. but they all learned, and greatly enjoyed the interesting exercise. cousin jack presented the children with the clubs they used, and they promised to practise with them often. "it'll be good for you growing young people," said mr. maynard, "and you can form a sort of a pocahontas club." then he had a gramophone brought out to the lawn, and they whisked their clubs about to inspiriting indian music. "now, i dare say you're tired," said cousin jack, "for indian club exercise is a strain on the muscles. so sit in a circle on the grass, and we'll all smoke pipes of peace and swap stories for a while." the "pipes of peace" turned out to be pipes made of chocolate, so they were all willing to "smoke" them. "mine's a pipe of pieces!" said midget, as she broke the stem in bits, and ate them one by one. the others followed her example, and the pipes had disappeared before the story-telling fairly began. but cousin jack told them some thrilling indian tales, and so interested were his hearers that they gathered close about him, and listened in absorbed silence. "was that true, cousin jack?" asked king, after an exciting yarn. "well, it's in a story-book written by james fenimore cooper. you're old enough to read his books now, and if i were you children, i'd ask my parents to buy me some of cooper's works." "i'm going to do that," cried hester, her eyes dancing at the thought of reading such stories for herself. "i never heard of them before." "well, you're young yet to read novels, but cooper's are all right for you. you might read one aloud in your sand club." "yes, we will!" said king. "that'll be fine. then one book would do for us all. or we might each get one, and then lend them around to each other. my, we're getting lots of new ideas from our celebration. indian club exercises and cooper's stories are worth knowing about." "and now," said cousin jack, "if you're rested, suppose we march along indian file, and see if we can come across an indian meal." "ho, ho!" laughed king, "i don't want to eat indian meal!" "we'll see what it is before we decide," said midget, judicially. "what is indian file, cousin jack?" "oh, that only means single file, or one by one. _not_ like the irishman who said to his men, 'march togither, men! be twos as far as ye go, an' thin be wans!' i want you to go 'be wans' all the way." so, in single file, they followed cousin jack's lead to the wigwam, which they hadn't yet entered. he turned back the flap of the tent, and there was room for all inside. on a table there there were eight indian baskets, of pretty design. on lifting the covers, each was found to contain an "indian meal." the meal was a few dainty little sandwiches and cakes, and a peach and a pear, all wrapped in pretty paper napkins, with an indian's head on the corner. exercise had given the children good appetites, and they were quite ready to do full justice to the "indian meal." sarah brought out lemonade, and later ice cream, so, as midget said, it really was a party after all. of course, the children kept the baskets and the pretty napkins as souvenirs, and when the guests went home, they said they were glad they didn't know the real date of pocahontas' birthday, for it _might_ have been in the winter, and then they couldn't have had nearly as much fun. "and it's lucky we decided on this day," said cousin jack, after the children had gone, "for to-morrow ethel and i go back to cambridge." "oh, cousin jack, not really!" cried midget, in dismay. "yes, kiddy; we've changed our summer plans suddenly, and we're going to europe next week. so we leave here to-morrow. and sorry, indeed, are we to leave our maynard friends." "i'm sorry, too," said midget, "_awfully_ sorry, but i'm glad we've had you down here as long as we have. you've been awful good to us, cousin jack." "you've been good to me, mehitabel. and when i wander through the interesting places abroad, i shall write letters to you, and when i come home again, i'll bring you a souvenir from every place i've been to." "well, you're just the dearest cousin jack in all the world!" said midget, and she gave him a big hug and kiss to corroborate her words. "and you're just the dearest mopsy midget mehitabel!" he said, returning her caress. * * * * * the moving picture boys series by victor appleton mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding. moving pictures and photo plays are famous the world over, and in this line of books the reader is given a full description of how the films are made--the scenes of little dramas, indoors and out, trick pictures to satisfy the curious, soul-stirring pictures of city affairs, life in the wild west, among the cowboys and indians, thrilling rescues along the seacoast, the daring of picture hunters in the jungle among savage beasts, and the great risks run in picturing conditions in a land of earthquakes. the volumes teem with adventures and will be found interesting from first chapter to last. the moving picture boys or perils of a great city depicted. the moving picture boys in the west or taking scenes among the cowboys and indians. the moving picture boys on the coast or showing the perils of the deep. the moving picture boys in the jungle or stirring times among the wild animals. the moving picture boys in earthquake land or working amid many perils. the moving picture boys and the flood or perilous days on the mississippi. the moving picture boys at panama or stirring adventures along the great canal. the moving picture boys under the sea or the treasure of the lost ship. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * the bunny brown series by laura lee hope author of the popular "bobbsey twins" books wrapper and text illustrations drawn by florence england nosworthy mo. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding these stories by the author of the "bobbsey twins" books are eagerly welcomed by the little folks from about five to ten years of age. their eyes fairly dance with delight at the lively doings of inquisitive little bunny brown and his cunning, trustful sister sue. bunny was a lively little boy, very inquisitive. when he did anything, sue followed his leadership. they had many adventures, some comical in the extreme. bunny brown and his sister sue bunny brown and his sister sue on grandpa's farm bunny brown and his sister sue playing circus bunny brown and his sister sue at camp rest-a-while bunny brown and his sister sue at aunt lu's city home bunny brown and his sister sue in the big woods bunny brown and his sister sue on an auto tour bunny brown and his sister sue and their shetland pony bunny brown and his sister sue giving a show bunny brown and his sister sue at christmas tree cove grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation has been made consistent with contemporary standards. "by the same author" page moved to after title page and notices. page : "her. her." changed to "her." (arms around her). page "dulness" changed to "dullness" (a dullness seemed to fall). [illustration: "such was the picture that presented itself to my view."--_page_ .] uncle rutherford's nieces a story for girls by joanna h. mathews _author of "the bessie books," "uncle rutherford's attic," "breakfast for two," etc._ "for ruling wisely i should have small skill, were i not lord of simple dara still." with original illustrations new york frederick a. stokes & brother copyright, , by frederick a. stokes & brother. dedicated to herbert hunt, with loving and best wishes for his future years, on his birthday, august , . contents. page chapter i. an arithmetical puzzle chapter ii. a cablegram chapter iii. an arrival chapter iv. "food for the gods" chapter v. the "morning bugle" chapter vi. uncle rutherford's prize chapter vii. two peanut-venders chapter viii. not on the programme chapter ix. matty chapter x. a cold bath chapter xi. five dollars chapter xii. caught in the act chapter xiii. matty is provided for chapter xiv. jim's confession uncle rutherford's nieces chapter i. an arithmetical puzzle. a sunny and a dark head, both bent over a much-befigured, much-besmeared slate, the small brows beneath the curls puckered,--the one in perplexity, the other with sympathy; opposite these two a third head whose carrotty hue betrayed it to be jim's, although the face appertaining thereto was hidden from my view, as its owner, upon his hands and knees, also peered with interest at the slate. wanderer, familiarly known as "wand,"--the household dog, and the inseparable companion of my little sisters,--lay at their feet, as they sat upon a low rustic seat, manufactured for their special behoof by the devoted jim; its chief characteristic being a tendency to upset, unless the occupant or occupants maintained the most exact balance, a seat not to be depended upon by the unwary or uninitiated, under penalty of a disagreeable surprise. to allie and daisy, however, it was a work of art, and left nothing to be desired, they having become accustomed to its vagaries. such was the picture which presented itself to my view as i came out on the piazza of our summer-home by the sea, and from that point of vantage looked down upon the little group on the lawn below. but the problem upon which all three were intent had evidently proved too much for the juvenile arithmeticians; and, as i looked, allie pushed the slate impatiently from her, saying,-- "i can't make it out, jim: it's too hard. you are too mixed up." "now, miss allie! an' you with lessons every day," said jim reproachfully. "should think you might make it out." "i'm not so very grown up, jim," answered the little girl; "and i've not gone so very far in the 'rithmetic; and i'm sure this kind of a sum must be in the very back part of the book." "here comes bill," said jim, as a boy of his own age and social standing appeared around the corner of the house, a tin pail in one hand, a shrimp-net in the other. "maybe he'll know. mr. edward's taught him lots of figgerin'. come on, bill, an' help me an' miss allie make out this sum. you ought to know it, bein' a wall-street man." allie said nothing; but i saw a slight elevation of her little head and a pursing of her rosy lips, which told me that she did not altogether relish the idea that a servant-boy might possess superior knowledge to herself, although he might be nearly double her age. allie's sense of class distinctions was strong. having faith in his own attainments, however, the "wall-street man"--this was the liberal interpretation put by jim upon his position as office-boy to brother edward--deposited his pail and net upon the ground, and himself in a like humble position beside his fellow-servant and chum. he might be learned, but he was not proud by reason thereof. "now le's see, miss allie," he said; "what is it you're tryin' to figger out?" "it's jim's sum; and i can't see a bit of sense in it, even when it's down on the slate," answered allie, still in a somewhat aggrieved tone. "he's as mixed up as a--as a--any thing," she concluded hastily, at a loss for a simile of sufficient force. "as a rhode-island clam-bake when they puts fish an' clams an' sweet-potatoes an' corn all in to once," said jim. "_at_ once, not _to_ once; and they _put_, not they _puts_," corrected allie, who, remarkably choice herself in the matter of language, never lost sight of a slip in grammar on the part of our _protégés_. "seems funny, miss allie, that you, that's so clever in the right ways of talkin', can't do a sum," said jim. allie's self-complacency was somewhat restored by the compliment; but she still answered, rather resentfully,-- "well, i can, a decent sum! i had five lines yesterday, and added it all right, too; but a sum like that--i b'lieve even brother ned couldn't do it!" that which brother ned could not do was not to be compassed by man, in the opinion of the children. and, as if this settled the matter, allie rose from her seat, forgetting for the moment the necessity for keeping an exact equilibrium, and that both its occupants must rise simultaneously, unless dire results were to follow to the one left behind. the usual catastrophe took place: the vacant end went up, and daisy was thrown upon the ground, the seat fortunately being so low that her fall was from no great height; but the rickety contrivance turned over upon the child, and she received quite a severe blow upon her head. this called for soothing and ministration from an older source, and, for the time, put all thought of arithmetical puzzles to flight; but after i had quieted her, and she rested, with little arnica-bound head against my shoulder, jim returned to the charge. "miss amy," he said, a little doubtfully, as not being quite sure of my powers, "bein' almost growed up, you're good at doin' up sums, i s'pose." now, arithmetic was not altogether my strong point, nevertheless i believed myself quite equal to any problem of that nature which jim was likely to propound; and i answered vain-gloriously, and with a view to divert the attention of the still-sobbing daisy from her own woes,-- "of course, jim. what do you want to know? no," declining the soiled slate which he proffered for my use, "i'll just do it in my head." "you're awful smart then, miss amy," said bill, admiringly. but the question set before me by jim proved so inextricably involved, so hopelessly "mixed up," as poor little allie had said, that, even with the aid of the rejected slate, it would, i believe, have lain beyond the powers of the most accomplished arithmetician to solve. no wonder that it had puzzled allie's infantile brains. to recall and set it down here, at this length of time, would be quite impossible; nor would the reader care to have it inflicted upon him. days, weeks, and years, peanuts, pence, and dollars, were involved in the statement he made, or attempted to make, for me to work out the solution thereof; but it was hopeless to try to tell what the boy would be at; and, indeed, his own ideas on the subject were more than hazy, and, to his great disappointment, i was obliged to own myself vanquished. "what are you at, jim?" i asked. "what object have you in all this"--rigmarole, i was about to say, but regard for his feelings changed it into "troublesome sum?" jim looked sheepish. "now, miss amy," broke in bill, "he's got peanuts on his mind; how much he could make on settin' up some one in the peanut-business, an' gettin' his own profits off it. but now, miss, did you ever hear of a peanut-man gettin' to be president of the united states, an' settin' in the white house?" "i believe i never heard of any peanut-man coming to that, bill," i answered, laughing; "but i have heard of men whose early occupations were quite as lowly, becoming president in their later years." "an' i ain't goin' to be any peanut-man," said jim. "i'm just goin' to stick to this place, an' miss milly an' her folks, till i get eddication enough to be a lawyer. i find it's mostly lawyers or sojers that gets to be presidents; lawyers like mr. edward. miss amy," with a sudden air of apprehension, "you don't think mr. edward would try to cut me out, do you? he might, you know; an', bein' older an' with more learnin', he would have the start of me." "i do not think that mr. edward has any ambition to be president, jim," i answered, reassuringly. "you need have no fear of him." for to no less a height than this did jim's ambition soar, and he had full faith that he should in time attain thereto. in his opinion, the day would surely come when,-- "the father of his country's shoes no feet would fit but his'n." and it was with a single eye to this that his rules of life were conformed. the reforms which he intended to institute, mostly in the interest of boys of his own age and social standing, when he should have attained to that dignity, were marvellous and startling. no autocrat of all the russias, no sultan, was ever endowed with the irresponsible powers which jim believed to appertain to the position he coveted; but, to his credit be it said, these were to be exercised by him more for the benefit of others than for himself. but he repudiated, now, the idea that the peanut venture upon which his mind was dwelling had any thing to do with his future honors. "brother edward would not be so mean to you, jim," quoth allie, who was standing by my knee. "you spoke first to be president, and he would never do such a thing as to take it from you." "and jim is not thinking about that when he tries to find out that sum," said daisy, raising her little bandaged head from my shoulder; "he is quite nice and pious, sister amy, and wants to do a very right thing." "'tain't for pious, neither, miss daisy," said jim, who rather resented the imputation of being influenced by motives of that nature. "'tain't none of your doin' good to folks, nor any of that kind of thing; it's on'y to animals, cause i'm sorry for 'em." "o jim, what grammar!" sighed allie. for jim, when excited or specially interested, was apt to lapse into the vernacular against which he and his friends were striving; allie in particular setting her face against it, and constituting herself his instructress and monitress in grammar and style. "can't help it, miss allie," said jim. "can't keep grammar an' 'rithmetic into my head both to once; leastways, not when the 'rithmetic's such a hard one as this." the excuse was accepted as valid; and jim and the matter which was now agitating his mind, both being at present in high favor and held in great interest, any further lapses were suffered to pass without correction or remark. jim's love for and sympathy with all animals, especially such as were feeble or disabled in any way, was a well-known trait. a maimed or otherwise afflicted dog, horse, cat, or bird was sure to meet with more favor in his eyes than the most beautiful and perfect of its kind; and he had a horror of shooting birds or other game, which was quite remarkable in a boy of his antecedents. he even questioned the right and expediency of killing animals for food, although he never objected to partaking thereof when it was set before him. fish, only, seemed to him legitimate prey in the way of sport; and for all noxious insects, snakes, or vermin of any description, he had a perfect hatred, setting at naught the principles of the society for the prevention of cruelty, and really taking a most reprehensible delight in tormenting them, altogether at variance with his feeling for other creatures. "bill," i said, turning to that youth as the most practical and clear-headed of the group, "tell me if you know what it is that jim desires to find out, and the rest of you keep silence, and do not interrupt." "well, miss amy," answered bill, "it's just this. jim was readin' in the newspaper about a' old lady, how she left all her money--an' she'd worked hard for it too, makin' a show of herself on account of bein' so fat--to keep a hospital for all sorts of hurt an' sick animals an' birds; an' jim, he's just about as much took up with animals an' natur an' things of that kind as she must ha' been, even if he ain't so fat; an' he's got it on his mind to set up his own hospital, an' let tony blair an' his sister matty keep it an' take care of the animals. tony's lame, you know, and matty's hunchbacked, an' can't work; so it's kind of beginnin' on the two-legged animals--at least, tony's only one legged, but he has a right to be two, an' it's a help to them, too." poor tony blair, with his deformed sister, had formerly been associates and chums of bill and jim, in the days when these last had themselves been young vagabonds, waifs, and strays, buffetting with a hard world; and that sentiment in jim, which was "took up with animals an' natur," had led him to befriend the helpless creatures, and to do them such kind turns as fell in his way. overwhelming modesty, or a desire to hide his light under a bushel, were not distinguishing characteristics of jim; but bill also had borne ample testimony to the fact, that many a time in the old days jim had deprived himself of a meal--milly come by, it might be--to give it to the little cripples, poorly provided for by a drunken father and ill-tempered mother to whom they were naught but a burden. many a faded and limp bouquet, discarded by some happier child of fortune, did jim rescue from the ash-heap and bring to matty, who had a passionate love for flowers; and not seldom during the spring and summer months would he take a long trudge into the suburbs, and gather wild blossoms to gratify the craving of the little hunchback. on one of these occasions he stole a little, fluffy chicken, which had wandered from its mother's guardianship beyond the garden palings of a small cottage, and, hastily buttoning it beneath his worn jacket, made off as fast as his feet would carry him to bestow his prize upon matty, who had expressed a longing desire for a bird. but the stolen gift brought naught but distress to matty's tender heart; for, when the ragged jacket was unbuttoned, the little yellow ball fell lifeless into jim's hand. "i'm sure i thought he'd got lots of air to breathe," said jim, wofully gazing at his victim, while matty's tears bedewed it; "there's holes enough in my jacket to make it as ventilatin' as a' ash-sifter, an' it was awful mean in him to up an' die on me that way. an', matty, i wish i hadn't brought him, for him to go an' disappint you like this. never mind, some day i'll buy you a parrot an' a monkey." tearful matty declined the monkey, but the parrot had long since gladdened her weary hours; for a gorgeous specimen, given to much screaming, even more than is the usual manner of his kind, had been purchased by jim for her behoof out of his little savings, soon after he and bill had fallen into good hands, namely, those of my sister millicent and brother edward. this occurred not long after the chicken episode. milly had become interested in the boys, whom she had encountered at one of the moody and sankey meetings, whither they had come, not for purposes of edification to themselves or others, but drawn, partly by their love of music, and partly by the desire to make themselves obnoxious to more decently disposed worshippers. but milly, by her gentle tact, had disarmed them,--they being our near neighbors at the service,--and, profiting by this love of sweet sounds, had brought them within her influence; nor ceased her missionary efforts on their behalf until, with the aid of brother edward, and the consent and co-operation of our parents, she had established them both as servants in the family, where they had opportunity and encouragement to fit themselves for decent and useful lives. but their rise in life had not caused bill and jim to forget their less fortunate little friends and _protégés_,--for bill, too, had in his way been good to tony and matty, though he was not nearly so generous and self-sacrificing as jim,--and they made them sharers in their improved circumstances so far as they were able. jim had proposed that they also should be taken into our household, and nursed and cared for; but, as father and mother objected to having the house turned into a wholesale reformatory and hospital, his modest plan was not carried out. some help, however, had been extended to the two cripples, who could have been provided with good homes in some beneficent institution, could the wretched mother have been induced to give them up; but, thinking probably that they excited sympathy by which she could profit, she refused to do so. ever since jim had fallen upon happier times, it seemed that the boy's whole nature had expanded, and he was constantly on the lookout, to use his own language, "for a chance to do a make-up for all the good done to me an' bill." a certain ambitious and not unpraiseworthy pride, too, and a strong sense of gratitude and obligation to those who were befriending and helping them, particularly strong in jim, were causing both boys to make the most of the opportunities offered to them. and now, it would seem, jim was actuated by schemes of wholesale benevolence for one, two, and four legged animals. he had proved himself quite a hero during the last summer; had, through the force of circumstances and appearances, fallen under unjust suspicion, but had been absolutely and triumphantly cleared (the story of which may be found in "uncle rutherford's attic"); and had made himself an object of considerable interest, not only to the members of our own family, to whom he had shown great loyalty and fidelity under severe temptation and trial, but also to outsiders who had known of the story of his adventures. hence, he had been made the recipient of various tokens of this interest and appreciation, mostly of a pecuniary nature, and he now felt himself to be quite a moneyed man. with the generosity which was one of his characteristics,--perhaps the most distinguishing one,--he scouted the idea of retaining the whole of his small fortune for his own benefit, pressing a share of it upon bill, presenting our children and his fellow-servants with tokens of his regard, mostly of a tawdry, seaside-bazaar nature, but beautiful in their eyes and his own; conveying, with an eye to the future, another portion to the care of brother edward, to be used for "'lection expenses" when the time should come for him to run for that dignity to which he aspired; and now it appeared that he had other ends, of a philanthropic nature, in view. old captain yorke, a veteran sailor, now retired from active service, was our purveyor-general, going each morning in boat or wagon to the nearest town, whence he brought for us and other families such supplies as we ordered; the point affording no facilities for marketing or daily household needs. he was a great friend and crony of our two young servant-lads, and to him as well as to bill had jim confided his plans; but the three heads had proved unequal to the settlement of the arithmetical difficulties which presented themselves, and jim had applied to allie, as being possessed of greater educational advantages. this had not proved equal to the situation, however, as has been seen; the knowledge of eight years not being able to cope with this mathematical problem. divested of jim's complications, bill's discursive remarks upon other subjects, and put into rather more choice english than that in which the latter delivered it, the plan amounted to this:-- captain yorke, heartily admiring, and willingly co-operating, was to bring from the town a large quantity of peanuts, which mrs. yorke, also full of sympathy, had promised to roast. the amount of peanuts purchased was to be determined by the price per bag, but jim's ideas were of a wholesale nature; for my young brothers norman and douglas, who both had a weakness for this vegetable, had also greatly encouraged him in his undertaking, giving him not only hopes of great results from the home-market, but promises that they would interest "the other fellows," and induce them also to become customers. he was not to be salesman himself, of course, his daily avocations not permitting of this; but, for the rest of our stay at the seashore, he purposed obtaining the services of an acquaintance who belonged in the place, and who was in the habit of peddling about papers, periodicals, an assortment of very inferior confectionery, and other small wares. the proceeds of these sales made here at the seaside, deducting a commission for the boy-vender, jim hoped would suffice to start his larger and more ambitious enterprise when we should return to the city. this was to set up tony and matty blair in business. so far all was plain sailing, in anticipation; but now came the more complicated part of the arrangement. a stand was to be secured, a roaster, a fresh supply of peanuts, and other necessary appliances purchased; and "our ladies," to wit, mother, milly, and myself, asked to provide the crippled young merchants with warm clothing sufficient to protect them against exposure to the elements. there were so many "shares" to be provided for, shares of divers proportions, and jim's arithmetic was of such a very elementary nature, that he soon found himself lost in a hopeless labyrinth of calculations. with peanuts at so much by the wholesale, and so much at retail, running-expenses, and so forth, on the one hand; what would be the various amounts to be allowed from the proceeds, on the other, for a "share" for tony and matty, another for return profits to jim's own pocket, and the third and larger for the establishment of the hospital for crippled animals, the main object of the undertaking? now, if peanuts were so much per bag, and other needful appurtenances so much more, how much profit might be realized, and what would be the respective shares? hardly had i solved this complicated problem to jim's satisfaction, and my own relief,--for, as i have said, numbers were a weariness to my flesh, and the rule of three a burden to my spirit,--when the boy remembered other claimants upon the fund. "miss amy," he said, "didn't i forget. there's rosie ought to have a share for savin' me out the smuggler's hole; she _must_ have a share, for sure; an' there's captain yorke, he ought to have some, too. please do it all over again, miss amy, takin' out their shares." this was too much, however, and despite jim's reproachful appeals to my superior learning, i flatly refused to "do up" any more sums on his behalf. and now, happily, a diversion in my favor was effected, by the appearance upon the scene of old captain yorke himself, who was seen coming up the carriage-way, guiding before him a donkey-cart filled with fish, while upon his arm he bore a basket of fruit, vegetables, and so forth. he was a character, this old, retired sea-captain,--a firm friend and ally to all pertaining to the names of livingstone, or rutherford, or to any belonging to those families, our factotum and standby; and, moreover, an endless source of amusement to the mature part of the household, and of unbounded admiration to the more juvenile portion. in the eyes of our little girls, and indeed in those of my two younger brothers, norman and douglas, and above all, in those of jim and bill, he was a veritable hero, for his had been a hard and venturesome life, full of thrilling adventure and hairbreadth escapes; and the children never tired of listening to the narration of them. nor, i am bound to believe, did the old man depart from the ways of truth, or draw upon his imagination, in narrating them. but i will let the garrulous old veteran speak for himself, a thing which he was never loth to do. chapter ii. a cablegram. "mornin', boys; mornin', little ones; mornin', miss amy," said the captain, regardless alike of my seniority to the rest of the group, and of any claims of social position over the servants. "where's pa?" this to me. "mr. livingstone is out driving," i answered, with what i intended to be crushing dignity; for, much as i liked captain yorke, it always vexed me to have my father and mother spoken of thus familiarly. "ma in, then?" he asked, quite unabashed; and indeed, quite unconscious of any reproof. "no; mrs. livingstone is with mr. livingstone," i answered again. "wal," drawled the captain, "that's likely enough. if ye see one on 'em drivin' or walkin' roun', you're like enough to see t'other, for they're lover-like yet, if they has got a big fam'ly part grown up. i declar', yer pa an' ma is as like me an' mis' yorke as two peas is like two more peas, allus kind of hankerin' to be together, jes' as if we was all young folks yet, an' doin' our courtin'. not that pa an' ma is sech old folks as me an' mis' yorke, but they'll get to it bimeby if they lives long enough." i passed over the compliment to my parents without comment, merely asking,-- "can you leave your message with me, captain?" "'twill keep," he answered; "an' i've got a bit of business with jim here. yer projeck ain't no secret, be it, jim?" "no," replied jim. "i was just tellin' miss amy, an' askin' her to do up the sums about it; but"--lowering his voice, and ignorant of the laws of acoustics, by virtue of which i heard every word from my position--"she ain't none too smart at sums if she has had such a lot of schoolin', an' she didn't make it out real nice and clear like. but you can speak out. she knows, an' is agreeble, an' says she'll help. she's awful generous, like the rest of 'em, miss amy is." with this little salve to the wounds which my filial pride and personal vanity had received, he raised his voice once more, quite unnecessarily, and continued,-- "miss amy, captain yorke's got somethin' to say' bout what we was just talkin' of. go on, captain; miss amy don't mind." "i was jes' goin' to tell you what i been an' done," drawled the old man, raising his hat with one hand, and rubbing up his grizzled locks with the other, as was his wont when he was talking at length,--he generally did talk at length when he talked at all. "you've jes' about made up yer mind to do that undertakin', haven't yeou? that peanut-undertakin', i mean." jim gave a prompt and decided assent. "all right. so far so good, an' better too," said the captain, rather illogically; "for if you hadn't, maybe i'd a been a little _too_ forehanded, as it were; but it was my opinions you'd made up yer mind for it, so i acted accordin' an' brought 'em along." "brought _who_ along?" asked jim impatiently. "i'm jes' goin' to tell ye," continued the old man. "don't yeou be in too great a hurry. things takes time to tell when there's any thin' in 'em worth tellin'; not that i'm no great hand on a long story, for i allers was a man of few words; an' mis' yorke she can allers tell a story more to the pint than me, or than any one i know on--bless her heart."--certainly the old man's loyalty to, and affection for, his dear motherly wife was beautiful to see and hear.--"but she ain't here to tell, an', what's more, she don't know nothin' 'bout it to tell. she ain't the kind to go on talkin', talkin' 'bout things she don't know nothin' 'bout; or, s'pose she does know somethin' 'bout 'em, to go yarnin', yarnin' on forever an' a day, an' never gettin' to the pint, like to mis' clay,--ye've seen mis' clay, ain't ye? she's mis' yorke's cousin, comes over from millville now an' then, an' the powerfullest han' to talk, an' never comin' to the pint, an' never givin' anybody else the chance." mrs. clay was the captain's pet grievance, and almost the only person of whom we ever heard him speak disparagingly; his objection to her probably being founded on the ground that she never gave him "a chance." "_such_ a tongue," rambled on the captain, "an' so fast an' confused like she's wuss than the tower of babel itself, an' jes' as like to scatter the folks what's livin' around her. but if ye've got a thing to tell that's got a pint, folks mostly likes to hear the ins an' outs of it, 'thout the trouble of askin' no questions, an' i'd as lieve tell 'em to 'em. so i'll tell ye all about it, jim, an' all of ye." "well, if it's any thin' about my business, would you mind havin' it out right quick, cap?" said jim. "an' ain't i a doin' it?" responded the captain. "don't be in sech a hurry, boy. i got to get my breath to talk, after walkin' up the hill for to rest sanky pansy a bit, for the cart was powerful full this mornin', an' he did have a load, an' he's gettin' old an' has to be eased off a bit like myself, an' i felt kind of blowed an' puffy-like. soon's i can talk good, i will. young folks is allers got to be impatient. there's my darter, matildy jane, she ain't none too patient, you know--leastways, not onless it's with you, jim,"--here a wink of the eye at jim made evident the playful irony of the exception, for jim was matilda's _bête noir_, and a chronic warfare waged between the two,--"an' she says to me this mornin', says she, 'pa,' says she,--an' ye might think i hadn't never learned her the ten comman'ments, leastways the one about honorin' her father an' mother; but young folks is different behaved from what they was in my day--at least them's my opinions. i was jest a tellin' her an' mis' yorke how peter slade got his boat capsized last night; an' 'pa,' says she, 'it's time my bread was took out of the oven, an' if you've got any thin' to say'--i declar', miss amy, if she didn't give me a message about yer clothes; how when the wind riz up last night, some of 'em was carried off the lines into the sand, an' she had 'em to wash over again, an' wouldn't have 'em home jes' up to time. now, where was i, jim?" "out on the sands, an' upset in slade's boat, an' talkin' to matilda jane; an' where you're goin' to is more than me or any one else can tell, cap," answered jim, saucily. "you started to tell us something about my peanut-business, i believe; but you've got considerable off the line." "to-o be sure, to-o be sure," said the old man, no whit offended or displeased by the boy's pertness; for the spirit of _bon camaraderie_ which existed between them was not easily disturbed. "well, now, i'm jes' comin' to it right spang off. well, ye see, i been over to millville this mornin' in the boat, accordin' to custom, when the water ain't too rough, an' bein' off extry early, too, for i'd more 'n common to market for,--mis' douglas she told me to bring her cowcumbers for picklin'; an' mis' stewart she wanted some chany dishes an' some glasses outer the crockery store,--an' that's considerable way from the dock, you know; an' mis' yorke she gimme some bit of flannen she wanted matched,--an' such like arrands takes time. so i says, says i, i'll jes' run over to the station an' see what's doin' there, more by token, as it was near time for the express, an' it kind of livens ye up a bit to see them express-trains come in,--they're nice an' bustlin' like, with a sort of go in 'em; an' after she come in, there was a freight-train come, an' there was lots of freight put off, an'--guess what i see, jim, among it." "peanuts, i suppose," answered jim, "an' i guess i'll get at the whole story jest as quick by guessing it out myself, as by waitin' for you, cap." the captain gave jim a friendly nod, still no whit disturbed by the freedom of his criticisms, and rambled on again,-- "yes, peanuts, bags of 'em, half a dozen or more, i reckon, though i didn't take the trouble to count 'em; an' the way i foun' out--how do ye s'pose i knew what was in them bags?" "smelled 'em," said jim; "sampled 'em," said bill, in a breath. "how was i to sample 'em when they was--i mean, if they was fastened up in the bags?" continued the captain; "nor it wasn't no smell, either. there ain't much smell outer peanuts 'thout they're cookin'. mis' yorke, she's a master hand to roast peanuts, does 'em jes' to a turn, an' then ye can smell 'em clear down to the beach, an' fustrate it is, too. i'd rather smell 'em than all the fine parfumery things they puts up in bottles." "what about the peanuts?" urged jim. "then how _did_ you know, an' what did you do? hurry up." "there was a feller--one of the freight-hands--a pitchin' of the things outer the cars; an' one of them bags hit against a barrow stood there, an' got cut right through, the bag did,--an' what do you s'pose come a pourin' outer that bag, jim?" "think i can guess that riddle. peanuts," answered jim. "yes, peanuts," said the captain; "an' it was a lucky thing for sam bates, to who they was consigned, that there wasn't a raft of youngsters roun' that freight-house as there is most times of the day. there's a sunday-school clam-bake comin' off up to the pint to-day, an' i reckon most of the millville boys was gettin' ready for to go to that, so they wasn't on hand. sam himself was there, though, an' it beat all, the takin' he was in over them peanuts; an', to be sure, it was enough to make any creetur' mad, to see them good peanuts go rollin' an' hoppin' over the platform, an' sam he in a' awful hurry to load up an' go home, for he's a darter gettin' married this arternoon. ye didn't never hear about sam bates' darter, an' her city young man, did ye? well, ye see, sam bates' darter, her that is called----" "but the peanuts; tell us what became of the peanuts first, cap," interrupted jim, determined to check the old sailor's wanderings, and keep him to the "_pint_." "why, ye see," meandered on the captain, "when i see them peanuts a-rollin' round, an' sam in that takin', i says to myself, sam ain't got no time to lose a-pickin' up of them peanuts, an' maybe he'd be glad to get rid of 'em for what he give for 'em an' no profits, an' let jim have the profits, an' no freight to pay on 'em but me to get 'em picked up. 'sam,' says i, as he was fussin' round, 'the scriptur' says,'--sam's a deacon in the church, an' i thought mebbe a little scriptur' would fetch him, and keep the price down,--'the scriptur' says, whatever a man can get, therewith let him be content; an' i take it the moral of that is, make the best of a bad bargain. an' there's another teks that says, don't ye fret over spilt milk; an', bein' a pillar of the church, i reckon you'd like to practise 'em, an' let your light shine afore men.' now if there's one thing more'n another that sam prides himself on, its bein' a deacon, an' livin' up to it; an' my speakin' scriptur' to him was jest a word in season, for he quiets down an' falls to reckonin'. 'give 'em to me for what you give by the lot, an' throw in the freight,' says i, seein' he meant to make on 'em, 'an' i'll take 'em an' see to the pickin' 'em up, an' you can load up the cart an' start off home.' he jes' took to it at once, for, with the lot he had, one bag didn't make so much differ out half a dozen--he buys 'em that way mostly, for ye know he keeps a' eatin' house; temperance strict it is, up to stony beach, where there's lots of clambakes an' picnics holdin' all the time, an' the folks eats heaps of peanuts. so sam came to my terms, an' i made thirty cents on the bag of nuts, an' the freight throwed in for ye, jim; an' me an' taylor an' shepherd picked up all the nuts, an' i brought 'em along in a basket taylor lent me." jim turned expectant eyes towards the donkey-cart. "no," said captain yorke, seeing the direction of his glance, "they bean't here in the cart, nor nowheres here; they're down into the lighthouse. perry was comin' over in his boat 'thout no load; an', as i was pretty well filled up, he brought 'em over, an' he's took 'em to his own landin'. soon's i'm rid of my load i'll go after 'em. hello!" as a blue-coated, brass-buttoned boy from the chief hotel of the place came running into our grounds, and up to the house. "hello, here's a telegraph for some on ye! hope 'tain't no bad news. i don't like them telegraphs; ill news comes fast enough of its own accord, an' good news is jes' as good for a little keepin', an' ain't goin' to spile. mis' yorke she says----" but mrs. yorke's sayings, valuable though they might be, were lost upon me as i took the yellow-covered message from the hand of the messenger. telegrams were matters of such almost daily occurrence in our family that the sight of one rarely excited any apprehension; and, as all of our immediate household were at present here at our seaside home, i knew that the message could bring no ill news of any one of them. but my heart sank as i saw that this was a cablegram, for a dearly loved uncle and aunt were over the sea, and my fears were at once excited for them. but fear was quickly changed to joy when, opening the cablegram in the absence of my parents, to whom it was addressed, i read these words,-- "we take 'scythia' to-morrow for home, direct to you at the point. all well." as we had not expected the dear absentees for at least six weeks or perhaps two months, this news was not only a relief, but a joyful surprise, and i gave a little shriek of delight, which called forth eager inquiries from the children, while captain yorke and bill and jim were alert to catch my answer. "uncle rutherford and aunt emily are coming home, now, right away; they will be here in a week or so, and they are coming to us, here to this house!" i exclaimed, waving aloft the paper, in the exuberance of my joy. daisy forgot her downfall, and her bandaged head, as she and allie seized one another by the hands, and went capering up and down the piazza in an improvised dance; and captain yorke's face beamed, as he said,-- "that's the best news i've heered this summer, leastways next to hearin' jim was likely to get well that time, for the pint ain't the pint when the governor and the madam ain't on to it. but, miss amy, i wouldn't be for turnin' your folks out afore ye'd go to the city anyhow; for, take ye for all in all, ye're a pretty likely set, an' i'd miss jim an' bill a heap." there was no fear of that: we were tenants for the season in the dear old seaside homestead, where we had been guests for more or less of every previous summer; and the beloved uncle and aunt whose home-coming from a european trip we were now rejoicing over, would, in their turn, be now our much prized and welcome visitors. it would not be for long, however; for, to the great regret of the whole household, our summer sojourn by the sea would in a few weeks come to a close. i said the whole household; but there was one exception, for father had privately sighed all summer for our own country home, where he had his fancy farm, extensive and beautifully cultivated grounds, and superb old trees in which his soul delighted. we told him that a branch of one of these last was, in his eyes, worth the whole broad ocean, in which his family so revelled; and he did not deny the soft impeachment. but his patience was not to be much longer tried, for we were to spend a couple of months at oaklands after leaving the seashore, and before we settled down for the winter in our city home. nevertheless, absence from his beloved oaklands had been more than compensated for by the roses which the invigorating sea-breezes had brought to the cheeks of the two youngest of the household, allie and daisy, who had been brought here pale, feeble, and drooping, from the effects of the scarlet-fever, but who were now more robust than they had been before the dreadful scourge had laid its hand upon them. nor had the summer been one of unmixed enjoyment, even to those members of the family who gloried in the sea and the seashore; for circumstances had arisen which had been productive, not only of great anxiety and trouble to us all, but which had involved bodily injury, and all but fatal consequences, to poor jim. and although his name and character had come out scatheless from the trying ordeal of doubt and suspicion which had fallen upon them at that time, it had been otherwise with those of one who had been received as no other than a favored friend and guest in our household; and a young girl whose advantages had outweighed a thousand-fold those of the once neglected waif rescued by our milly from a life of evil, had gone forth from among us with a record of shame and wrong-doing which had forfeited, not only her own good name, but also the respect and liking of all who had become cognizant of the shameful tale. to those who have read "uncle rutherford's attic," these circumstances will be familiar; to those who have not, a few words will suffice for explanation. in the early part of the summer, my aunt, mrs. rutherford, had sent to me a pair of very valuable diamond earrings, old family jewels, and an heirloom. they came to me by virtue of my baptismal name, amy rutherford, which i had inherited from several successive grandmothers on my mother's side; the young cousin to whom they would have descended, the only daughter of aunt and uncle rutherford, having died some years since, when a very little girl. she was exactly of my own age; and this, with the fact that she too was an amy, had caused me to be regarded by my uncle and aunt, especially the latter, with a peculiar tenderness; and they seemed to feel that to me, the only living representative of the family name once borne by their lost darling, belonged all the rights and privileges which would have fallen to their own amy rutherford. it may be imagined how i had prized a gift precious, not only for its own intrinsic value, but for the many associations which clustered about it. scarcely, however, had the earrings become my personal property, than there followed in their train such a course of sin, sorrow, and tribulation, that my pleasure in them was quite destroyed; and, for a long time, the very sight of them became hateful to me. ella raymond, a ward of my father's, and a girl somewhat older than myself, had come to make us a visit just about the time that the beautiful jewels came into my hands. incited by vanity, and an inordinate love of dress, this unhappy girl had recklessly allowed herself to become heavily involved in debt,--debt from which she saw no means of escape, and which she was resolved not to confess to her guardians. the sight of my diamonds aroused within her the desire to possess herself of them, not for her own personal adornment, but that she might dispose of the jewels, replacing them with counterfeit stones, and so obtaining the means to satisfy her creditors. unrestrained by principle, honor, or the laws of hospitality, the wish became but the precursor to the actual carrying-out of the evil thought. thanks to my heedlessness, and the careless way in which i had guarded the earrings, she obtained them with little trouble; and after an amount of duplicity and deceit, terrible and shameful to contemplate in a woman so young, had contrived to carry out her purpose, to have the stones changed, and then to convey the earrings back to my possession, without drawing suspicion upon herself. nor, was this the worst; for when, by a most unfortunate series of events, suspicion was forcibly directed toward jim, she failed to exonerate him by acknowledging her own guilt; and but for the merest accident, which brought about the proverbial "murder will out" and fixed the crime without a shadow of doubt upon her, would have suffered the innocent boy to bear all the penalties and disgrace which by right belonged to her. so it will be seen that the summer, spite of its many pleasures and much happiness, had not been without a large share of care and perplexity. that all this was over, and that our fears for jim's moral and physical well-being had come to an end, we were most thankful; and the most of us still clung lovingly to the grand old ocean, and our summer-home on its shore. but autumn gales would, ere many weeks, be sweeping over this exposed coast; and already the summer-guests were flitting from the large hotels, although the cottagers would probably hold their ground for some little time longer. but what would it matter to us if we should be left the very last of the summer-residents upon the point, so long as dear aunt and uncle rutherford were to be with us? they were a host in themselves, especially the latter, who always seemed to pervade the whole house with his jovial, hearty presence, and who was the first of favorites with all the young people of the family. there would be much for them to hear, too: all the sad story related above in brief, to be told, with all its minor particulars; for it had been kept from them hitherto, as i had been very sensitive on the subject, my own carelessness having been partially in fault, and i had preferred that they should hear nothing of it until their return. aunt emily would not have been severe with me, i knew; but i had wished that the face and the voice, which she always associated with her own lost amy, should speak and plead for my shortcomings in the matter, when it should come to her knowledge. and oh! was i not thankful beyond measure, for her sake, even more than for my own, that the jewels had been recovered, and were once more safe in my own possession, before she learned of the perils they had passed through. if i felt somewhat shamefaced and repentant, as it was, what would it have been if they had been lost beyond recovery! the joy at the unexpected return of the absentees was not confined to their own family or circle, for the "governor"--uncle rutherford had years since held that dignity in the state, and was still "the governor" to all the denizens of the point--was greatly beloved by all who knew him well; and the old residents of the place, which had for so many years been his summer-home, considered themselves to be his intimate acquaintances. he was an authority and a law to each one among them. what "the governor" did, was invariably right in their eyes; from what "the governor" said, there was no appeal. he would, indeed, have been a daring man who should question the right or wisdom of uncle rutherford's words or deeds in the presence of any of these stanch adherents. and dear aunt emily was not less beloved in her way, for the simple people of the point all but adored her,--true, wise friend that she had proved to them; and among them none were more ardent in their devotion and admiration than captain and mrs. yorke. so it was no wonder that the captain's face beamed with delight, nor that, being somewhat after the manner of the athenians of old, who delighted in some new thing to tell or to hear, he should now be in haste to despatch his daily business, and take his departure to spread the news about the point. indeed, he would scarcely wait until i--who regained my senses before it was too late--furnished him with the list for the next day's supplies, which mother had confided to my keeping. in fact, in the midst of the excitement and pleasant anticipations which uncle rutherford's cablegram had called forth, jim's "peanut-undertakin'" was for the present entirely lost sight of, unless it was by the lad himself and his faithful chum and ally, bill. no need to give here the reasons which had influenced uncle rutherford's unexpected return; they were purely of a business nature, and would interest no one else. chapter iii. an arrival. i had made my confession,--for a confession i had felt it was,--involving for my own share no small amount of carelessness, and some little pride and self-will; all of which "little foxes" had opened the way to the commission of actual crime in another. it was the day after that on which my uncle and aunt had arrived at the point,--mild, soft, and sunny; only the september haze upon sea and sky to tell that the lingering summer was near its end. we sat upon the piazza,--these two dear newcomers, my sister milly, and i. father off upon some business; mother in the house attending to norman, who had come home with a sprained wrist; the children at play upon the beach with mammy, and their faithful pages, bill and jim, in attendance. i had stipulated, with a fanciful idea that i was making some righteous atonement, that i should be the one to relate the sad story of my diamond earrings; and hence no one had until now mentioned the subject in the hearing of my uncle and aunt. the opportunity was propitious, the audience lenient and sympathetic; and seated on the piazza-step, with my head resting against aunt emily's knee, and, as the tale proceeded, her dear hand tenderly stroking my hair and cheek, i had told the story to its minutest particular, taking, as the sober sight of after days has shown me, more than the necessary amount of blame upon myself. so my uncle and aunt now said; and, while inexpressibly shocked at such heartless wickedness in one so young as the guilty girl, they would not allow that their "own amy" was at all blameworthy in the matter, and only congratulated themselves and me upon the recovery of the earrings. my name, and the likeness i bore to the amy rutherford in heaven, would have pleaded for and won me absolution in a far worse case than this; and they at once set themselves to work to demolish my almost morbid fancies in connection with the theft of the jewels. the very fact that i had now told them all was a relief, and my elastic spirits at once began to rise from the weight which had burdened them during the last few weeks. "so that is the hero of your tale?" said uncle rutherford, looking thoughtfully down upon the beach where the little ones were enjoying themselves to the utmost, and having matters all their own way, as usual. jim was lying prone upon the beach, while allie and daisy were industriously covering him with sand; bill assisting by filling their pails for them. this was a daily amusement, and never palled. "so that is your hero?" he repeated. "and what do you mean to do with him, milly?" he asked, turning to my sister. "such a fellow should have a chance in life." "he thinks he has it since he has been here," answered milly; "since he has been among respectable people and surroundings, provided and cared for, and taught. he and bill both talk as if they needed no greater advantages than those they possess already. as to what i mean to do with him, dear uncle,--well, it is less what i mean to do with him, than what he means to do with himself. his own ambitions are soaring, and quite beyond any plans that i could form for him; his aim being the head of the government of our country, with the powers of an autocrat, and no responsibility to any one. nor is his mind disturbed with any doubts that he will be able to achieve this dignity, provided that he continues to 'have his chance.' at present he is content with learning his duties as a house and table servant, believing those to be but stepping-stones towards his goal." "to say nothing of his ambitious views regarding milly herself," i interrupted. but my remark was ignored as unworthy of the gravity of the subject. "but he should have some schooling, a boy such as he is,--do not you think so?" asked uncle rutherford; adding, "whatever his aims and ambitions may be, he can achieve nothing without some education." milly hesitated for a moment, unwilling to make mention of all that she was doing for jim and his _confrère_; and i spoke for her. "milly is spending a goodly portion of her worldly substance in that way," i said. "the boys go to a teacher for two hours every evening, and are both making quite remarkable progress in the three r's; and bill had singing-lessons all last winter, and i believe milly intends that he shall continue them when we go back to the city." "h'm'm," said uncle rutherford. "very good, so far as it goes; but i mean something more thorough and far-reaching than this." and milly's eyes lighted, for she knew that uncle was already planning some means of substantial advancement for her _protégé_. "if you are going to give him any further 'chance,'" i said, "columbia itself will not bound his ambition. he, too, will sigh because there is but one world for him to conquer." "h'm'm," said uncle rutherford again, with his eyes still fixed thoughtfully upon the incipient candidate for presidential honors, who, having shaken himself free from the sand, and risen to his feet, was now tumbling rapidly over in a series of "cart-wheels;" another performance in which the souls of our children delighted, and in which he was an expert. but he--uncle rutherford--said nothing more at present; and we were all left in ignorance as to what benevolent plan tending jim-wise he might be pondering. for a man otherwise so charming and considerate, uncle rutherford had the most exasperating way of exciting one's curiosity and interest to the verge of distraction, and then calmly ignoring them. but now i suddenly bethought myself of jim's "peanut plan," which, truth to tell, had passed entirely from my mind since the day i had first heard of it; and, with an eye to further prepossessing uncle rutherford in the boy's favor, i forthwith unfolded his scheme for the benefit of the helpless young blairs. my uncle was amused, but, as i could see, was pleased, too, with jim's gratitude and appreciation of the good which had fallen to his own lot. "amy," said uncle rutherford presently,--_apropos_ of some further allusion which was made to my tale, and to captain yorke's share in it,--"amy, i am going to invite captain and mrs. yorke to visit new york this winter, and," with a twinkle in his eye, "shall depend upon you and milly to escort them hither and thither to see the city lions." "invite them to your house?" i inquired, in not altogether approving surprise, for the idea of captain and mrs. yorke as visitors in uncle rutherford's house was somewhat incongruous; while the vision of milly and myself escorting them about was not attractive in my eyes, fond though i was, in a certain way, of the old man and his dear motherly wife. "not to my own house, no," answered uncle rutherford, with an assumption of gravity which by no means imposed upon me, "for i do not expect to have any house of my own this coming winter,--or, i should say, not to occupy my own house; for, amy, as my boys will pass the winter abroad, and your aunt and i would feel lonely without them, we have been persuaded by some kind friends, with a whole houseful of troublesome young people, to make our home with them, and help to keep their flock in order. so captain yorke and----" but he was interrupted, as i fell upon him in an ecstasy of delight,--worthy of allie or daisy,--enchanted to learn that we were to have the inexpressible pleasure of having him and aunt emily to spend the winter with us; a pleasure which i would willingly have earned by any amount of ciceroneship to the old sailor and his wife. the subject had not been mooted before the younger portion of the family, but had been discussed and settled in private conclave among our elders; so it was a most agreeable surprise to each one and all of us. "but about captain and mrs. yorke?" i said, at length, when my transports had somewhat subsided, and calmness was once more restored. "you do not really mean that you are going to bring them to the city, and--to _our_ house?" and all manner of domestic and social complications presented themselves to my mind's eye, in view of such an arrangement. for uncle rutherford, in his far-reaching desire to benefit and make others happy, was given to ways and plans which, at times, were too much even for his ever-charitable, generous wife; and which now and then would sorely try the souls of those less interested, but who, _nolens volens_, became the victims of his benevolent schemes. no one was better aware of uncle rutherford's proclivities in this way, or more in dread of them, than my young brother norman, who had just joined our circle, fresh from mother's surgery, and with his arm in a sling. for norman's bump of benevolence was not as large as that of some other members of the family, and he was inclined to look askance upon uncle rutherford's demands upon his heart and his purse. these, to tell the truth, were not infrequent; for our uncle, believing that young people should be led to the exercise of active and unselfish charity, and seeing that norman was inclined to shirk such claims, was constantly presenting them to the boy, with a view to training him in the way he should go in such matters. "uncle rutherford gives with one hand, and takes away with the other," norman had said, grumblingly, only this same morning, in my hearing. "you had better say he takes with one hand, and gives seven-fold with the other," said douglas, resentfully; for he inherited, to the fullest extent, the family generosity. "nor, i saw the skins of your flints hanging out to dry this morning." whereupon douglas dodged a book aimed at his head, and left his shot to work what execution it might. norman had caught my last words, and taken in their meaning, and his delight at the prospect of a visit from captain yorke was almost as great as milly's and mine in view of the stay of our uncle and aunt at our home; being incited, probably, by the thought of the "jolly fun" which he and douglas could extract from the old man while piloting him about the city. "i certainly do not intend to bring the old people to your house, amy," said uncle rutherford; "but your aunt is anxious that mrs. yorke should see some good physician, who may be able to relieve her from her lameness before she is entirely crippled; and we shall therefore propose that they come to the city after we are fairly settled there, when we will provide comfortable quarters for them, and put mrs. yorke under proper treatment. there is a fitness to all things, my child; and captain and mrs. yorke would probably feel as much embarrassed as your guests, as we should be in having them with us." "i was only thinking----" i began, then stopped. "you were only thinking that your quixotic old uncle was about to inflict a somewhat trying experience upon you," said uncle rutherford, in answer to the unspoken thought. "but he has a _modicum_ of sense left yet, amy." truth would not allow me to enter a disclaimer, for this had been my very thought. any slight embarrassment which i might have felt, however, was relieved by a little diversion in my favor, as uncle rutherford said,-- "here is fred winston coming over from the hotel." "yes, he is generally coming over, and never going back," said norman, with what i chose to consider a saucy glance in my direction; but i ignored both speech and glance, as i welcomed the new-comer. now be it understood, that this young man was neither a gossip nor news-monger; but, being at present a resident of the largest hotel in the place, he was, from the force of circumstances, apt to be the hearer of various items of interest, and these, for reasons which seemed good to himself, he usually considered it necessary to bring over to the homestead as soon as possible after they came to his knowledge. indeed, our boys basely slandered him, by crediting him with the invention of sundry small fictions as an excuse for coming over to our house. nevertheless, he was always a welcome guest with each one and all of the family, and with none more than with these saucy boys. "mr. rutherford," he said now, when he had settled himself in such comfort as he might upon the next lowest step to that on which i was seated, and addressing himself to my uncle, who, by virtue of his interest in, and proprietorship of, a great portion of the point, was regarded by most people as a sort of lord of the manor,--"mr. rutherford, have you heard what has befallen captain yorke?" "i have heard nothing," answered uncle rutherford. "no misfortune, i hope." mr. winston slightly raised his eyebrows, as he answered, laughingly, "i do not know whether he considers it in the light of a misfortune or a blessing; but i know very well how i should feel had such an affliction fallen to my lot,--that it was an unmitigated calamity; while miss milly, again, would probably consider it as the choicest of blessings. it seems that the old man had a reprobate son, who, many years since, went off to parts unknown; and his parents have heard nothing of him since,--that is, until to-day, when a woman, claiming to be his widow, appeared with five children. she had his "marriage lines," as she called them, a letter from the prodigal himself to his father, and other papers, which appear to substantiate her claim; and the old couple have admitted it, and received the whole crowd. 'matildy jane' is sceptical, derisive, and _not_ amiable. nor can one be surprised that she is not pleased at this addition to her household cares and labors, for i have not told the worst. the woman is apparently in the last stages of consumption; one of the children is blind; another has hip-disease; and a third looks as if it would go the way its mother is going. there is a sturdy boy of fourteen or so, the eldest of the family, and another chubby, healthy rogue, in the lot; but they really looked like a hospital turned loose. brayton and i had gone down for bait, and were talking to the captain, when they arrived." "don't, don't, mr. winston!" exclaimed norman. "milly will adopt the crowd, and have them here amongst us. that is her way, you know." "and what did the captain say?" i asked, fully agreeing with mr. winston, that this must be, for the old seaman, an appalling misfortune. "imagine, if the thing is true, and these people dependent upon him, the utter up-turning of the even tenor of his way,--of all their ways. i sympathize with 'matildy jane.' what did the captain say?" "he asked me to read his son's letter to him,--for he is not apt, it would appear, in deciphering writing; and, indeed, it was more or less hieroglyphical,--then gazed for a few moments at the dilapidated crew,--dilapidated as to health, i mean; for they are clean and decent, and fairly respectable looking,--and said, 'well, ye do all seem to be enj'yin' a powerful lot of poor health among ye.' then he turned into the house, saying that he must 'see what mother said,' giving neither word of welcome nor refusal to admit the claim of the strangers; and presently mrs. yorke appeared, in a state of overwhelming excitement, and, nothing doubting, straightway fell upon the new arrivals with an attempt to take the whole quintette into her ample embrace. no need of proofs for her; and, seeing this, the captain's doubts were dispersed, and he began a vigorous hand-shaking with each and every one of those present, including brayton and myself, and repeating the process, until brayton and i, feeling ourselves to be intruders in the midst of this family scene, made good our escape. not, however, before 'matildy jane' had appeared, with tone, look, and manner, which you who know 'matildy jane' do not need to have described, denouncing the woman and children as 'ampostors,' and bidding them begone." "and you do not think that the woman is a fraud?" asked aunt emily. "i do not, mrs. rutherford; and neither did brayton," answered fred winston. "and, besides the letter and marriage certificate which were in her possession, making good her pretensions, she had an honest face, and appeared respectable,--far too much so for the wife of such a scallywag as old yorke's son is said to have been." "if the yorkes allow her claim, and take in this numerous family, it will interfere with your plans for mrs. yorke, uncle," i said. "not at all," said uncle rutherford, who, when he had once made up his mind to a thing, would move heaven and earth to carry it out, and who often insisted upon benefiting people against their will. "not at all. the new family can be left here to keep matilda jane company while her father and mother are away. there is all the more reason now that mrs. yorke should be cured of her lameness; and i believe that it can be done." blessed with the most sanguine of dispositions, as well as with the kindest and most generous of hearts, he always believed, until it was proved otherwise, that the thing he wished could be done. "milly," said aunt emily, suddenly turning to my sister, "will you come down to the yorkes' with me?" milly assented readily; and the two kindred spirits set forth together. "the blessed creatures!" said fred winston. "what unlimited possibilities the arrival of this infirmary opens up to them. i knew that they would be off at once to inquire into the condition of the sick and wounded." "and to find out how many candidates there may be for the hospital cottage and other refuges," i added. but the two good samaritans, as they afterwards reported, were not so appalled by the state of things at the yorkes' cottage, as mr. winston's tale had prepared them to be. perhaps matters had improved since he had left two hours since, or the stricken family had at once accommodated themselves to the change in their circumstances. certain it is that aunt emily and milly found peace and serenity reigning: mrs. yorke with the little cripple in her capacious lap, coddling and petting her as the good soul well knew how to do; the captain piloting the blind child about the house and garden, familiarizing him with different objects, by which he might learn his own way about by his acute sense of touch; the youngest--a teething, not consumptive, baby--fast asleep; and even the recalcitrant "matildy jane" tolerably pleasant and good-natured beneath the fascinations of a handsome, sturdy urchin four years old, who, undaunted by her hard face and snappish voice, insisted upon following her around, and "helping" her in her manifold occupations. he was a boy who did not know how to be snubbed, and had fairly won his way with his ungracious aunt, by sheer persistence in his unwelcome attentions. to all her hospitable intimations that he and his family had brought an immense addition to her cares and labors,--which certainly was true,--he opposed smiles and caresses, and assurances that so long as he was there he would share and lighten all these; appearing to think that she complained and scolded only to draw forth his sympathy and aid. who could stand out against such a fellow? not even "matildy jane." and she had succumbed; at least, so far as he was concerned. the mother of the helpless group, pale, feeble, and careworn though she was, had already shown herself eager to lessen, so far as possible, the burden she had brought upon the family of her husband, and sat peeling potatoes from a huge basket on the one side, while a pan of apples, duly pared and quartered, stood awaiting the oven upon the other. plainly matilda jane had had no scruples of delicacy in availing herself of the services of her newly arrived sister-in-law. "what _are_ you going to do with them all, captain yorke?" asked milly, pityingly, as she stood beside the old sailor in the porch, while aunt emily interviewed mrs. yorke and the widow. "this is such a care for you." "do with 'em?" repeated the veteran, apparently quite undismayed by the prospect before him. "waal, i reckon we've got to be eyes an' backs an' lungs to 'em, for they've run mighty short of them conveniences. let alone theodore, an' that feller over there,"--nodding towards the kitchen-door, within which matilda jane was to be seen mixing biscuit, with the boy beside her, his round, fat arms up to the elbows in the dough, with which he was bedaubing himself and every thing about him, unrestrained by his subdued aunt,--"let alone that feller over there, there ain't the makin' of a hull one among 'em. i guess they've got to be took care of; an', if the almighty hadn't a meant us to do it, he wouldn't a sent 'em here. them's my opinions, an' me an' mis' yorke we ain't the ones to throw back his orderin's an' purposin's in his face. they do seem a bit like a hospital full, though, don't they?" he added, unconsciously expressing mr. winston's view of the situation. "me an' mis' yorke, we foun' out the truth of the scriptur' sayin', how sharper than an achin' tooth it is to have a thankless child, an' tom,--i don't min' sayin' it to you,--he _was_ thankless enough, though he's dead an' gone, an' his old father ain't the one to cast stones at him now. but me an' mis' yorke, we don't want to make out the truth of that other scriptur', that the sins of the father shall be visited on the children,--leastways, not tom's children; they ain't to blame for his short-comin's; an', meanin' no disrespec' nor onbelief, _that_ scriptur' do always seem to me a little hard on the children. maybe--who knows--them youngsters will ha' brought a blessin' with 'em; an' my opinions is they has, when i see mis' yorke a cuddlin' an' croonin' over that little hunchback. now she's awful contented an' easy-minded like to have somethin' to pet, for she's allers a hankerin' after babies an' them sort of critters. we was kinder took aback, for sartain, when maria,--her name's maria, tom's widder's is,--when she come right in with the hull crowd followin', an' john waters' wagon, what they come from the station in, standin' at the gate, an' all the luggage in it; an' them gentlemen was here gettin' bait an' askin' about the fishin', an' matildy jane she kinder flew out, an' one of the little ones was hollerin',--an' it was all kinder bedlamy. but it's all come right now; an' maria, she's a willin' soul, an' if jabez," the old man's son-in-law, and a power in the household, "if jabez an' charlotte don't be grumpy over it, we'll all get along as pretty as a psalm-book. jabez, he an' charlotte has gone to millville for the day, an' all this is unbeknownst to them." clearly, the captain was somewhat in dread of jabez and jabez's opinions; but milly had no fear that the strangers would be sent adrift in deference to these. but something must be done to help the old people with the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon them. the gray-haired seaman was comparatively vigorous still, but his sea-faring days were over; and while he had put by a sum sufficient to keep him, his good wife, and "matildy jane" in comfort, this unlooked for addition to the family, helpless and crippled as the grandchildren were, would be too great a drain upon his little fund. as this had been placed in father's hands for investment, we knew to a fraction what he had to depend upon, and that it was not enough to provide for all. the sturdy independence of the captain would no doubt revolt against the idea of receiving any actual pecuniary assistance, as would that of his wife; but some way must be contrived of lessening their responsibilities and cares. jabez strong and his wife must share these, although he might and probably would be "grumpy;" but even then it would be hard to meet all demands, without depriving the old couple of their accustomed comforts. the cheerful, it-will-all-come-right spirit in which they had received the intruders,--_i_ could not look upon them in any other light,--made us all the more anxious to do this; and, before night, milly and i were exercising our brains with all manner of expedients for accomplishing it without hurting their pride and their feelings. meanwhile, our elders, with less of enthusiasm perhaps, but in a more practical spirit, were considering the same matter; and the little ones, our allie and daisy, having also heard of the influx of children at the yorkes' cottage, had laden themselves with toys and picture-books, and persuaded mammy to escort them thither. our little sisters had so burdened themselves, that they needed assistance to transport all these gifts to captain yorke's house; and they could not look for any great amount of this from mammy, who had all she could do to convey her own portly person, and the enormous umbrella without which she never stirred, as a possibly needed protection against sun or rain, as the case might be. so they begged that bill and jim might act as carriers, coaxing thomas to spare them from pantry duty,--a matter not attended with much difficulty, as the old butler was only too willing to indulge them on all occasions, even to the length of taking double work on his own shoulders. they all set forth on their errand of charity in high glee; but jim returned from the expedition with a face and air of such portentous gravity, so different from his usual happy-go-lucky bearing, that milly was moved to ask if any thing unpleasant had occurred. "captain yorke nor his folks didn't do nothin', miss milly," answered jim. "who, then?" asked milly. "well, no _one_, miss milly," he replied. "i was on'y thinkin' what a lot of 'em there was, an' it bothers me." "so many yorkes, do you mean?" queried milly, rather wondering at his evident perturbation. "such a many blind an' hunchback an' sick folks," he said; "an' how are they all goin' to be done for. the more you try to do for some of 'em, the more of 'em seem to come up. there's matty and tony blair, who me an bill has took into our keepin' soon as we get to the city; an' now here comes a yorke hunchback, an' a yorke blind, an' a yorke sick baby, all sudden like; an' i say that's pretty hard on the ole captain. i like the captain firstrate, i do, miss milly; an' i don't like to see him put upon that way. some of us ought to see to 'em for him, but you can't do for all." "no, jim," milly said, soothingly, to the young philanthropist, "we cannot do for all who need; but, if each one does his or her mite, we can among us greatly lighten the load of human suffering; and that is what we must all try to do, without making ourselves unhappy over that which is beyond our reach or means." "_you_ did a mighty big mite, when you did for bill an' me, miss milly," said her pupil and _protégé_, looking gratefully at her. "there ain't no halfway 'bout you, miss milly. but i would like to help captain yorke, if i could; an' i was thinkin', could i do up them sums again 'bout the peanuts, an' get out a share for the yorkes." milly laughed, for she had heard of jim's plans, and of the various objects which were to be benefited by the "peanut-undertaking;" and, as frequent new claims and claimants appeared to share in the profits, she argued that the proportion of each would be small. "jim," she said, "i think i would not undertake to help the yorkes as well as all the other people you have upon your list. they shall not be allowed to suffer, you may be sure; mr. rutherford and mr. livingstone will see to that." "miss milly," he answered, reproachfully, "i on'y didn't reckon up captain yorke an' his folks before, 'cause they hadn't need of it. now they will, with all that raft of broke-up children on 'em; an' do you think i'd go to passin' 'em over when they was so good to me? no, that i wouldn't; i ain't never goin' to forget how mis' yorke nussed me, an' made much of me, when i was sick there in her house; an' they were good to me, too, when i was a little chap, an' got shipwrecked on to the shore. miss milly, do you know,"--hesitatingly,--"i'd liever take some out of the 'lection expenses share, than to pass over the yorkes. i would, really, miss milly." truly, our milly was reaping a rich fruit of generosity, loyalty, and earnest endeavor, from the seed of self-sacrifice and charity which she herself had shown in faith and hope. and this, too, in ground which the on-lookers had judged to be so hardened and stony that no harvest was to be gathered therefrom. oh, my milly, sweet soul, "great feelings hath she of her own, which lesser souls may never know." chapter iv. "food for the gods." behold our household now settled in our city home,--our summer by the sea, with all its many pleasures, and its measure of perplexities and anxieties, a thing of the past; our stay at oaklands, where papa had enjoyed himself to his heart's content, all the more for his enforced absence of the previous months, also over; and the different members of the family, according to his or her individual taste, occupied with divers plans and projects for the winter's duties and diversions. in view of certain contingencies which were likely to arise in the future,--father and mother said in the _far_ future; and, indeed, although it was pleasant to contemplate them from a distant standpoint, i was in no haste to leave my dearly beloved home,--in view of these, and with the comfort and well-being of a certain young man before my eyes, to say nothing of my own pride in my housekeeping capabilities, i had chosen to enlist myself as a member of a "cooking-class." said cooking-class was to meet once a week, in the afternoon, at the house of each member, in turn, when we were to try our maiden hands on the composition of any such dishes as we might choose; after which, certain martyrs--namely, the aforesaid young man, and sundry of his friends and associates--were to be allowed to join us, and, in case they were not too fearful of consequences, to test the results of our efforts. milly, who had a regular engagement for the afternoon appointed, was not able to aid in the culinary efforts, but pleaded, that, as she contributed a sister, she might be allowed to join the later entertainment of the evening. and the plea was considered all sufficient, for who would not choose milly when she might be had? so said bessie sandford, our inseparable friend and intimate; and there was no dissenting voice among the gay circle of girls. she did not intend, however, to be without her share in the flesh-pots which were to furnish the more substantial part of the entertainment; and having a natural gift for cooking,--a faculty in which i was altogether wanting,--she promised to prepare some dainty dish beforehand, and send it as her share in the feast. my last essay in that line had been in the shape of some gingerbread, of which article of diet father was very fond, and i had exerted my energies on his behalf. when it was presented at the sunday-evening tea-table, the family, excepting papa, contented themselves with viewing it respectfully from a distance; even old thomas, as he passed the plate, regarding it doubtfully and askance. father heroically endeavored to taste it; but mother, whose regard for his physical well-being outweighed even her consideration for my feelings, protested; and, with an air of relief, he obeyed the suggestion. "what did you say it is? ginger _bricks_?" asked douglas. i took no notice of this, but later bade thomas take all the gingerbread down-stairs. "yes, miss," he answered, with an "i wouldn't care if i were you" sort of an air; and the gingerbread disappeared. the next morning, however, as i went to the store-room to execute some small order for mother, our old cook confronted me. "miss amy," she said, "whatever will i do with that gingerbread? there isn't one in the kitchen will touch it, not even them b'ys; an' all's mostly grist that comes to their mills." "oh, give it away to any one that comes," i answered indifferently, and concealing, as i best might, my chagrin at this added mortification. but later in the day, allie and daisy, returning from their walk with mammy, rushed into the house in a state of frantic indignation. "amy, amy," they cried; "mary jane gave your gingerbread to a tramp, and he looked at it and smelled it and tasted it, and then just laid it on the area steps and ran away. and jim saw him; and he picked up the gingerbread, and broke it by throwing it on the sidewalk, and then threw the pieces at the tramp; and one hit him, and it was so hard it seemed to hurt him, but he just ran all the faster." from that time, more than a year since, i had forsworn all manner of cooking, but now it seemed to me that the exigencies of the case required me to turn my thoughts to the matter; hence, when it was proposed, i had been only too ready to join the cooking-class. the lady who had, from pure love of her kind, and a special interest in young girls, undertaken to superintend and direct our efforts, was an old friend of my mother and aunt emily; the dearest, the sweetest, the most guileless, of maiden ladies, with a simplicity and lack of worldly knowledge which were almost childlike, but very talented, and with a mind intelligent and cultivated to an unusual degree. she was also famous among us for all kinds of handiwork,--for the delicious cakes, soups, and all manner of dishes which she could concoct; for her painting and drawing, and her exquisite and original fancy-work. simple, although delicate, in her tastes, her personal wants were but few; and being possessed of a small income, which placed her beyond the need of employing her varied talents on her own behalf, she delighted in turning them to account for others. she stood singularly alone, with no direct family ties or responsibilities; and probably no human being but herself ever knew the amount of work accomplished by those slender, high-bred looking hands for the benefit and delight of others. the beautiful paintings and embroideries which she sent to the various societies for art work, and which were always accepted without demur, meeting as they did with an ever ready sale, brought their profits, not to her, but to others less gifted and more needy than herself. and many a dainty trifle wrought by her graced some sick-room, or home of straitened means, where there was neither time nor talent to be given for such adornment. careless as to the prevailing mode, although exceedingly neat about her own personal attire, she was somewhat quaint and old-fashioned in appearance; at least, she had been until a short time since, when milly and i, with bessie sandford, who was also a distant relation of miss craven's, had taken her in hand, and by dint of a little teasing, and much persistence and coaxing, had induced her to submit herself to our dictation in the matter of dress. but she could not, quite yet, reconcile herself to our requirements; at least, not without a little flutter and protest against such innovations as we insisted upon,--against tied-back skirts, hair a little more in the fashion than she had been accustomed to wear hers, and collars and fichus of a more modern date: hearing, the dear soul, that certain of our circle of girls were anxious to attain some practical knowledge of cooking, and to attach to the acquisition of that knowledge such "fun" as we might, she had offered, when applied to for certain of her receipts, to instruct the class which we were desirous of forming. the offer was eagerly seized upon, and so it came to pass that she had been installed as teacher and director of the mysteries in which we were about to dabble. miss craven,--"cousin serena," as we always called her--had been one of the warmest advocates of milly's cause, when that young woman was intent on taking upon herself the charge of bill and jim; and, had milly not been allowed to do so, i think that she would have undertaken it herself. she was continually making little gifts to these boys, not always, it is true, just adapted to their needs or to their fancies; but they had the grace, rough as their antecedents had been, to appreciate the kindness which prompted them; and their room in the stable was decked with many a little bit of ornamentation bestowed by her. for one of her pet theories was, that one could educate the masses to a refining love of art, if one only kept such elevating influences constantly before them. the first meeting of the cooking-class was held at our house. most of the girls were content to try their hands on this occasion on some simple dish; but i--more ambitious, and also for excellent reasons of my own--had determined to provide a certain delicate and highly flavored cream. in order that there might be no failure in this, and that i might, by an unqualified success, retrieve my reputation, i surreptitiously sought in advance two or three private lessons from miss craven. these she was only too ready to give; and after practising at home, closely following her directions, and assisted by old thomas, who was almost as anxious for my triumph as i was myself, i succeeded in turning out my cream, pure, rich, white, just the right consistency, and deliciously flavored. it was but a small quantity, however; just a trial sample, not enough for family distribution; and, calling allie and daisy to the secret session which thomas and i were holding in the butler's pantry, i divided the luscious morsel between them, exacting, first, the most solemn promise of secrecy. allie demurred to this at first, having conscientious scruples about keeping any thing from mother; but she was finally persuaded to look upon it as a preparation for an agreeable surprise, as i assured her that this was only the prelude to a more extensive treat to the whole family, as well as the class. moreover, the sight of the dainty, and daisy's enjoyment of it, were too much for her, she having rather a leaning towards the flesh-pots. i was quite uplifted in my own estimation for the next twenty-four hours or so, and pleased myself mightily with the thought of out-doing all the other girls with my dainty, luscious dish. allie and daisy could be trusted "not to tell," when they had once given their promise; but they went about with a portentous aspect of having a secret, which almost made me regret that i had taken them into my confidence. it being leap-year, and our advantages, or possibly disadvantages, in connection with that period being about to come to an end with the close of the year, we had determined upon making the most of them. hence our guests, when they should arrive, were to submit to be waited upon, and to receive such attentions as they were accustomed to bestow upon us. the day and the hour had arrived, and the members of the class, each one with an enormous protecting apron over her pretty dress, had assembled in our front basement, which, being convenient to the kitchen and store-room, had been chosen as the workshop for the occasion. each was intent on her own dish, and each in her turn was superintended and overlooked by cousin serena; but merry talk and laughter held their own, in spite of business. "what are you making, amy?" asked mollie morgan. "how delicious and creamy that looks, and how readily you go to work about it. why, i thought you were no cook at all; but one would think you had been doing that all your life. what is it?" she repeated, as i cast a guilty, deprecating look at miss craven. but cousin serena had no thought of betraying me, and, although she must have heard, paid no attention to mollie's remarks. "it's food for the gods," i answered carelessly, as i tossed the luscious compound about with a spoon. "do you mean that is the name, or that it is your opinion that it is worthy to be food for the gods?" asked bessie sanford, who paused at my elbow, bearing in her hands a tray of delicate sponge-cakes. "both," i answered. "amy is ambitious; see what she is making, girls," said mollie; and several, gathering round, peered at the diet of the gods with, as i imagined, envy and admiration. "there!" i said, triumphantly, and as though i were a _cordon bleu_, accustomed to turn off feasts for an emperor--"there, now it is ready to go into the moulds. oh, no, i have forgotten the flavoring. jim," for the boy was there to wait upon us, and to run upon errands--"jim, go and ask mary jane for a bottle of vanilla flavoring." now, i might have known better than to send jim on this errand, for between him and mary jane there was a state of warfare, due, i must say, to her ill-temper and prejudice. formerly it had been productive of much annoyance and discomfort to the household, and had at last reached such a climax, that father, who never interfered in domestic details, had unexpectedly taken the matter in hand, and given the old woman such a warning, that she had not since that time dared to give open vent to her dislike. but the fires, though smouldering, still were alive; and jim never cared to ask her for any thing, or to carry a message to her. however, now he ran into the kitchen, and presently returned with a bottle which he handed to me. glancing at it, i saw that it was properly labelled, and i flavored with the contents according to directions; and, nothing doubting, then called upon cousin serena to stamp it with her approbation, which she did. after which i poured the mixture into the moulds, and set it away. fairly well satisfied with the results of our afternoon's work, we removed such traces of it as had left their impress, took a short rest, and were ready in due time to receive our leap-year guests. we were to have a high tea; the rest of our family, with cousin serena, dining at an earlier hour than usual to accommodate us, and taking their later repast in the library. there was naturally much fun and jollity over the reversal of the usual order of things, and we carried out our programme to the farthest; while our gentlemen displayed a degree of inefficiency and helplessness which would have disgraced a six-year-old girl with a moderate amount of sense. all went well during the earlier part of the feast. dish after dish was partaken of, and commended; and there was a universal chorus of approval for the fair cooks. "it is going to pass off without a failure," i said to myself, recalling triumphantly the scepticism as to our capabilities, which some of our friends had testified. and now appeared, in its turn, my own dish,--the "food for the gods,"--brought by thomas and his assistants, with a little extra flourish as the work of their own young lady. we were in groups of four, at little tables placed about the room; and the gentlemen, as had been arranged, were helped first to each course. happening to raise my eyes to address the youth upon my right hand, i saw his countenance suddenly distorted by a contortion expressive of any thing but pleasure. turning involuntarily to my left-hand neighbor, who happened to be mr. winston, i saw a grimace, almost similar, pass over his face, followed by a look of blank astonishment at me. then came the voice of my brother edward from an adjoining table, as he sat with uplifted spoon, gazing down upon the contents of his plate. "amy," he said, "what under the heavens is this?" "food for the gods," i answered, startled and dismayed; for i could not help seeing that something must be very wrong to betray edward into such a breach of etiquette. "then we will not deprive the gods of it," said my brother; "and may the celestial--or was it for the infernal deities that it was compounded?--forgive you for inflicting this upon them. winston, spare yourself, my dear fellow; the utmost stretch of politeness could not demand such a sacrifice of you." for fred winston, true gentleman and loyal knight that he was, was making the most heroic efforts to swallow a little more of my handiwork. and this from edward, usually the most chivalrous of brothers! i glanced around the room, and saw a similar state of affairs on every side. all those who had been unfortunate enough to taste the "food for the gods" wore a more or less distressed expression. i plunged my own spoon into my plate, and carried it to my mouth. pah! any thing more nauseous i had seldom tasted. the gods were indeed to be pitied! i covered my face with my hands as a laugh pealed around the room; and norman came dashing into it, and up to me. "amy," he said, in a loud whisper which could be heard by all, "mother says don't let any one touch that stuff of yours. it's awful!" "awful" indeed! but it was too late; enough tasting had been done to cover me, as i felt, with everlasting disgrace. "amy was so awfully cock-a-hoop about her new dish, too," began norman; "and now----" but his brotherly remarks were cut short by my left-hand neighbor, with an intimation, that, if he had any regard for his physical or mental well-being, he would at least postpone them. overcome with mortification and chagrin, i would fain have left the room, not only to hide my diminished head, but also to consult cousin serena on the possible cause of this mishap, when jim came up to me, and said, in an aside even louder than norman's,-- "miss amy, it wouldn't poison none of 'em, would it?" when jim had any thing on his mind it must come out, regardless of time or place; and there was that in the boy's tone and manner which instantly convinced me that he knew more than appeared on the surface, and i turned hastily to him:-- "poison any one? why should it?" i asked. "it's the liniment, miss amy," he answered nervously; "an', if they was poisoned, me or you might be took up. we'd best have a doctor, maybe." matters were growing serious; and springing from my seat, without apology to my guests, i bade the boy come into thomas's pantry. thither i was followed by fred and edward, who heard the confession of the frightened lad. "it's the liniment, miss amy," he repeated. "mary jane's liniment for her rheumatics; but i think it ought to be her to be took up more than you an' me." "speak out, boy, and tell us what you mean," said edward, imperatively; for he felt, that, if there was any reason for jim's alarm, there was no time to be lost. thus pressed, jim said that when i had sent him for the flavoring, he had caught up a bottle which he supposed to be the right one, and ran back without consulting the old cook. nothing doubting, i had made use of the contents; and he had possessed his soul in peace until a few minutes since, when thomas had sent him on an errand to the kitchen, and he had heard mary jane bewailing the loss of her bottle of "rheumatiz liniment." she at once charged him with hiding it to torment her, but, before he could defend himself, one of the other servants asked what kind of a bottle it was; to which she replied, that it was a vanilla-bottle into which she had emptied the liniment, as that in which the lotion belonged had been cracked, and that she had stood it "just there." a horrible conviction rushed upon jim: "just there" was the place from which he had taken the bottle he brought to me. he dashed into the front basement, found there the bottle in question, and speedily verified his own fears; then hurried up-stairs to prevent thomas from taking in the "food for the gods." alas! it was too late: the dish was already dispensed, a due portion having also been sent in to the tea-table in the library; and my disgrace was an accomplished fact. dread of the after consequences now took possession of jim, and this impelled him to an immediate disclosure of the mistake. indeed, none of us were without our misgivings; and edward, sending for the bottle, went with it at once to our family physician, who lived but a few doors from us. dr. graham laughed heartily when he heard of the mishap, and told edward that there was no cause for alarm; as, although he would not advise unlimited indulgence in the lotion as a beverage, such harmful qualities as its ingredients possessed would be reduced to a minimum when mixed in the proportion edward mentioned with the other articles of which the "food for the gods" was compounded. so the matter became a joke to every one but me and the old cook, who received a severe reprimand for her carelessness in putting the liniment in an improper receptacle, and then leaving it in an improper place. thus ended my attempt at culinary distinction; a regard for the well-being of my friends and even for their lives, inducing me to quit the field without further trial of my powers. what a long tale about a foolish mistake, it may be said; but, as "great events from little causes spring," the results of that mistake were vast and far-reaching, and we had not yet heard the last of the "food for the gods." chapter v. the "morning bugle." "look at this disconsolate pair; melancholy has evidently marked them for her own," said bessie sanford, as she and i crossed the corner of the square, bound for an afternoon walk; aimless, except in the search for fresh air and exercise. the "disconsolate pair" were my little sisters, allie and daisy, who now approached, trundling their dolls' perambulators in front of them, and followed by mammy, who came limping after, also wearing a most lugubrious expression; but whereas their distress was plainly mental, her's was physical, drawn forth by pain. "old mammy has an attack of her pet bunion," i said, "and i suppose that the children are, in consequence, debarred from their walk, and they have but just come out. poor little things! what do you say, bessie, to taking them with us? they would be enchanted." "so should i. by all means let us take them," answered bessie, who had a love for children and their company, only second to my own. "o, sister amy!" cried both the little ones, dropping the perambulators, and rushing up to us as soon as their eyes fell upon us, "mammy's bunion hurts so, she can't take us to walk, and it's such a lovely day, and we want to go jim's peanut-stand." and the ever ready tears rushed to the eyes of allie, who was prone to weep upon slight provocation; and even daisy, who was more philosophical, though younger, looked heart-broken. sunshine speedily succeeded the showers, however, for my proposal that they should accompany us was received with rapture; and, taking their dolls into their arms, they abandoned the perambulators to the care of mammy, who hobbled towards home with them. this bunion was mammy's choice grievance, and she doubtless suffered much from it; but it was an article of the family faith, that, when for any reason she was disinclined to take her walks abroad with the children, the bunion sympathized with this reluctance, and crippled her to an unusual extent. "and where do you want to go?" i asked of the beaming pair, who were now hanging, the one on bessie's arm, the other on mine. "bessie and i do not much care which way we go." "oh," said daisy, ecstatically, "if you would only take us to jim's peanut-stand! mother said we might go, and then mammy couldn't take us." "it's not fash'nable, but it's very respectable, amy," said allie, impressively. "but we cannot go to a peanut-stand, even though it belongs to jim," i expostulated. "but it's not in the street; it's--you know johnny, the flower-man, sister?" said allie. "johnny the flower-man" was a german florist on a small scale, who had a little glass-enclosed stand on the corner of the avenue next to that on which we lived, and who was extensively patronized by our family and many of our neighbors. his box of a place, cosey, warm, and fragrant, was a favorite resort of our children; and much of their pocket-money went to the purchase of the potted plants and cut flowers which he sold to them at a wonderfully reasonable rate. but what had the little german to do with jim and his peanut-stand? allie soon enlightened us. "jim was going to have the stand on that corner," she said, "and he had leave to do it; but mamma and aunt emily said it would not do for tony and matty to sit out of doors in the cold weather; it would kill matty, they said. and jim was so disappointed, and he didn't know what to do; and one day when sister milly sent him to johnny's, he told him about it, and about tony and matty; and that lovely old johnny,--daisy and i ask god to bless him every night when we've done our own people,--he told jim he could have a little corner of his store where it was all glass, and the stand could be seen from the street; and then matty could sit there, and people would come in and buy her peanuts. wasn't it good in him? we love johnny, if he does squint, and smell of tobacco, and can't talk very plain." "and then," said daisy, taking up the tale in her turn, as allie paused for breath, "and then there wasn't room there for the roaster, 'cause it's pretty squeezed up in matty's corner, and in johnny's store, too, wif the stand there; so johnny's wife, who lives just a little bit of a way off, lets tony have the roaster up in her room, and roast the peanuts, and then he runs very quick wif 'em over to matty, or, if it's a nice, pleasant day, he has it put outside the door. but the smell of the peanuts gets mixed up wif the smell of the flowers, and that isn't so very nice." "but jim is making lots of money, he says," continued allie; "'cause most always when people come in to buy flowers, johnny tells 'em they'd better buy peanuts, too; and jim printed a sign in german about peanuts inside, and put the meaning in english beneath, and he says he thinks he is doing a better business than if matty sat outside. norman and douglas buy lots, but," with a little sigh, "mother don't like daisy and me to eat peanuts. it would be a good way to do charity if she would let us; but sometimes we buy some, and give them to the servants." jim and his "peanut undertakin'," as captain yorke had called it, had, in the press of other and greater interests, almost passed from my mind, and i had made no inquiries about it lately; but, as visions of numerous peanut-shells in the most unheard of places returned to my recollection, i could not doubt the truth of allie's assertion in regard to my brothers. while the children had been talking, we had been gradually walking on towards the desired haven,--the corner where the german florist had his tiny store; and presently we came to it. the little glass enclosure was one mass of vivid green, and brilliant, glowing color; for johnny was remarkably successful in the treatment of his plants, and they always wore a thrifty, healthy aspect, delightful to behold. without, just at the side of the door of entrance, hung the sign described by allie; and daisy at once drew our attention to it. the "german" legend ran thus:-- "goot rost benuts ish incite, nein sents a quoort. shtep in unt py." the english translation followed:-- "good roost peanuts is inside, nine cents a quart. step in and by." bessie and i were inwardly amused, but did not let it appear to the admiring children. allie, however, had her own misgivings as to the absolute correctness of the sign, and said, doubtfully,-- "i suppose the german must be all right, because jim says that is the way johnny talks; but the english is not spelled quite right, is it, sister amy?" "not altogether," i answered; "but perhaps it attracts more attention than it would do if it were quite correct, allie, and that, you know, is the object of a sign or notice." "yees," said allie, doubtfully, lingering behind a moment to scan the sign as i opened the door, and still inclined to criticise; "ye-es, but somebody might laugh if it is not spelled quite right." "that is of no consequence so long as it does not hurt business," i said, shamelessly indifferent to the orthographical merits of the case. "come in, allie, we must not keep the door open too long." at the farthest end of the crowded little cubby-hole,--all the more crowded, of course, for the accommodation which the good-hearted german had afforded to jim's beneficiaries,--sat the little deformed matty, behind her stand, on which were displayed a tempting pile of freshly roasted peanuts, and various bright, new measures. outside, on the street, could be seen tony, grinding away at his revolving roaster; for the day was so exceptionally lovely, that there could be nothing in the air to injure him, and he doubtless preferred its freshness, and the brilliant sunshine, to the presumably dark and stuffy quarters of mrs. johnny. [illustration: "at the farthest end sat the little deformed matty." _page_ .] poor, poor matty! deformed, shrunken, and wizened, she was a painful contrast to all the beauty and brightness surrounding her in the little conservatory. beyond the sympathy unavoidably drawn forth by her helpless and crippled condition, there was absolutely nothing to attract one toward her. she looked peevish and fretful, too, so far as there was any expression in the dull, heavy face. was it to be wondered at? there had been but little of brightness in her young life; and as i looked from her to my little sisters, our petted household darlings, carefully guarded and shielded, so full of life and joyousness, so free from all pain or care, my heart swelled with thankfulness, that to them had been allotted no such fate, and with the desire to brighten the lot of this little unfortunate. it was not so with her brother tony: he was the jolliest, most active little cripple that ever hobbled round on one leg and a crutch. the celerity of his movements was something surprising; his voice was merry and cheery; and his ugly young face, despite the many hardships of his lot, generally wore a smile. now and then he would be seen with his face pressed against the glass, with a nod of good-fellowship to his sister or johnny, or staring at such customers as happened to be within; and, if these proved to be matty's patrons, he would watch the progress of the sale with great interest. then he would turn to his roaster, and work it violently for a few moments, then be off to the curbstone or crossing, exchanging some, probably not very choice, joke with some other street-gamin, or the conductor or driver of a passing street-car. the children, allie and daisy, made their investments while i was taking these observations, and bessie was purchasing cut-flowers from the old german. she was a good german scholar, and delighted the heart of the old man with the familiar language of the fatherland, which flowed glibly from her tongue. the consequence was, that that politic young woman left the florist's with three times the amount of flowers that i had, although i had spent just twice as much money. but, then, i could not speak german. "i am going to take my flowers to cousin serena," i said, after we had left the florist's, and exchanged a word or two with jolly little tony as we passed. "will you come and see her, bessie?" bessie assented, and the two little ones were only too glad to accompany us. a visit to cousin serena was always a treat to them. "and we will give her the peanuts we bought; she likes peanuts," said daisy, who, as well as allie, had maintained a silence, quite unusual with them, during several minutes. "but we'd like her and all our people to understand," said allie, loftily, "that we buy peanuts because of jim, and not at all because of matty. she's the most unchristianest child we ever saw; and i think her soul is hunchback, too, just as well as herself." i had seen that matty had repelled the advances of the children, who had wished to show her their dolls, and to be kind to her; and i endeavored to soothe them, and excuse her, by telling them how much she had to suffer, and how her disposition might have been spoiled by all that she had undergone. but my words made no impression; the children were not to be mollified. allie still wore an air of outraged and offended dignity; and daisy not only maintained that solemn silence, but she looked grieved and hurt. our little ones were not accustomed to be snubbed, and took it hard when such an experience did befall them; but there was a preternatural gravity about them now, which excited my wonder. "why, daisy," exclaimed bessie, suddenly, "what is the matter with your cheek? it is all red and scratched. what have you been doing to yourself?" "she didn't do it to herself," said allie, indignantly, and before daisy could speak. "we didn't want to tell tales; but, sister amy and cousin bessie, i think you are not very _noticeable_, not to see daisy's cheek before this. we are very much disappointed in you." we apologized humbly, saying that daisy's broad felt hat had prevented us from seeing the state of her cheek before this, and inquired more minutely into the cause thereof. with some reluctance the children told, that, while bessie and i had been making our purchases of flowers, they had, after buying their peanuts, tried to make themselves agreeable to matty; but she had proved far from responsive, and would not even look at the beautiful dolls which they proffered for her admiration. believing that shyness alone was the cause of this ungraciousness, and filled with pity for her condition, daisy had at last raised matty's arm and placed her doll within it, when the cripple suddenly turned upon her, and drew the nails of the disengaged hand viciously down poor little daisy's soft cheek, while, with the other, she threw the doll from her. fortunately, the doll was not hurt; but the insult to her cherished darling had grieved daisy more deeply than did the injury to herself. she had heroically refrained from crying out, or making any complaint, lest johnny should be moved to espouse her cause, and avenge it on matty; but it had gone to her heart, and to allie's as well, that, after such forbearance, neither bessie nor i should have noticed her plight. however, we made up for it now by an outburst of indignation and resentment, especially violent on my part; whereupon, the sage allie turned my own moral lecture, so lately delivered, upon myself, recalling my exhortations to the effect that we should be patient and forgiving with one so sorely afflicted as matty blair. when we reached cousin serena's, a little arnica and some french bonbons healed daisy's wounds, both mental and physical; but when happiness and peace were once more restored, and she was seated upon miss craven's lap, with allie beside her, and the box of chocolates between them, cousin serena herself was discovered to be in a state of no small flutter and excitement. "my dears," she said, "have you seen the 'morning bugle' of to-day?" "no," i said, emphatically. "father would not allow that paper to come into our house." "nor would my father," said bessie. "he says it is a scandalous sheet," i added. "he would not have it if there were not another newspaper in the city." "nor would i in my own house," said miss craven; "but," apologetically, "when one is in a boarding-house, my loves, you know one cannot control other people." "i should think not," said bessie. "it would be hard, indeed, if you were held responsible for the morals, or the literary tastes, of mrs. dutton's other boarders." "but you dearest of serenas," i said, "you know you need not read the 'morning bugle' because some of the other people in the house take it. o serena, serena," reproachfully, "i thought better things of you! that _you_ should allow your mind and morals to be poisoned in that way!" "my dear amy! my dear children!" exclaimed the dear, matter-of-fact old lady, who never knew when she was being teased, which made it all the more delightful to tease her. "my dear loves, you do not think i read that scandalous sheet! why, this morning i should have said that nothing would induce me to touch it; but when mrs. dutton came up with the paper in her hand, and said, 'is not this meant for your friends?' what could i do? i had to take it, and read the paragraph; and, my dears, here it is. oh, i have been so unhappy all day about it! what will your father and brother do? mrs. dutton let me cut this out, when she saw how i felt about it." i took the scrap of paper which she handed to me; and the blood rushed to my heart, as i read an item with the following heading:-- "a madison-square sensation." it was a garbled and scurrilous account of the late little incident at our house, implying, indeed openly asserting, that there had been a wholesale attempt at poisoning. names were not given, not even the initials under which the reporters of such gossip often pretend to disguise publicity, and in a measure avoid responsibility; but, to the initiated, there could be no doubt that the paragraph referred to my unlucky cookery. further particulars, it was said, would be given at a later date, although it was difficult to obtain information, as the parties concerned had endeavored to hush up the matter; and "money is a power in this community." i turned faint and giddy as i read; while bessie, who looked over my shoulder, burst into a tempest of indignant exclamation. "dear child! don't turn so white, amy, my dear; i am so sorry i showed it to you," cried miss craven, aghast at my alarm and agitation. "it is outrageous, scandalous; but it cannot hurt you: you see no names are given. but i shall never forgive myself, for i told mrs. dutton about the 'food for the gods'. she was interested, you know, when you were here with me learning to make it, and asked me how it turned out. but she is discretion itself; she would not say a word, nor let any one know--oh! my dear child, what shall i do? what shall we all do?" but the vivid imagination with which i was credited by my friends, and which not unseldom did cause me many a needless foreboding, was rampant now; and visions arose before me of disgrace to the family, if those dreadful newspaper people did, as they threatened, "give further particulars," and perhaps go to greater lengths, and even print my name in their horrible sheet. should i ever be able to hold up my head again? i sat in dumb, terrified astonishment. but here, bessie, with her practical common sense, came to the front, and brought me back to reason. "so that is the way you meant to make such a success of your 'food for the gods,' is it, you fraud?" she said, putting her hands on my shoulders, and playfully shaking me, "coming here and practising with cousin serena, forsooth; and the rest of us experimenting with our first efforts. o amy, amy, i would not have believed it of you. and the gods themselves turned against you. their mills did grind exceeding sure that time, and not so slowly, either; vengeance followed, swift and sure. you deserve this. cheating play never prospers, amy; and 'honesty is the best policy,' and all that." meanwhile, the children were gazing from one to another of their elders, not knowing what to make of all this,--allie uncertain whether or no she had better call upon her ever ready tears, daisy bewildered, and at a loss to know upon whom to bestow her sympathy, cousin serena or me; for i had not yet put my miserable imaginings into words, and my startled looks alone appealed to her; while miss craven was in a half-frantic state of excitement; and, as for bessie, she had at first appeared furiously angry, and now, with a sudden change, was turning the whole thing into a laugh. what could it all be about? wondered these innocents. "oh," i gasped at last, "what shall we do? what will papa say? what will uncle rutherford say? what will edward say? what will----" "yes, my dear, what will fred say?" bessie completed my unfinished sentence, as i paused, overwhelmed. "they will each and every man of them settle this matter, to the anguish of that editor, if i know them, and without one word of trouble or publicity to you, or any one of the family. you dear goose, you, to make such a personal matter of it. why not, jim; why not still more, mary jane?" "i must go home," i said, feeling a burning desire to find at once my natural protectors, and to place the matter in their hands; and go i would and did, cousin serena accompanying me, with bessie and the children. we paused by the way, to knock at mrs. dutton's door, and to ask her if she had called the attention of any of the other boarders to that shameful paragraph. mrs. dutton, motherly, gentle, refined, a lady in birth, education, and manner, and with a warm corner in her heart for the girls, big and little, who ran in and out on their visits to miss craven, assured us that she had not done so; and, in answer to my anxious inquiries, said, also, that she had never mentioned the incident of the "food for the gods" to any one. it is not necessary to state, that my mankind were incensed when they saw the objectionable paragraph, although they did make light before me of my terrors and apprehensions; and it remained a fact, that edward went at once to a friend and brother lawyer, to request him to take steps to prevent any further annoyance or developments in the matter. it so happened, said this gentleman, that he had a hold upon the editor of the "morning bugle," which that personage would be very sorry to have him use to his disadvantage; and he assured edward that he would settle the affair in such a way that none of us need fear any future trouble or publicity. how the thing had become known so as to afford matter for newspaper gossip, we could not tell, and did not much care to know; probably, through the talk of the servants, who had, of course, been acquainted with all the particulars of the unfortunate incident. exaggeration, and a wilful desire to falsify a trifle to the discredit of those concerned had done the rest; but our lawyer friend's remedy proved effectual, and the "morning bugle" was silenced. chapter vi. uncle rutherford's prize. uncle rutherford, the most generous, the most benevolent, of men, had, nevertheless, the most exasperating way of carrying out his kindnesses. he would suggest or hint at something delightful, and which just met the views or desires of his hearers, dwell upon it for a time, then, after leading one to the very height of expectation, would apparently put the matter entirely from his thoughts, and for days, weeks, or months, nothing further would be heard of it. to urge its fulfilment, or to endeavor to discover what his intentions might be, was never productive of any good; on the contrary, his intimates believed that this still further deferred the wished-for result. even aunt emily, his much beloved and trusted wife, had learned to possess her soul in patience, when he was supposed to be revolving any thing of this nature in his mind. the question of jim's future had never been alluded to by him since that day last september, when it had been discussed at our seaside-home; and now it was nearly christmas, and milly was on tenter-hooks to know if there was any thing favorable in store for her _protégé_. she knew better, as i have said, than to hurry matters, or to ask any questions. that uncle rutherford had not forgotten it, however, was evident from the way in which he watched, and apparently studied, the boy's ways and character; jim all the while quite unconscious of such scrutiny. "milly," he said, on the evening of the day following that of the episode of the "morning bugle,"--"milly, i see that boy jim has a temper which needs some curbing." now, "a temper" was uncle rutherford's _bête noir_, albeit his own was not of the most placid type, and that it was liable to be roused to what he called "just indignation," on that which to others appeared small provocation. the flash was always momentary, but it was severe while it lasted; and it had ever been a cross and a stumbling-block to him, spite of the polite name by which he called its manifestations. it was probably the recollection of the trouble it had brought to him, and of the struggles which even now it cost him, an elderly man, which made him so intolerant of its existence in others, especially the young. it is not necessary for the reader to quote the oft-repeated proverb about dwellers in glass houses, for uncle rutherford was perfectly conscious of the exceeding fragility of his own panes; and his only wish was to warn and help those who were cursed with a fiery, impetuous spirit like his own. that jim was a victim to this, no one could deny, and milly did not attempt to dispute it now; she merely assented meekly, and acknowledged that thomas and bill were constantly rescuing him from street-fights, and other escapades of that nature. and there were times when, in some of his rages with his fellow-servants, the raised tones of his furious voice had penetrated to the upper regions, and called for interference from the higher powers; but these occasions were becoming more and more rare. his devotion and loyalty to milly and the other members of the family who had befriended him were not infrequently the occasion of these outbursts; for, at the smallest real or fancied injury or slight to any one among us, he was up in arms, and his tongue and his fists were only too ready to avenge us. he was very impatient, too, of any allusion by others to his own origin, or to the state of degradation from which milly had rescued him and bill, although he would discuss it more or less freely with her, and with his boon companion and chum. "what has jim been doing now, uncle?" asked milly; her hopes for the advancement of the boy through uncle rutherford's means falling, as she wondered if he were noticing only to find out the flaws in a by no means faultless character. "just that; been in a street-fight, or what would have proved a street-fight, if i had not come upon the scene just in time to call him to his senses, and to order him into the house instanter," said our uncle; "and, from what i could learn, he attacked a boy much larger than himself, on very small provocation,--merely, that the boy disputed his claim to the name of livingstone, by which it appears he chooses to dub himself." "he does not know his own name," said milly, apologetically. "that is no reason that he should call himself by yours," rejoined uncle rutherford. "it is something of the old feeling of feudal times, or that which used to make our southern slaves adopt the surnames of their masters, i think," said edward. "jim thinks that 'them as belongs to livingstones ought to be called livingstone.'" "captain yorke proposed to him to take his," said i, "but jim declined, on the ground that yorke was not so nice a name as livingstone for the 'president of these states.' he has it in his heart, too, to confer honor upon our family name by the reflected glories of the position to which he aspires." "the boy's spirit of gratitude and appreciation, at least, are worthy of all credit," said aunt emily. "and, whatever he may owe to milly and the family, he has already repaid the debt with interest," said mother; her thoughts, doubtless, recurring to jim's heroic rescue of the youngling of her flock--her baby daisy--from a frightful death; to say nothing of his sturdy fidelity to the welfare of our household and property under circumstances of great temptation and fear during the last summer. "i had thought," said uncle rutherford, slowly, and milly's face lighted up; was it coming at last? "i had thought, if you judged well of it," turning to mother, "of having him go to the public grammar-school for this year, and there to test his capabilities, not only in the way of learning, but even more in his power and desire to control this temper of his. if he gives satisfaction, and proves himself worthy of it, let him continue at school until he is fitted for it, when i will give him a scholarship which i own in the school of mines. at present it is filled, but will fall vacant about the time that jim will be ready to take it. there is another boy on whom i have my eye, who has the same bent for a calling that jim has, and whom i wish to befriend and help; but he, too, has faults which i hope to see him correct,--faults in some respects more serious than jim's,--and the prize will lie between these two. whoever proves himself most worthy and capable, the most steady, reliable, and best master of himself, shall take the scholarship. but, if jim goes regularly to school, he will, of course, have to resign, in a great measure, his duties as a household servant. are you willing to have him do this? for i do not wish or intend to inconvenience you. what is your opinion of the whole matter?" "ask milly," said mother, "she is the arbitress of his fate." and uncle rutherford looked to that young damsel. "what say you, milly?" there was little need of words. milly's sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks spoke for her. this was so much beyond any thing she had hoped for on behalf of the boy, that at first it seemed to her almost too good to be true. and, yet, there were lions in the way. and, after a moment's consideration, she answered, somewhat hesitatingly,-- "i hardly know what to say, sir." we all looked in astonishment. most of the family thought that milly's hopes and ideas for the future of her _protégés_ were rather quixotic and unreasonable, aiming at taking them out of their proper sphere. but here her clear judgment and good sense saw some objections to uncle rutherford's plan. "you are very kind, more than kind, uncle," she continued. "such an offer is, indeed, a 'chance' for jim such as i had never dreamed of, and there could be no question between this, and his training as a household servant; but i fear for the effect of the emulation upon him. if he is to gain this prize by outstripping or defeating another, the spirit of victory for victory's sake will take possession of him, and he will make every thing give way to it." "then he will not prove himself worthy of the prize," said uncle rutherford, who had a fancy for inciting young people to efforts of this nature, and who was always holding out some prize to be striven for. "i don't know," said milly, a little wistfully; "he is so impulsive, so eager, so almost passionate, in the pursuit of any object on which he has set his mind, that i am afraid too much of the spirit of rivalry will enter into his efforts to win this." "and," put in norman, "he will be so cock-a-hoop if he is set to study for a scholarship, that there will be no bearing him, and----" but norman was brought to an abrupt silence, by a quick reprimand from father; while uncle rutherford took no notice of the interruption, but continued to urge upon milly the acceptance of his project. it undoubtedly presented so many advantages for jim, that these finally outweighed her scruples, and she agreed thereto with earnest thanks. "who is the other fellow, uncle?" asked norman the irrepressible, "any one whom we know?" "yorke's eldest grandson," said uncle rutherford. "that sneak!" ejaculated norman. "so that is your opinion of him," said uncle, turning towards norman. "well, i have not myself much confidence in the boy. there is something about him which i do not like; he is not frank and outspoken. he is a bright lad, however, ambitious, and disposed to make the most of any opportunities which fall in his way; and, for old yorke's sake, i would like to help him. yorke pinched and saved and denied himself, to give that boy's father an education, and illy he was repaid by the graceless scoundrel, who dissipated his father's hard-earned savings, and half broke his heart, and that of his poor mother. the captain is building on this boy's future, now; and, if he does not show himself fit for a college course, he may, at least, when he has had sufficient schooling, be taught a trade, and share the burden of the family support. we shall see which will win the prize, jim or theodore." douglas began to laugh in his quiet way, but norman spoke out again. "won't there be jolly rows, when those two come to be pitted against one another," he said. "either one will do his best to keep the other from winning it, even if he don't care for it himself." there was too much reason to believe that norman's prophecy would prove true. from the time that theodore yorke had appeared at his grandfather's, a pronounced state of antagonism had declared itself between the two boys; and this had continued up to the time of our leaving the point. jim, who was a great favorite with the old captain and his wife, seemed to look upon theodore as an interloper, and trespasser upon his preserves; and the latter at once resented the familiar footing on which he found jim established in his grandfather's house, although he himself had never been there before, and had hitherto been a stranger to all of his father's family. it had required the exercise of the strictest authority to maintain any thing like a semblance of peace during the remainder of our stay at the seaside; and there were occasional outbreaks, which tended to any thing but comfort to captain yorke's household. our house and grounds were forbidden to theodore yorke, in consequence of this feud; but jim's duties called him, at times, to the home of the old sailor, whence he was accustomed to bring the daily supply of milk for the consumption of the family, and where he had been wont to linger as long as he dared when sent on this errand. more than once had he returned with a black eye, cut lip, or other adornment of a warlike nature; and several milk-pails had been degraded from things of usefulness, by reason of being used as weapons of offence and defence. and, although he knew all this, here was uncle rutherford actually setting up these two already belligerent lads as rivals in the race for learning and character, with such a prize in the future to the winner. his object would defeat itself. was it to be supposed that tempers would be controlled, that any little tendency to take advantage of an enemy would be smothered, under these circumstances? "dear uncle," said milly, whose face had fallen when she heard who was to be the rival candidate, "jim is my charge; and you will not think me ungracious, if i say that i cannot consent to let him enter the lists against theodore yorke. i know only too well that it would arouse all his bad passions. as i said before, rivalry in any case would not be best for him, but, against theodore, it would be simply ruinous; and i would rather see him remain under thomas's tuition, learning to be a thorough and efficient servant, and to control his temper because right is right, than to have him take the first honors in any college in the world, if these are to be purchased by the fostering of an envy and jealousy which i am sure would be the result of your plan." "saint millicent is right, as usual, when her brands snatched from the burning are concerned," said father, putting his arm over her shoulder. "i quite agree with her, rutherford. we shall always see that both those boys, jim and bill, are well provided for; and neither of them shall lack for such an amount of education as may fit him to make his way in some respectable calling. to jim we owe a debt which far outbalances the benefit he has received at our hands." and papa's eye turned, with lingering tenderness, to the far corner of the room, where allie and daisy, unconscious of the weighty matters which were being discussed among their elders, were absorbed in happy play with dolls and dog. "when he is old enough and steady enough, we will set him up in some line of business which he may choose--eh, milly?--that is, if he shows any aptitude for a mercantile life; and he may work his way thence to the chief magistracy, if he find the path which he imagines lies open to him. as for bill, he runs wall street, you know; and his voice, and talent for music, would make _his_ way in the world. there is something that must be cultivated." "do you mean, millicent, that you are actually going to refuse my offer for jim?" said uncle rutherford, in a tone of deep displeasure; for he did not like to be circumvented when he had set his mind upon a thing, especially if it chanced to be one of his philanthropic schemes. and that same quick temper, which he had found his own bane, showed itself now, in the flush which mounted to his brow, and the sudden flash which shot from his eyes. "then, my dear, all i have to say is----" _that_ was all he had to say; and milly escaped something which would have hurt her feelings, and which uncle rutherford himself would have regretted when another moment should have passed, for aunt emily laid her hand upon his arm, half-whispering, as a noted imperial wife was once wont to do to her impetuous and fiery lord, "nicholas, nicholas!" and with a like, calming effect, for further words were arrested on his lips. there was a little awkward silence for a moment; then, as if by a sudden inspiration, uncle rutherford said pleasantly,-- "how absurd we all are! what need for either boy to know that he is a rival to the other? put the reward before each one, and tell him that the winning of it depends upon himself, and then we shall see." so, then, was it settled, to the satisfaction of all; uncle rutherford, it is true, a little disappointed that the stimulus of emulation was not to enter into the contest; and the discussion was here brought to a close by the appearance of bill with a box of flowers "for miss amy." but there was a factor in the case, upon which we had not counted. in the privacy of their room over the stable, bill and jim held converse that night; and this was the substance of their communing, divested of unnecessary adornments of speech, with which those young gentlemen were wont to garnish their conversation when removed from the restraints of polite society. "there's a big thing up for you, jim," said bill. "you'll hear of it yourself soon, i guess, from miss milly or mr. rutherford; but i got first word of it." "what is it?" asked jim. "you're goin' to school; you and theodore yorke," said bill. "i ain't goin' to no school with theodore yorke," interrupted jim. "there ain't no school would hold me an' him." "yes, you are, if you know what's good for yourself," said bill; "and there's some kind of a big prize for whichever comes out best man." "then i'll go, if miss milly lets me; an' beat him, too, if it was just for the sake of beatin'," said jim, verifying the prophecy of his young mistress. "but how do you know so much, an' what do you mean, bill?" "i didn't hear all they was sayin', and i s'pose i wasn't meant to hear none of it," answered bill. "it was all the fam'ly folks, 'cept the children, was talkin'. mr. brady sent me to open the front-door when the bell rang, and it was some flowers for miss amy; and, when i went to the door with 'em, they was all talkin' so busy they didn't hear me knock. i couldn't make out just what it all was; but you're to get schoolin', you and theodore, and whichever does the best is to get more schoolin', and some prize at the end when the schoolin's done; but miss milly, she didn't want you nor him to know you was fightin' for it, 'cause she didn't think 'twould be good for _you_. she thought you'd be too set on it, maybe, just to spite theodore. she knows him and you, you see." "yes, she might ha' knowed i wouldn't let _him_ get the best of me," said jim, viciously. "and you say i wasn't to be let know i was set on to beat him." "no, them was miss milly's orders; and i take it mr. rutherford didn't like it too much," answered bill. "he wanted you to know, and be set on yer mettle. but miss milly, she's boss of _us_, you know, and she got her own way. so, as i say, they ain't goin' to tell you nothin' about theodore." "then, maybe you oughtn't to ha' told me," said jim, musingly. "i don't believe you ought." "i don't see the harm," said bill. "i wasn't told not to tell; they didn't know i heard." "all the same," said jim, "you oughtn't to ha' told, when miss milly didn't want me to know. i am glad i do know, so as i can set out to beat theodore; and, bill, this is goin' to give me a first-rate chance. you see if i don't get to be president, now. an', when i do, you'll see what'll be done to theodore yorke." "what?" asked bill. "i don' know, i've got to think," answered jim; "but jus' you wait till i get to be top man of these states. won't theodore get it!" "miss milly didn't want you to know, 'cause she thought you'd be so set against him, and she thought you was bad enough that way a'ready," said bill. "i feel kinder sneaky to know it when she didn't want me to," said jim. "i guess, after all, i'm sorry you tole me, bill; you hadn't a right to, i guess. you come by it yourself kinder listenin'." here the question of conscience and honor was broken in upon by the coachman, who slept in an adjoining room, and who bade the boys cease their chattering, as they disturbed him. uncle rutherford had left to milly the telling of his plans for jim's future; and the following morning she called the boy to her, and set them forth before him. he was to go to school this winter, beginning as soon as the christmas holidays were over. with many earnest warnings, she pressed upon him the necessity for self-control, as well as attention to his studies; telling him of the prize to be won if his course should prove satisfactory to mr. rutherford, but making no mention, of course, of the other candidate. he promised over and over again, that he would do his very best to prove a credit to her, and to make her "awful proud" of him in the future, and that she should have no cause for complaint, either with his temper, or his lack of diligence. that he was enchanted with the opportunity thus offered to him, there could be no doubt, but he did not appear as much surprised as milly imagined that he would be; and there was something in his manner, which, at the time, struck milly as rather strange,--a something repressed, as it were, but excited; and, all the while, there was a gleam of mischief in his eye. in the light of later developments, the cause of this was made plain; but now it was a mystery. "and now, jim," continued his young mistress, when she had told him of all that lay within his grasp, and had added a gentle and persuasive modicum of moral suasion,--"now that you are going out into the world to make a way, it may be a name, for yourself, you must choose what that name shall be. you remember," soothingly, for this was a sore point with the boy,--"you remember that we know you only as jim." "it's livin'stone, jim--no, i mean james rutherford livin'stone," said the boy, decidedly. "i'm goin' to put in the rutherford on account of mr. rutherford bein' so good to me, miss milly; an' won't you an' him be set up when you see rutherford livin'stone names onto a president of these states? i ain't never goin' to disgrace them names, that i ain't." but milly, mindful of the prejudices of her relatives, and of the objections which she foresaw from both sides of the family, found it needful to decline the compliment. in order to avoid hurting the boy's pride, however, she went about it most diplomatically. "do you not think, jim," she said, "that it would be a good thing for you to call yourself by the name of washington, the first and greatest of our presidents?" "jim george washington, miss milly?" answered the lad. "well, that would sound nice; but, you see, i wanted to put the compliment on _you_, an' to show what lots of gratitude i've got for you an' your folks, miss milly." "the best compliment you could pay to me, and to my care for you, jim, would be to show yourself in any way worthy of bearing the name of that great and good man," said milly, non-plussed how to carry her point, and still not to wound her charge. "and," she continued, "that name might always prove a reminder to you of the truth and uprightness, the bravery and self-control, which distinguished him." "miss milly," jim broke forth, irrelevantly, it would seem, "you know bill gets time for lots of readin' an' studyin' down at the office. when mr. edward don't have any thin' for him to do, an' he might be just loafin' round, he's doin' his 'rithmetic, or his jography or spellin', an', if he wants a bit of help, mr. edward gives it to him, if he ain't _too_ busy just then; so bill, he's comin' on with his learnin' heaps faster than me; he's gettin' splendid at figgers, an' he reads the paper, too, on'y mr. edward, he don't like him to read the murders an' the hangin's, and them _very_ interestin' things; but bill read the other day in the paper how a man said george washington had a big temper, an' could get as mad--as mad as any thin'. but bill, he said he'd heard mr. edward an' some other gentleman talkin' 'bout how folks was always tryin' now to be upsettin' of hist'ry; an' bill says he reckons that 'bout george washington was just another upsettin', an' him an' me ain't goin' to believe it." "that's right, jim, keep your faith in washington, and show that you do so by adopting his name," said milly. do not let it be thought that milly slighted the father of her country, by thus turning over to him the "compliment" she declined for herself and her family; for, in the multitude of namesakes who have helped to perpetuate that illustrious memory, poor jim could reflect but an infinitesimal share of credit or discredit. jim pondered. the advantages of the world-renowned historic cognomen were, doubtless, great. but the "compliment" to his friends! could he defraud them of that? suddenly his face lighted; a brilliant idea had struck him. he could combine both. "miss milly," he said, "i'll tell you. now, i'll be named james rutherford livin'stone washin'ton, an' stick to that till i get inter president polyticks; then i'll put the livin'stone last, james rutherford washin'ton livin'stone, so folks'll be sure i belong to you. bill says folks can change their names, if they has a mind to, when they come twenty-one. bill's learned lots of law down to wall street, miss milly; he's up in it, i can tell you." "very well, that will be best," said milly, content to defer to the doubtful future the risk of having the family names appear in "president polyticks;" and so it was arranged, and her charge prepared to face the world as james washington. chapter vii. two peanut-venders. allie stood before the glorious wood fire, around which we were all gathered awaiting the summons to dinner, gazing intently into its glowing depths, and evidently sunk in such deep meditation as to be oblivious, for the moment, of her surroundings, and of what she was doing; for her doll, a new and much prized christmas-gift from uncle rutherford, and a beauty, hung disregarded, head downwards, in the hand which had sunk unconsciously by her side, while, with the forefinger of the other pressed upon her rosy little lips, she seemed to be pondering some weighty matter. daisy lay stretched with her doll upon the tiger-skin, and presently, looking up, roused allie from her distraction. "why, allie," she exclaimed, "what you finking about so much? serena victoria is most upside down. just look at her!" allie reversed her doll to its proper position; and, as she settled its costume, gave daisy her answer, by putting into words the thought which was vexing the minds of some of her elders, but addressed herself to me, as a kindred spirit. "amy, do you b'lieve mrs. yorke will be very fit-to-be-seen to take out walking or driving on the avenue, or in the park?" "why, allie," i said, weakly evading the question, and also answering by another, "do you not think your friend mrs. yorke is always fit to be seen?" still, allie replied by a fresh query. "amy, have you seen mrs. yorke's best bonnet? her 'sabbath bonnet,' she calls it." and she turned upon me large eyes, full of solemn meaning. yes, i had, indeed, seen mrs. yorke's "sabbath bonnet;" and it was the recollection of that appalling article of attire which at the present moment was weighing on my own spirits. here daisy piped up, also giving voice to the sentiments of her sisters. "mrs. yorke is very nice," she said, "and we love her lots, but in her sunday clothes she don't seem like mrs. yorke." it was even so. mrs. yorke in her every-day costume, and mrs. yorke in gorgeous sunday array, were two--and "oh the difference to me!" "how do you know," said uncle rutherford, "but that santa claus himself may have taken the matter in hand? mrs. yorke's sunday bonnet may not have been to his taste, and he may have provided her with another." "i hope, then," answered allie, sceptically, "that he hasn't brought her a brown felt with red feathers and a terra-cotta bow." "that would not have improved matters much, would it?" asked uncle rutherford, with a twinkle in his eye. "no; i think his taste would run to black, perhaps. what do you say, aunt emily?" "i should say his fancy would lie in a black felt, with black velvet trimmings and feathers," answered aunt emily. "how would that do, allie?" "very well," said allie, "if he brought her a black dress, too, 'stead of a' old plaid." "and a new cloak, too," put in daisy. "her's isn't very pretty; i saw it once; but i'd just as lieve have mrs. yorke anyhow she was." the grammar might be childishly faulty, but the feeling of the speech was without a flaw, and from the heart daisy would have accepted mrs. yorke as she was, and thought it no shame or embarrassment to escort her anywhere; but bonny allie was a lady of high degree, with an eye for appearances and the proprieties, and mrs. yorke's antiquated and incongruous gala costume would sorely have tried her soul, although she would doubtless have borne her company with a good grace, and with no outward show of the pangs she might be enduring. how greatly she was relieved now could be judged by the laughing light which sparkled in her eyes, the dimples which showed themselves at the corners of her mouth, and the ecstatic way in which she hugged the long-suffering doll. "she'll be lovely and fit-to-be-seen now!" she exclaimed. "won't she, daisy? she'll look just like mammy." "but," said daisy, doubtfully, unconscious of the knowing gaze which her older little sister had fixed upon uncle rutherford's face, a gaze which he returned with interest--"but _did_ santa claus bring mrs. yorke all those things, allie?" "yes, he did; _a_ santa claus did; i'm perfectly sure he did," said allie. "but they didn't come in her stocking, or grow on a christmas-tree, either, _i_ know." "i fink he was real mean if he brought her all those, and didn't bring her a muff and some gloves and a' umbulla, too," said daisy. before the laugh, which followed, had subsided, thomas appeared at one entrance to announce dinner, and mammy at the other to carry off her charges. full of the news they had to impart to her, of santa claus's supposed benefactions to mrs. yorke, they went more willingly than usual. yes, christmas had come and gone,--christmas with all its sacred, hallowed associations, its pastimes and pleasures, its loving remembrances and family gatherings; and never had a dearer and happier one been passed beneath our roof. no, nor one more productive of choice and beautiful gifts from each one to each; and the little ones had outdone themselves for the blessed and beloved holiday. and it was an article of the family creed, both on the livingstone and rutherford sides, that the good things which had been so bountifully showered upon our pathway in life should be shared with others, especially at this season of peace and good-will. so it was no surprise, although it was a great relief to some of us, to learn that mrs. yorke had been made presentable for the visit to the city, which would involve some attentions on our part that might have proved embarrassing had she appeared in her wonted holiday costume. mother and aunt emily had been the two good fairies who had wrought the transformation through the medium of a christmas-box, which had contained bountiful gifts for the whole yorke family. and now captain and mrs. yorke were to come to the city on the very next day, accompanied by the--to jim, at least--objectionable theodore. mrs. yorke, whose crippled condition sadly interfered with her comfort and usefulness in life, was to be placed immediately under the care of our own family physician, who had become interested in her case during a visit paid to us at the seashore during the previous summer; and aunt emily had secured a comfortable abiding-place for her, not very far from our own home, where the children, whom she adored, and mammy could often run in to see her, and where the elder members of the family could now and then pay her a visit. the captain was to remain with her, or not, as his inclination might prompt; but uncle rutherford thought, that, the novelty of city sights and sounds once exhausted, the old man would prefer to return to his accustomed haunts by the sea. theodore was to board with his grandparents, and to begin school with the new year; at the same time, and--alas! for the inexpediency of uncle rutherford's arrangements--in the same school, with jim. such were the plans which had been made for the yorkes, and the junior portion of our household were in a state of eager expectation over their approaching arrival; the desire to witness the old seaman's first impressions of a city life, and his own conduct therein, being strong within us. "we'll give him a good time, and get lots of fun out of it for ourselves," said norman and douglas, who proposed to be his pioneers. as for bill and jim, there was no telling what manner of projects they might have formed for his edification, and their own amusement and his; and father considered it necessary to bid milly give them a word of warning not to practise on the credulity of the old sailor, as they had at times been wont to do while we were at the seashore. "and what about the mercantile enterprise of that youth, with so many irons in the fire?" asked uncle rutherford, when dinner was over, and the door closed behind the retreating servants, while we still lingered around the table; the little girls having been allowed to come down to dessert. "how does the peanut-business flourish, milly? you are posted, i suppose." "not so thoroughly as allie and daisy," answered milly. "i understand that it is flourishing; but, if you wish for minute particulars, you must apply to them." allie, hearing what was passing, forthwith dived into the depths of her small pocket, and produced from thence a miniature account-book, saying triumphantly as she did so,-- "jim's sold the first bag of peanuts, and bought another, and then sold that; and now he's bought _two_ at once, and"--opening the book, and poring over it,--"and he's made--see, uncle rutherford, here it is," and she pointed out a row of crooked, childish, illegible figures; to be understood, doubtless, by the initiated, but greek to uncle rutherford. "how does the boy manage to keep account of his business?" asked uncle rutherford, returning the book to allie, as wise as when she handed it to him, but not confessing his ignorance. "by preparing himself for a dyspeptic existence," said milly. "he swallows his meals in haste, thomas says, and rushes from the table, and around to the fourth avenue to receive tony's report, and be back in time for his work. nor is he always quite in time, i imagine; but thomas is indulgent and patient, and bill helps him. i understand that the little cripples are really making fair sales, and jim is reaping quite a harvest." "yes, uncle rutherford knows that by my 'count-book," said unsuspicious allie. "read it aloud, please, uncle, so they can all hear." "hm--hm, yes, my dear; but i do not like to read aloud after dinner," said uncle rutherford, still forbearing to enlighten her innocence. "it isn't so _much_ reading," murmured allie, rather hurt, for she was an over-sensitive child, prone to imagine slights, and, as we know, given to ready tears. "i'll tell you, people;" and she proceeded to give the amount made by jim since he had established the peanut-stand, with its various divisions for the separate objects of his benevolence and ambition. the latter figured under the head of "for to be president;" and if her accounts, or, rather, jim's as set down by her, were to be trusted, he had really done very well in the stand business. "we know two deforms," quoth daisy, solemnly, as allie closed; "one deform is very nice and good, and the ofer is horrid and scratching. one is captain yorke's, and the ofer is jim's peanut-stand girl. but we have to be good to the cross deform, 'cause god made her that way. allie and i are going to try and make her nice and pleasant, too." "she thinks we're proud, and only like to go to see her, and show her our nice dolls and things, to make her feel sorry," said allie; "tony said so. and she turns her hump at us, and makes faces at us, and _won't_ think we want to be good to her. she thinks we're proud at her, 'cause she has to sell peanuts." "you go and sell peanuts, then, and show her you're not too proud to do it," said douglas, carelessly, and certainly with no thought that the suggestion would ever be acted upon. "we needn't to have been afraid about mrs. yorke's fit-to-be-seenedness," said allie, hopping delightedly around on one foot, the day after the arrival of the yorkes, and on her return from her first visit to them. "why, she does look so nice; just as nice as mammy in her sunday clothes. she looks almost lady." "yes, she does, and it don't make any dif'ence, if she _behaves_ lady," said daisy; "and i fink she always behaves _very_ lady. mamma," with a sudden and startling change of subject, "if somebody told you you could do somefing to help somebody, oughtn't you to do it?" "yes, my darling, if you can," answered mother, rather oblivious, to tell the truth, of the child's earnestness in putting the question; for she was at the moment writing an answer to a note which had been just brought in. "and it's very nice to do the kind fing, and not speak about it, isn't it?" questioned daisy. "very, dear," answered mother, still only half hearing the little one, and far from thinking that she was supposed to be giving her sanction to a most unheard of proceeding. mrs. yorke's attire and general appearance proved satisfactory even to fastidious miss allie and myself; indeed, she would have passed muster among any hundred elderly women of the respectable middle class; and there was nothing whatever about her to attract special attention, unless one turned again for a second look at the kind, motherly old face. there was a sort of natural refinement about her, too, which made her adapt herself with some ease to her unaccustomed surroundings. as for the captain, he was a hopeless subject for those who had an eye to fashion or the commonplace. no amount of attempts at smoothing or trimming him down, no efforts at personal adornment in his case, could make of him any thing but what he was, here in the great city, as well as at his seaside home, the typical old sea-faring man, rough, hearty, simple, and good-natured, garrulous to excess, as we had often proved, and not to be polished, or made what he called "cityfied." "'tain't no sort of use whitewashin' the old hulk," he asserted; "an' i guess my sunday clo's, as is good enough for the lord's meetin'-house up to the pint, is got to be good enough for these messed-up city streets; an' ye can't make no bricky-bracky outer me." to the boys he was a source of unmixed delight, both to our own young brothers, and to the two servant-lads; and no care for the eyes or comments of the world troubled any one of them when he happened to be under their escort. and little daisy was equally independent, or perhaps too innocent to take any heed of such matters. a feverish, influenza cold confined both allie and mammy to the house for a day or two soon after the arrival of the yorkes in the city, and daisy was consequently obliged to be confided to the care of others when she took her walks. she had been out driving one afternoon with mother and aunt emily; and they, having an engagement for "a tea," to which they could not take her, brought her home. at the foot of our front-steps stood captain yorke, complacently basking in the almost april sunshine, and amusing himself by gazing up and down the street, and across the park, on which our house fronted. it was an exceptionally beautiful day for the time of year, soft, balmy, and springlike. "ye won't git another like it to-morrer; two sich don't come together this time o' year," said the captain, as mother, greeting him, remarked on the loveliness of the weather. "ye kin look out for a gale to close out the year with, i reckon. there's mischief brewin' over yonder," pointing to where a bank of clouds lay low upon the southwestern horizon. "ye'd best take yer fill of bein' out doors to-day." "yes," said daisy, pleadingly, "it's so nice and pleasant. mamma, couldn't some of the servants take me out a little more? i don't want to go in yet." "leave her along of me, mis' livin'stone," said the old man. "me an' her'll take care of one another." daisy beamed at the proposition; and mother had not the heart to refuse her, or the old sailor. "well," she said, "you may stay out a while with the captain; but only on condition that you both promise not to go far from the house, but remain either on the square, or on this block. you see, captain," she continued, "daisy is too little to pilot you about, and you are too much of a stranger in the city to be a guide for her beyond the neighborhood of home. if you want to leave her, or she tires, just take her to the door, and ring the bell for her. or perhaps you will go in yourself, and see allie and mammy.--they cannot go astray or get into any trouble so near home," she said to aunt emily, when she had given her orders, and the carriage moved on, leaving daisy and the captain standing side by side on the pavement, the little one with her tiny hand clasped in the toil-worn palm of the veteran. "impossible!" said aunt emily; "and the captain is as good as any nurse, you know. i would quite as soon trust her with him as with mammy." but aunt emily, and mother too, had forgotten to take into account the captain's deficiency of a sense of the fitness of things,--at least, of matters appertaining to a city-life. he and daisy rambled contentedly up and down the block, from one corner to another, for some time, she prattling away to him, and enlightening his ignorance so far as she was able, until, at last, they unfortunately touched upon jim's affairs. "let's go round an' buy some peanuts outer jim's stand," said the captain. "'tain't far, ye know." "no," answered obedient daisy, "not far; but mamma said we mustn't go way from sight of our house, fear we would be lost, and we'd be way from sight of it if we went to jim's peanut-stand. but, captain yorke, matty is cross wif allie and me, 'cause she finks we're proud 'cause we don't sell peanuts; and douglas says i ought to sell peanuts, so she'll know i'm not proud. do you fink we could sell a few peanuts now? i know where jim keeps 'em." "wal, i reckon ye kin sell peanuts, my pretty, if ye have 'em to sell," answered the old man, seeing no reason why daisy should not have her own way, and perhaps scenting a little diversion for himself in the project; "but if ye can't go round to t'other street, how are ye goin' to get 'em?" "oh, jim keeps 'em--his bags of peanuts--out in a pantry under our back-stoop," said daisy; "and ev'y morning tony comes for some to sell. we'll go in, and ask some of the servants to give us some, and then we'll sell 'em." if "some of the servants" had been found, this unprecedented plan would have met with due interference; but it so happened, that they were all scattered at their various avocations in different parts of the house, and none were in the kitchen save old mary jane, to whom daisy knew better than to appeal on behalf of any interests of jim's. she was busy grinding coffee; and the noise of the mill prevented her from hearing the footsteps of the invaders of her domain, who passed through the basement-hall, and out of the back-door, where, although they found no one to help them, daisy, to her great delight, discovered the key of the closet in the lock. to open the door, bid the captain take down an empty basket, which hung on a hook, and to fill this with peanuts from an open bag, was but the work of a few moments; the captain's huge hands scooping up the nuts in quantities, and soon accomplishing the task. then, arming themselves with a tin cup, which they also found near at hand, by way of a measure, the two conspirators once more stole past the unconscious mary jane, and out into the street, the captain bearing the basket. [illustration: "two rather unusual figures to be engaged in such an occupation."--_page_ .] "shall we sell 'em on our stoop?" asked daisy, all this time quite guiltless of any intention of wrong-doing. "i reckon ye'd best go down to the corner there, where the two streets comes together," answered the captain, pointing to where a much-frequented cross-street intersected our avenue. "them's my opinions, for i see lots more folks walkin' that way than this." unfortunately, daisy saw the force of his reasoning; and the two innocents had presently established themselves, quite to their own satisfaction, on this public corner. it was not long before they attracted sufficient attention, for they were two rather unusual looking figures to be engaged in such an occupation, to say nothing of the contrast between them; the weather-beaten, rugged, by no means handsome old sailor standing guard, as it were, over the daintily dressed little child with her beautiful, beaming face, and winning ways. custom flowed in without delay, the captain not hesitating to hail the passers-by, and to direct their attention to the tiny saleswoman before him; while she, with her sweet voice, pleading, "please buy some peanuts to help some poor children;" and her attractive air and appearance was irresistible. fortunately for the pecuniary interests of the firm, or, rather, of the capitalist whom they represented, daisy knew from the boys the price that the peanuts should be; and the captain, who, spite of his simplicity, had a keen eye to business, and who was accustomed to peddling about "the point" during the summer season, constituted himself cash-taker, and saw that she received her dues. but public curiosity was naturally excited by the unusual situation, and presently both daisy and captain yorke were besieged with questions, which the latter resented as implying a distrust of his ability to care for the child. truly, it might well be doubted. but this was no check upon custom, and the stock in the basket at daisy's feet speedily dwindled down. the bottom had nearly been reached, when a policeman sauntered by on the other side of the street; and, being attracted by the gathering on the corner,--for those who came to buy, in many cases remained to admire,--he crossed over to ascertain the cause. great was his astonishment, and small his approbation, when he discovered the state of things; for he knew our children by sight, and could not but be aware that such doings as these could not be with the approbation of daisy's family. "why, that is--isn't that mr. livingstone's little girl?" he asked of the captain. the captain nodded; he was too busily engaged in keeping an eye on the money daisy received, to do more. "well, if ever i saw a thing like this!" ejaculated the guardian of the peace. "to see a little lady like that--my dear, do your pa and ma know what you're a doing?" "no, not yet," answered daisy; who looked with cordial eye upon all policemen, as being, according to her code, the defenders of the right, and avengers of the wrong.--"no, not yet; i'll tell them by and by, and they'll be glad, 'cause they like me to do a kindness, and not speak about it." "_will_ they?" said the policeman, with a clearer insight into the fitness of things, than was possessed by daisy or the old sailor. "now, my little lady, you've got to go straight home; i know what your pa and ma will say. you come right along home, like a good child." "now, you let her alone," interposed captain yorke. "'tain't no case for the law, 'sposin' her folks don't like it; an' i'll wager they do." "you old lunatic," said the policeman, "what are you encouragin' of her for? who ever saw a little lady like that sellin' peanuts in the streets! i ain't goin' to allow it nohow; it's drawin' a crowd; and, as to the law, she nor you ain't any right to be sellin' 'em here without a license.--come along home, little miss." but here a new actor appeared upon the scene, and prevented any further opposition on the part of the captain. this was jim, who was returning from an errand; and, seeing captain yorke's tall figure standing by the lamp-post with an unmistakably belligerent expression in every line, he elbowed his way through the fast increasing crowd, and stood astonished and dismayed before daisy. "miss daisy, whatever do you mean by this? you sellin' peanuts here in the street!" "matty blair does," faltered daisy, beginning, by virtue of all these various protests, to see that perhaps she might have strayed from the way in which she should go. "matty blair!" ejaculated jim, again. "well, miss daisy, i guess matty blair's one, an' you're another. won't your pa an' ma, an' all of 'em, be mad, though!" "so i was sayin'," said the policeman, who was quite well acquainted with jim; "and now, youngster, the best thing you can do is to take the little lady home, and tell her folks to look out for her better than to put her under the care of this old know-nothing." this entirely met jim's views; and, snatching up the almost empty basket, he seized the hand of the now frightened daisy, and hurried her homeward, leaving the policeman and the captain exchanging compliments until such time as the latter saw fit to retire from the field, and hasten to our house to deliver up the results of poor daisy's sale. it may be imagined what consternation reigned in the livingstone household, when this escapade of its youngest member came to light; while the grief and bewilderment of that little damsel herself, who had, in all good faith, believed that she had mother's sanction for her course, were pitiable to witness. as for jim, not even the gratifying pecuniary results could nullify his mortification at the disgrace which he believed to have fallen upon the family, especially his beloved miss daisy; and he found it hard to forgive the captain, who had encouraged and abetted her. "philanthropy has certainly seized upon this family to an alarming extent," said bessie sandford, when she heard the story, "but i _wish_ that i had been there to see pet daisy at her post acting peanut-vender." how far daisy's effort to prove to matty that she "was not proud" affected that young cripple, could not be told; but she did not fail to hear of the thing from jim. as for captain yorke, he received his full share of reprimand, and caution for the future, from his wife, who, all unaccustomed as she, too, was to city ways, had far more natural sense of what was fitting and advisable. "if i could but go round with him to keep him up to the mark, mrs. livingstone," she said, when apologizing to mother for the captain's share in the late escapade; "but, bless you, dear lady, he's more of a child than little daisy herself, when he's out of his usual bearings. i think he's best off at home, with jabez and matildy jane to look after him, when i can't." and she sighed heavily, as if the responsibility were too much for her. but the captain could not be brought to this view of the case. he was enjoying himself in his own way among the city sights and sounds. chapter viii. not on the programme. uncle rutherford stood at the far end of the great schoolroom, awaiting the admission of his two candidates for its privileges and opportunities. it was the opening-day after the conclusion of the christmas holidays; and half a dozen boys, besides theodore yorke and jim, had presented themselves as new scholars, and they now stood before the principal,--theodore at one end of the line, and jim at the other. "what is your name?" asked the principal of theodore; to which the boy responded simply, "theodore yorke," and then answered in like manner the few more questions put to him relative to age and so forth; and the gentleman passed down the line till he came to jim. "what is your name?" to uncle rutherford's consternation, jim, straightening himself up, answered in a loud, confident tone, "jim,"--he had meant to say "james," but the more familiar appellation escaped him,--"jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington;" and then glanced down the line as if to say, "beat that if you can!" a titter ran around the room, speedily checked by the stern eye of the principal, and one or two of the new boys giggled outright; but jim, with head erect, and fearless eyes fixed upon the master, was unmoved, perhaps did not even guess that the merriment was caused by himself. the principal found it necessary to caress his whiskers a little, then said,-- "good names, my boy, every one of them. try to prove worthy to bear them. your age?" this and the other needful preliminaries being settled, the new boys were turned over to the examiners, to have their classes and position in the school defined; and uncle rutherford made his exit, only too thankful that the irrepressible jim had not added to his list of high-sounding appellations, "president that is to be of these united states." school discipline, of course, had, for the time, restrained the gibes and sneers, the open laugh, which would have greeted jim's announcement of his adopted name or names; but the time was only deferred. the joke was, to the schoolboy mind, too good to be lost; and when the recess came, and the boys were for a while at liberty, jim became the target for many sorry witticisms, and "jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington" was called from all sides of the playground in almost as many tones of mockery as there were boys; and jim speedily found that he had taken too much upon himself for his own comfort. the "grant garfield" had been an after-thought, and he had been prompted thereto by hearing another boy give his name--to which he was probably justly entitled--as "george william winfield scott jones." jim was not going to be outdone, or to be satisfied with four names, when here was a fellow with five; hence the "grant garfield" on the spur of the moment. milly had feared that even the "rutherford livingstone washington" would excite derisive comment; and when she heard uncle rutherford's report of jim's further adoption of great names, she groaned in spirit, and awaited with sundry apprehensions his return from school, fearing that his excitable temper might have been provoked into some manifestation, which would not only affect his creditable entrance into the school, but also his standing with uncle rutherford. but jim had a check upon himself whereof milly wot not; namely, that he knew of the prize to be secured in case he gained the approbation of uncle rutherford,--a prize which, as we know, he was more anxious to win for the sake of defeating theodore yorke than for the attainment of the scholarship itself. so, although he had to put a strong restraint upon himself, and was inwardly boiling with wrath and indignation, he bore the gibes and sneers with the utmost self-command, and apparently unfailing good-nature, till theodore yorke, who had made himself at home among his new surroundings as readily as jim had done, joined in the "chaffing" with a vim and bitterness which could have their source only in a feeling of personal spite and hatred. "jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington," he repeated; "and he hasn't a right to _one_ of the names, unless it's jim. he hasn't got any name; nobody knows what his name is, or who he is, or where he came from. he hasn't got any folks, either." this was wounding poor jim in the tenderest point, as the amiable theodore well knew; and it was more than his victim could well stand. "and i'd rather have no folks at all than have such as yours," he shouted, almost beside himself with rage at this exposure of that which he considered to be his disgrace. then suddenly recalled to a sense of his regard for this boy's grandparents, captain and mrs. yorke, and of all the kindness he had received from them,--for a hearty gratitude for favors received was one of the strongest features of jim's character,--he hastened to set matters in their true light; "at least, such a father as they tell yours was. if i had a gran'father or gran'mother like yours, there couldn't be none better; but if i had a father was such a scallywag as yours, i say a good sight better have none. and you ain't a bit like the old folks, neither; you're another such a one as your father. _i_ wouldn't own such a one!" this tirade was interspersed with other expressions more forcible than choice, and which are better omitted; and, as may be supposed, it did not tend to mend matters. recrimination followed recrimination; insults from one to another went from bad to worse, theodore being even more of an adept in such language than jim, who had always been considered a proficient; and one of the teachers came upon the playground just in time to see jim deal a furious blow at his opponent, who caught sight of the master before he had returned it, which he would otherwise doubtless have done; and who immediately assumed an air of innocent, injured virtue, too lofty-minded and forgiving to return the blow. as the rules against fighting within school bounds were particularly severe, jim's was a heinous offence. he was sternly called to order and reprimanded with severity; and although, in consideration of his being a new boy, he was let off with this, he began his school career somewhat under a cloud; while theodore posed as a martyr, and a boy with a regard for school discipline,--to his teachers,--but the other boys knew better, and with few exceptions espoused jim's cause, and at once pronounced theodore the "sneak" and "bully" that he was. but that was small comfort to jim, who, on coming home, had to report, as he truthfully did, that he had failed to keep his temper on this the very first day of his entrance into the school. milly consoled and encouraged him as best she might, bidding him to take heart and to struggle even harder for the future, and being very sparing of blame for his share in the quarrel. fate, as short-sighted and with as dull an eye to expediency as uncle rutherford, had decreed not only that the two boys, jim and theodore, should be in the same school, but, their attainments being of about the same range, that they should be put into the same class, an arrangement which did not tend to the maintenance of the peace so much to be desired. but, in spite of his unlucky beginning, jim speedily became a favorite in the school, both with masters and schoolmates. his frank, merry ways, obliging disposition, ready wit, and quickness at repartee, soon gained him a host of friends on the playground; while his evident desire to make progress in his studies,--wherein he had a stimulus unsuspected by any one but bill,--his sturdy truthfulness, and general obedience to rules and regulations, won him golden opinions from those in authority. ambition, whether for greater or lesser aims, was jim's ruling passion, and now he had so many spurs to urge him on; for, added to his own personal aspirations and the determination to prove himself a credit to his benefactors, was the overwhelming desire to outstrip theodore, and wrest from him the prize. milly noticed, whenever he reported progress to her, that there was a certain sort of repressed excitability about him, a wistful nervousness very foreign to his assured independence and self-confidence, and he several times seemed as if he were going to make some disclosure to her; all of which made his young mistress think that he had something on his mind which he was half inclined to impart to her, although he could not quite resolve to do so. she bided her time, however, being sure that it would come sooner or later, and only now and then tried to open the way by asking him if he had any thing further to tell her. but the only result of this would be a shame-faced embarrassment and a sheepish denial, followed by an evident desire to cut short the interview. when jim had been at school about a month, making, according to the reports of his teachers, who were closely questioned by uncle rutherford, fair progress with his studies, and showing a self-command and control over his temper which had not been expected from him after the fiery outburst of the first day, an incident occurred which would have afforded him an opportunity for mortifying theodore, had he not been restrained by a motive which was stronger than his antagonism to his rival. the vagaries and peculiarities of captain yorke, with his ignorance and indifference to city ways and manners, had more than once drawn public notice upon him; the episode of daisy as a peanut-vender, with the old sailor as her aider and abetter, being but a trifling circumstance compared to some others; and mrs. yorke was in constant terror lest he should in some way make himself more notorious than would prove agreeable. about this time, a celebrated actor was performing in the city in the farce of "dundreary married," wherein lord dundreary having, as the title indicates, taken to himself a wife, falls beneath the tyranny of a domineering mother-in-law, to whom he submits till submission becomes intolerable, when he turns upon her, asserts himself, and proclaims himself master in his own house. our boys, norman and douglas, having seen the farce in company with the rest of the family, and having been greatly amused by it, conceived the idea of treating the captain to a sight of the same; and, having obtained father's permission to do so, they invited the old man to an evening's entertainment. "wa'al," he drawled with his usual deliberation when considering any matter, "i don' care if i do. when i was a youngster, i was brung up to think play-actin' was a sin, an' i'd about as soon a thought of shakin' han's with the evil one hisself, as of goin' to the theayter; but either i've gotten wiser as i've gotten older, or else maybe the play-actin' folks has gotten better behaved; but times is changed somehow, an' i seen some play-actin' in the hotel down to the p'int, an' they was real ladies an' gentlemen did it, too. i was a peepin' in at the winders more'n once; an' the hotel-keepers, mr. loydd an' mr. field, if they didn't come, one one time, an' t'other another, an' bring me into the hall an' near to the doors where i could see fust-rate. an' i didn't see no harm onto it. the play-actors was very pretty behaved, an' i didn't see no breakin' of comman'ments. i never could see what folks wanted to purtend they was other folks for, and sometimes to go a-talkin' as if they was come out of by-gone days. but if you're for takin' me to the theayter, i reckon i won't come to no harm by it. enyhow, i know ye've got to come to city ways when ye're to the city; folks kinder look daggers at ye ef ye don't. there's the landlady to the house where me and mis' yorke puts up; she's the best, an allers doin' for mis' yorke, an' come an' sit with her an' talk--my talk by the hour she will, straight on, like as she'd been woun' up; an' she come yesterday, all kin' of fussy like, an' her face red, an' she says, says she, 'captain yorke,' says she, 'ef ye wouldn't mind me askin' a little favor of ye?'" "'sartinly not, ma'am,' says i; an' i was reckonin' she was wantin' to borrer money. but what do ye s'pose it was, norman? she goes and she says, says she, kinder hesitatin' like yet, 'would ye mind, capt'in, a-eatin' with yer fork, 'stead of yer knife? miss jarvis, what sits next ye at the table, she's kinder narvous, an' she says it sets her teeth on edge, an' she says she can't stan' it; an' she's my best payin' boarder, bein' she has the second-story front an' back; an' it would obleege me, ef ye don't min'.' "'jes' as lief eat off ten forks, ma'am,' says i, 'ef it suits ye an' mis' jarvis. i been a-noticin' she was kinder pernikity like an' fussy, an' kinder offish with me; but if it's the difference of knives or forks, the best payin' boarder ain't goin' to be hurt by me.' but, boys! i didn't know by a long shot what i was a-promisin'. i tell ye, the knife would keep goin' up the nateral way as it was used to; an' yesterday i didn't get no kind of a dinner, nor a breakfast this mornin', thinkin' of that pesky fork. so to-day i was boun' i'd get my dinner; so i cuts it up an' spoon-victuals it, for fear of hurtin' the feelin's of the best payin' boarder. city ways is uncommon troublesome, when ye ain't let eat the way is most handy. but i don't care if i go to the theayter with ye. i never see the inside of one of them places." "oh, a real theatre is nothing like the dining-rooms of the hotels, where you saw the amateur theatricals," said the posted norman; "and father wouldn't let us go if it were any harm. he said we could take you, captain." "no; an' i reckon the governor wouldn't be for goin' to no place he shouldn't go," said the captain reflectively. "an' he was along of you t'other night, wasn't he?" norman and douglas, anxious to overcome any scruples the old man might have, assured him that uncle rutherford went quite often to the "theayter," and thus quieted any remaining qualms of conscience which he might have; for captain yorke pinned his faith on uncle rutherford, and all that the governor did was right in his eyes. so the expedition to the theatre was arranged to the satisfaction of my brothers, who anticipated much amusement in watching the impression the play would make upon the unsophisticated old veteran. but a shock was in store for them which they had not foreseen; for the amount of observation which the captain saw fit to draw upon the party was almost too much for even their well-seasoned boyish nerves. for the sake of obtaining an uninterrupted view of the stage, the boys had secured seats which the event proved to be too conspicuous for their comfort. no sooner were they all seated than the captain began with his comments and criticisms, his "them's my opinions," in a manner and tone which they vainly strove to moderate. fortunately they were in the main complimentary and approving; and the old seaman's quaint appearance, his evidently childlike ignorance and inexperience, diverted those of the audience who were within hearing, and led them to be indulgent to his rather obtrusive reflections upon men and things. "wal," he said, gazing around and above him, up at the lofty frescoed ceiling, the sparkling crystal chandelier, the rich curtains, and other adornments of the house,--"wal, it does beat all! it goes ahead of any meetin'-house i ever see; an', i say, 'tain't fair on the almighty to be makin' a better place for to be pleasurin' in, than what we makes for him to be praised in. yes, sir; an' them's my opinions, an' i stands by 'em. what's them folks up in them little cubby-holes fur?" pointing to the boxes. "oh," as douglas explained, "they's high an' mighty, be they? can't set along of the multitude? wal, every man, an' woman too, to her own likin'; i'd as lief be here. seems kinder conspicuous like, settin' up thar, an' whiles i ain't ashamed to show my face afore no man, i don't hanker after settin' up to be stared at." happily the occupants of the boxes were beyond the reach of his voice, or at least of the tenor of his remarks; but the boys were on tenterhooks lest their garrulous companion should give offence. but from the moment that the curtain went up, and the mimic scene presented itself to his gaze, he sat spell-bound and silent, perfectly absorbed in the vivid portrayal of the chief character in the drama. the great actor appeared first in the rôle of a celebrated man of his own profession, an actor of bygone days, whose name will always be famous; and from the moment that he stepped upon the stage, it was all reality to captain yorke. there was no "pretendin' he was other folks," to him, as it had been when he had witnessed the amateur theatricals and tableaux at the point; and with a hand upon either knee, he leaned eagerly forward, his eyes fixed upon the scene before him, and absolutely speechless in his breathless interest. but when the curtain came down after the first act, he broke forth again to the edification and delight of those within hearing. ladies listened and smiled at the simple-hearted old man; and gentlemen, who were near enough, encouraged him to ramble on, evidently considering him a novel species of entertainment, second only to that which was passing upon the stage. he was a character as good as any there. norman, enchanted with the sensation his charge was making, would put no check upon him; but the more shrinking douglas was not so well pleased. still, seeing that no offence was given, but rather the contrary, he possessed his soul in patience, devoutly wishing, however, that it was time for the close of the performance, which, under these circumstances, afforded him no pleasure. and as the captain's excitement grew with each succeeding act, and the encouragement of those about him, and he grew more and more superior to considerations of time and place, douglas would fain have quitted his seat and the theatre; and was only restrained from doing so, because he thought it would be mean to leave norman in the lurch. at length came the farce "dundreary married;" and the captain, who, it afterwards appeared, had in former years suffered divers things at the hand of an obnoxious mother-in-law, grew more excited than ever, and became furiously indignant, not only at the all-assuming lady, but also at the supine dundreary, who allowed himself to be thus imposed upon. he grumbled and muttered, and really seemed as if he would make for the stage, as he said, "to give the old creetur a piece of his mind." even norman was now uneasy lest he should make more demonstration than was meet, while douglas did his best to induce both his companions to come out; but the captain was immovable, and not to be persuaded. indeed, he scarcely seemed to heed douglas's arguments, so intent was he on the fortunes of the persecuted husband. his delight when that hero showed symptoms of some spirit was unbounded; and when at last he roused himself altogether from the _laisser aller_ which had suffered so long and patiently, and fairly bade the lady leave his house and his wife to his own authority and protection, the old man sprang to his feet, and, waving his hat in the air, exclaimed in a voice which rang in stentorian tones through the house,-- "pitch into her, my lad! give it to her! that's right. pitch into the mother-in-law!" the effect, as may be imagined, was electric. there was a moment's pause, then a laugh; then, as norman and douglas fairly dragged and hustled the captain into his seat, the inimitable actor bowed and waved his hand to the old man, who had, as it were, paid such an involuntary tribute to his powers; and the next moment a storm of applause broke forth, in compliment to both, it would appear,--to the gratified actor, who had thrown his spell over the guileless old sailor to such an extent as to render him insensible to aught else, and to the innocent spectator who had been thus impressed by his matchless impersonations. as the performance came to a close, and the audience were leaving the house, the captain the centre of all eyes around him, an usher made his way to him, bearing a request from the star that he would step behind the scenes and shake hands with him. nothing loath, the captain readily consented, inviting the boys to go with him; but this douglas, much disturbed by the notoriety of the evening, flatly refused, while bold norman, who had no fear of man before his eyes, agreed to accompany him. indeed, it was not safe to lose sight of him; there was no knowing of what vagaries the captain might be guilty if he were left entirely to his own devices. norman felt that he was capable of any thing, and that he must keep a secure hold upon him. moreover, the old man was not at all familiar with the city streets, and he must be guided safely to his boarding-house. when they arrived behind the scenes, the great actor shook hands heartily with the old seaman, thanking him for the tribute which he had paid him. but here the captain's enthusiasm fell flat. meeting the object of his sympathy face to face, and as man to man, and finding that the interesting scenes he had just witnessed were but an inimitable mimicry, was a great disappointment; and he seemed to feel wronged and defrauded in some way. "there warn't nothin' real about it," he said indignantly and in a hurt tone to the boys, as they took their way homeward. "there warn't nothin' true at all. there bean't no mother-in-law, nor wife, nor nothin'; there warn't even any chap with the long whiskers, for it warn't hisself at all, though he said it was--that t'other one shook han's with me, and said i'd give him a big compliment. 'twas all purtendin' an' makin' b'lieve. it's a shame an' a sin for to go makin' out so life-like ye are what ye ain't, an' takin' folks in so. it's kinder cheatin' play, _i_ think; an' mis' yorke, she wurn't jes' so easy in her min' 'bout me goin' to the theayter, an' i reckon i've come to her way of thinkin'; an' thank ye kindly, boys, but there'll be no more theayter-goin' fur me. the scriptur says, 'a fool an' his money is soon parted,' an'--meanin' no ungratefulness to you, boys--i've faith to b'lieve it; for it's not good manners, neither good deeds, to make out that way, an' take folks in. an' them's my opinions, an' i'll stan' by 'em!" the last thing the boys heard, as the door of his temporary home closed upon him, was, "no more theayters for me; they're clean agin' scriptur." this, of course, was great fun for our frolicsome norman, always ready for a joke or a good story; and although douglas had not taken unalloyed pleasure in the events of the evening, he, too, could see the droll side of them now that they were over. they were rehearsed with great glee at the breakfast-table the next morning; and it occurred to me that here, if he chose to use it, was the opportunity for jim to revenge himself for some of the sneers cast upon him by theodore yorke. i was wicked enough, however, not to suggest the idea to any one else, lest a word of warning or counsel should restrain him; and in the sequel jim proved himself far the better christian of the two, in spite of the superior advantages which had always been mine. this happened to be friday, when he brought home from school his weekly report, which he always took at once to milly. the record for this week proved an unusually favorable one; but he had more to add to this. "miss milly," he said, after she had expressed her pleasure at the progress he was making and at his standing in "conduct,"--"miss milly, i was real forgivin' an' like livin' up to the mark you sot us for doin' unto others, in school to-day. but it does come awful hard, when you get the chance to pay off a feller, to let it slip; an' i don't know as i could have done it if it hadn't been for thinkin' of the old captain himself, an' how good he'd been to me, an' that i wouldn't like to go back on _him_." light flashed upon milly. the boy had been tempted to make use of the occurrences of the preceding evening to revenge himself upon theodore yorke for his previous slights and insults; and had refrained, chiefly from loyalty to his old friend, it is true, but, perhaps, partly prompted by the wish to do right. it had so happened, that two boys in the class had been at the theatre also, and had been witnesses of the captain's antics, but without knowing who he was, or of his connection with theodore. in recess they told the story, doubtless with more or less of exaggeration, of the old countryman who had made himself so conspicuous and--according to their showing--so ridiculous at last night's entertainment. of course jim at once recognized the hero of the tale; but not so theodore, his grandfather having, for a wonder, preserved a discreet silence on the subject, being totally unaware that he had exhibited himself in an unusual way on the occasion. perhaps the poor captain had felt a little mortified that he had been so carried away by that which was, after all, "on'y pretendin'," and did not care to rehearse his experience. however that may be, theodore had heard nothing of it, and laughed and jeered with the other boys at the more than graphic relation of his two schoolmates. strong was the temptation to jim to expose him, and to draw upon his enemy the laugh which must follow; but, to his credit be it said, he refrained, except in so far as to give him a knowing look which conveyed to that amiable youth the conviction that it was no other than his grandfather who was furnishing food for merriment to half the school, and that jim was aware of it and held this rod over him. the knowledge that this was so was not calculated to soften theodore's animosity toward jim. disposed as he was to raise a laugh or a sneer at the expense of another, he could not endure them himself; and to feel that he was thus in the power of the boy whom he hated, was intolerable to him. from this time, however, it gave him a wholesome awe of jim, and proved a check upon him; and "jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington" rang less often over the playground, now that he ceased to lead in the cry upon the claimant of so many names. chapter ix. matty. "amy, what are you pondering?" "men and things in general and their iniquities in particular; my own not being included, they being nothing worth speaking of," i answered, rather evasively, not being disposed at present to make public the nature of my cogitations, which really had to do with my own shortcomings. "we will pass over the modesty of the remark," said bessie sanford, "but we insist upon knowing--do we not, milly?--the tenor of the meditations which have actually kept you quiet for--let me see--i think it must be full two minutes by the clock." "that inquisitive spirit of yours needs repression, elizabeth," i said: "therefore i shall not yield to your demands." "then bid farewell to peace," was the rejoinder. and knowing elizabeth sanford well, i meditated a precipitate flight; but she divined my intention, and, seizing upon me, held me prisoner, and made good her threat until i succumbed, first freeing my mind of my opinion as to the conduct of my captor. "never mind. we will leave the results of that case to the future," she said; "the present question has only to do with yourself, and the unburdening of your secrets. your inward communings are of such rare occurrence, that when you do indulge in them, your friends are entitled to benefit by them.--is it not so, milly?" "reap what benefit you may, then," i answered. "i was thinking how i was going to waste." "h'm'm," said bessie, releasing her grasp upon my shoulders, and gazing with an air of deep meditation out of the window near which we sat. "fred winston would doubtless feel complimented by that sage conclusion; but if you feel so decidedly that you are throwing yourself away, it is not yet too late for you to draw back, and----" "your remarks are too frivolous to bear the consideration of a well-balanced mind, elizabeth," i interrupted, "and therefore i decline to notice them further than to say that you are entirely wide of the mark. perhaps i did not express myself in language as choice as i might have used; but what i meant to say was--to quote the copy-books--that 'opportunities imply obligations,' and that, while my opportunities are many, the obligations arising therefrom have _not_ been fulfilled." i had spoken jokingly, almost mockingly, nevertheless i really meant what i said; but any thing like a sober reflection or solemn view of life's duties was so new from me, that for a moment my sister and friend were struck dumb with astonishment. then bessie gave vent to a smothered groan. "listen to the words of wisdom!" she ejaculated. "the depth of her! and whence and since when, may i inquire, arises thus suddenly so solemn a view of your responsibilities? they are not wont to weigh upon your mind." "that is just it," i said. "i am in earnest, not in joke, whatever you may think. it has, rather suddenly i allow, dawned upon me, that i am a perfectly useless member of society; or rather, the conviction has been forced upon me by the words of allie, whom i overheard informing daisy that i was very nice and lovely, but the _uselessest_ person in the house. loyal daisy was indignant, and questioned the justice of the remark; but it opened up a field of reflection to me, and i am obliged to admit its truth. since i left school last spring, what have i done but amuse myself, and attend readings and lectures, which amounts to the same thing, as the motive is purely selfish?" "you have made 'food for the gods,'" said bessie demurely. i turned upon her. "for that remark you shall have cause to regret that you ever were born," i retorted, "and i would not have believed it of you, bessie. but seriously, girls, i am longing for an object in life on which i can expend some of the capabilities of which i feel myself possessed." "i thought you had been supplied with one since the th of last november," said bessie, "but----" "will you leave that subject out of the question?" i again interrupted. "if not, there will be trouble between the houses of sanford and livingstone." "why can't you two be what daisy calls 'common-sensible,' and tell what is at the bottom of all this?" said milly, joining for the first time in the conversation. "i am sure that i am showing an unusual amount of common-sense," i rejoined, "for i have in all seriousness just awakened to a sense of my shortcomings towards humanity in general, and am longing for an object on which to expend my superfluous energies. you, milly, have your charges, bill and jim, whom you have rescued from lives of shame and crime, and who are standing monuments of the efficacy of your zeal, self-sacrifice, and good sense in their behalf (no, you need not courtesy); and bessie has her old ladies to whom she so religiously devotes one afternoon in every week, no matter what temptations assail her in other directions, and who simply adore her, and for whom she does many a little kind office at divers other times. but who, outside of our family, to whose happiness i add, of course, because i am their own amy; and--and fred; yes, and you, dear bessie," as a soft little reminding hand was laid upon my arm,--"who except these is any the better or happier for my existence?" "lots of friends and relations, you foolish child," said bessie, while milly dropped a re-assuring kiss upon my forehead. "what nonsense, amy! i do not know any one who is a more general favorite." "well, allowing that it is so," i said, "is it not only because i am merry and full of life, and make things a little cheerful around me? point to one thing useful or of real lasting benefit that i have ever done, and i will thank you. i have loved aunt emily's hospital cottage by the sea, for her sake and for dear little amy's, and have worked a little for that; but it has been a real pleasure and enjoyment to me, and has never involved one moment's self-sacrifice." modesty will not allow me to put down here all that milly and bessie in their partial affection said to persuade me that i was not altogether a useless member of society at large. delightful as it was to hear, it did not succeed in quieting my newly awakened conscience or sense of responsibility; and perhaps milly on her part did not intend that it should do so. "she evidently must be furnished with an _object_," said bessie; "nothing else will satisfy her; and as she seems to have something of the feeling of the monks and nuns of old, that the more disagreeable the duty the greater the credit, let us satisfy her by finding her a most unpleasant one. oh, charming! i have thought of just the thing.--why not adopt as your particular charge, amy, that most unattractive young cripple, matty blair? she will probably satisfy all your longings for self-sacrifice, in a way which can leave nothing to be desired." "the very thing," i answered, delighted to have found so soon an "object" on which to expend the benevolent yearnings with which i had been seized,--not so suddenly as milly and bessie believed; for, for some time past, i had had a secret and rather unwelcome consciousness that i was not doing my share toward mitigating the general load of human misery and ignorance,--a consciousness which allie's words had only quickened into more active life. "but, girls, i assure you that i am not at all moved by the ascetic notion of taking up the most disagreeable work i can find, as a penance for former shortcomings. i wish from my heart that matty blair was pretty and straight and sweet, a typical little story-book pauper, whom it would be a pleasure to befriend, and who would respond amicably to my advances. matty, from what i know of her, will be far from being all that; nevertheless i shall take her up, and see what can be done for her." "consult mother first, dear," said milly. "she may see objections: they say that matty's parents are dreadful people, and they may choose to make trouble for you. there are cases, you know, where people expect you to _pay_ for being allowed to confer benefits upon them." "i wish that we could remove the child, or both the children, entirely from the father and mother," i said. "they will never allow that while the poor little things continue to be profitable to them," said milly. "you have taken up something of a task, truly," said bessie. "first you will have those wretched parents to win over, and then that unattractive little creature. and, amy, although i would not wish to throw cold water upon your enthusiasm, i feel sure that your father and mother will never let you go to such a place as the home of the child must be. milly's mission came to her, as it were, heaven-sent, it seems to me," she added in a reverent tone; "but you must seek this out to do matty any good, and face those dreadful relations of hers. your father and mother will never listen to it, and they will be right. do not try to run a tilt against windmills, dear." "no, neither will i make mountains out of mole-hills," i answered lightly, although i did feel the force, yes, and the truth too, of bessie's reasoning, and had my own doubts; "and certainly i shall not have more unpromising material to deal with than milly had when she undertook to bring up her charges in the way they should go. moreover, i shall not attempt to beard the lions in their den; but i suppose i have to win my way into matty's affections or confidence, or whatever it may be that proves assailable, and if i find any way to help her, i shall ask cousin serena to go into partnership with me. she will be protection enough anywhere, for no one could think of troubling or annoying her in any way." "well, i'm not so sure of that, either," said bessie; "but i'm not going to discourage you further, and time will show. but how do you mean to set to work, amy?" "i do not know yet; how can i?" i answered. "i have only just thought of this, and of course i have not had time to make any plans or to think of what i shall do. i shall firstly go this very afternoon to cousin serena; and if she thinks me, as she doubtless will, a prodigy of benevolence, self-sacrifice, and generosity, and agrees to all i ask of her, i shall attack father and mother to-night. i mean to act while the frenzy is on me, lest my ardor cool, and i see the many lions in the way which you bad girls are trying to conjure up." knowing myself in this respect pretty well, i was really afraid that if i gave myself too much time for consideration of my new scheme, i might become appalled by the difficulty and disagreeableness which were prophesied; and i was determined to place myself in a position where--unless a higher authority interfered--i could not in pride or conscience draw back. milly had taken almost no part in the little discussion between bessie and me, generally speaking only when she was appealed to; and i knew by this that she did not altogether approve. but i was a little self-willed, a state of mind not altogether of rare occurrence with me, i am afraid; and i chose to ignore the disapprobation which was implied by this silence, and asked her no questions. and now for cousin serena, to whom i bent my steps at once, accompanied by bessie, who volunteered to go with me; though, to tell the truth, i could have dispensed with her society for this occasion, being afraid of the discouraging objections and criticisms she might raise. but she ventured none; on the contrary, she seemed rather inclined to aid and abet me when i broached the subject to cousin serena, in whom i was not disappointed. she proved herself--the blessed soul--the most willing co-adjutor, even more so than i desired; for, running to a closet where she kept a bountiful provision of such articles, she began to bring forth flannel, calico, and stout muslin suitable to make clothes for poor people; whereupon my spirit shrank appalled, for, if there was one occupation which i hated more than another, it was plain sewing, especially upon coarse material. "o cousin serena!" i said, "i am not going to sew and make clothes for matty. it is so much easier and more convenient to buy them ready-made." this speech, i was sorry to see, damped cousin serena's ardor; for this working by proxy, as it were, did not at all coincide with her old-fashioned notions; and "ready-made garments" were to her a delusion and a snare, giving opportunity to satan to find mischief for idle hands to do. i hated to disappoint her when she was so enthusiastically preparing to cut put work for both bessie and me; but i hated still more to sew, and held my ground, being borne out by bessie, who was not any more partial to such work than i was. cousin serena shook her head, and sighed over the degeneracy of the age which could content itself with other than such exquisite "hand-sewing" as she did herself. having gained my point, and made her promise all that i wished, i insisted that she should go home with us to dinner, taking the little bower of dutch johnny, the florist, by the way for a glimpse of matty. cousin serena had never seen her; but i was not afraid to have her do so, unpromising object for one's charitable sympathies though she certainly was, for, the more helpless and repulsive-looking, the more would cousin serena's tender heart warm toward her. our errand to johnny's was nominally to purchase flowers, and, of course, we did invest therein, and came out bearing some of his choicest blossoms; but cousin serena made use of the opportunity to take a close observation of matty as she sat at her little peanut-stand in the corner, sullen and lowering, the picture of discontent and misery, as usual. but cousin serena did more than this; for, with the tact which she always showed in dealing with people of this class, she succeeded in arousing a slight feeling of interest in the sullen, disagreeable little cripple. the one gift which had been granted to matty was a profusion of beautiful hair, which, however, was never seen to perfection, as it was always braided tightly and wound in a close coil about her head, giving to the wizened, shrunken face an even older look than was natural to it. if she had any pride in any thing, it must have been in this hair,--indeed, she had little else to be proud of,--for it was always fairly tidy. johnny, it seemed, always exacted a certain amount of cleanliness and decency as the price of her admission into his shop; not, perhaps, that he had any inherent love for this virtue, as such, or that his own comfort and happiness depended upon them, but because he feared that his trade might be injured if his customers found there such a dirty, ragged little object as matty had formerly been. clean hands and faces, well-brushed hair, and as much patching of ragged clothes as the neglected, worse than motherless creatures could compass, were required from matty and tony. his good-natured wife sometimes befriended them in this way, and put in a few stitches for them; the result being profitable in more ways than one. it was she, and not the miserable, intemperate mother, who plaited matty's glossy locks in the heavy braid which she then wound round her head. cousin serena went up to the peanut-stand, invested in matty's wares, the child serving her in the dull, mechanical way usual with her, and smiled kindly down at her, eliciting, however, no response. "what pretty hair you have, matty!" was miss craven's next advance; and, as she spoke, she lightly touched with her gloved finger the shining coil which many a society belle might have envied. a gleam lighted up the dull, heavy eyes, and matty raised them to the dear old lady's face. "it is almost a pity to wear it so closely bound up," continued cousin serena; while bessie and i, apparently making an inspection of johnny's stock while he was engaged with another customer, lent attentive ears to what passed, i feeling rather that my intended mission work had been taken up by other hands; "it would show so nicely if you wore it loose and flowing as most little girls do now. i would like to see it when it is down." with a motion marvellously quick in one so crippled, the child raised her hands, unbound the coil from about her head, and drawing her fingers through the plait, let the rippling, waving masses fall flowing over her poor, twisted, mis-shapen shoulders. "amy and bessie," said cousin serena, pursuing her advantage of playing upon the only vanity in poor matty's nature, "amy and bessie, come here and see what beautiful hair this child has. it is a good deal like yours, amy, both in color and quantity." with another sudden motion, matty drew the shining waves in front of her, glanced at them lovingly, and then raising her eyes to me with the first appearance of any thing like interest in them which i had ever seen, scanned my locks, and said with something of malicious triumph in her tone and look,-- "it's prettier nor her'n." "so it is, matty," i said, ignoring what daisy would have called the "discompliment" to myself, and determined to strike while the iron was hot, or at least approaching an unusual degree of warmth,--"so it is; you have the very prettiest hair i ever saw." matty did not smile,--i never but once saw the light of a smile on her face,--but she gave a low chuckle. evidently we had touched a chord that would respond; an ignoble one it might be, but it was something to have gained even this. having dismissed his customer, johnny now came to the front. "'tis goot," he said, pointing to the beautiful locks; "'tis goot. mine wife she say 'tis pest cut off dat head; bud maddy she so moosh lofe dat head, an' 'tis so goot, i say, leaf her keep her head. so mine wife, she say, 'yes, 'tis too pad to cut dat nice head,' an' she leafs it on her, an' mine wife she comb an' prush it for maddy. but i tells maddy she shall sell dat head for so moosh as fife tollars if she schuse." "don't ye be after tellin' me mother that," said matty, with a sudden look of angry alarm, which was really pathetic, as one gathered from it that the child felt she would no longer be allowed to keep her one cherished possession, if any idea of its pecuniary value were suggested to her mother. "nein, nein," answered johnny, shaking his head and speaking with emphasis, as if to say that this was a secret he would carefully guard from the unnatural parent. "nein, nein," he repeated. "if i tells dat mutter any tings, 'tis as dat head is so pad as is not vort notings." "but you would not say what is not true, even to save matty's hair, would you?" said miss craven, unable to allow this more than doubtful morality to pass. again johnny wagged his head, this time as one quite convinced that he was in the right, and answered: "if i tells shust one nice, leetle pit of a lie" (johnny did not mince matters, even to his own conscience), "'tis for to keep away a great pig wrong; for if i tells dat mutter de shild's head is vort so moosh, she put dat head in de scissors de negst minit." the kindly old dutchman was plainly convinced that the end justified the means, and cousin serena felt that any further discussion of the question was useless, and that it would not tend to improve matty's moral views or those of her brother tony, who had just come in, as both were sure to side with their friend and benefactor. "we will hope that no one will ever touch matty's pretty hair," she said; and i, seized with a sudden inspiration, and still appealing to matty's vanity, said,-- "i would like to see matty's hair flowing over a dark-blue dress. how it would set it off! would you like a blue dress, matty? your hair will look so pretty over it if you wear it down." matty looked rather askance at me. she evidently regarded me as a rival in the matter of hair, and was not inclined to accept any advances on my part; but friendly, jolly little tony answered for her; while she hesitated, evidently meditating some ungracious answer. "oh, wouldn't she though, miss! i guess she would like it, an' her hair would look awful pooty on it, an' when we goes to the sunday-school festival,--when it's easter, ye know,--matty'll wear the blue dress, an' her hair down on it, an' she'll look as good as any of the girls there, an' better, 'cause there isn't one of 'em has hair like matty's.--an' i'll tell ye, matty, if the lady,--she's one of jim's young ladies,--if she gives ye the blue dress, we'll keep it to mrs. petersen's if she'll let us, so ma can't get it for the drink.--are ye goin' to give it to her, miss?" "indeed i am," i answered to the eager question. "come now, matty, stand up, and we'll measure you for the dress. perhaps i can find one ready-made, and you shall have it to-morrow.--johnny, can you lend me a yard-measure?" johnny produced one; and matty, still half doubtful whether or no to be gracious, and eying me with a gaze which had some lingering viciousness in it, rose half reluctantly to her feet. standing so, her deformity was even more visible than it was when she was seated; and it took all my nerve and power of will to take the measure of the mis-shapen shoulders without shrinking from the touch. and then i saw the improbability, i might say the impossibility, of finding in any ready-made-clothing store, a dress which would fit the twisted form. one must be made on purpose; one which would set at defiance all rules of symmetry; and how to have it completed to-morrow, even late in the day to-morrow? where should i go to have such an order filled by the time i desired it? and i believed from what i had seen of matty that the non-fulfilment or postponement of my hasty, ill-considered promise would be enough to excite all her enmity again. however, i said nothing until we were out of the little shop, when i exclaimed at my own want of fore-thought, and asked where i could go to have my order fulfilled without delay. "you can't do it," said bessie. "even at the stores where they profess to furnish costumes at twenty-four hours' notice, they would not agree to give you, in so short a time, a dress for which they can use no ordinary pattern. amy,"--with what seemed to be a most irrelevant change of subject,--"is any one coming to your house to dinner to-night?" "cousin serena, and yourself if you will," i answered. "yes, i intended to suggest that you should invite me," answered bessie, "and, had you proved obdurate, should have appealed to milly or your mother. well, there will be four of us: yourself, cousin serena, milly, and myself; and we will press the mother and mrs. rutherford into the service. let us go to arnold's, buy some suitable material,--and we all know what cousin serena is with scissors and thimble,--coax her to cut out a dress for matty, and we will all devote the evening, perhaps the whole night, to it. by our united exertions, i think that we can surely accomplish it in time for you to take it to her to-morrow, and your credit will be saved." "if we were not in the street, i should fall upon you with kisses and tears of gratitude," i answered ecstatically; "as it is, consider yourself embraced.--cousin serena, will you help us?" there was no question of that: cousin serena was only too glad to give us her services; and although, as i have said, she needed to be guided and tyrannized over in the matter of style and fashion where her own dress was concerned, she was an expert in fashioning garments for the poor. bessie's idea was acted upon forthwith. we took our way down to arnold's, purchased the necessary material, and, lest it should not be sent home in time, bid pride hide its head, and carried the parcels ourselves. jim beamed upon us when he gathered, from the conversation around the dinner-table, to what the evening was to be devoted, and became quite an overpowering nuisance with his pressing attentions to the young ladies. the dress was so nearly completed that night that milly and i had but little difficulty in finishing it for the next afternoon. father and mother gave consent to my pursuing my benevolent intentions with regard to matty, so far as i could do it without venturing into the abode of her wretched parents, but positively forbade my going there even under the guidance and protection of cousin serena. indeed, the fear of them which tony and matty showed augured little good or encouragement for those who would benefit these children, unless some profit therefrom, was to accrue to the elder blairs themselves. the dress was ready in good time, and supplemented by the addition of a warm sack of the same color from mother and a little cloth cap from aunt emily. a hood had been in the thoughts of the latter, as warmer and more suitable; but i had begged for the cap as affording better opportunity for the display of matty's hair. "poor little object!" i pleaded: "why not allow her the gratification of this small vanity?" and aunt emily yielded, as she was sure to do when any one's small whims and fancies were to be satisfied. maria made the garments into a neat parcel for me; and i, thinking to give jim a pleasure, summoned him on his return from school to be the bearer thereof, and to accompany me to johnny's. that jim was pleased, was an assured fact; and his tongue wagged incessantly though respectfully all the way until we arrived at our destination. then while i opened the parcel, and presented matty with the dress and other articles, he stood by in delighted contemplation, looking from me to matty as if he would say to her, "this is my young mistress;" to me, "this is my _protégée_." as for matty, she appeared, so far as she showed any feeling at all, to consider that the gifts were altogether due to him; and she vouchsafed no word of thanks to me. not that i cared for expressions of gratitude; but i felt a little hopeless as i saw how entirely i had failed to make any impression on her. tony, however, who was present again, was profuse in his thanks, and really seemed to feel all that he said. the shining hair fell like a shielding veil over matty's deformity again to-day; and after this it became her practice to wear it so when she was away from home. there she wore it tightly bound up, and kept it as much out of sight as possible; fearing, poor little creature, that she might be bereft of it, should any idea of its pecuniary value enter her mother's mind. chapter x. a cold bath. "well, jim," i said, as i returned home in the fast-gathering twilight, with my escort trotting beside me, "how are you getting on now at school? i have not heard lately." "i'm havin' an awful hard time just now, miss amy," he answered, coming nearer,--"an awful hard time." "how is that?" i asked. "are they pressing you too much? have they given you too many lessons, or are those you had before becoming harder?" "neither, miss," he answered. "'tain't the lessons; i don't mind them. lessons ain't nothin'--i mean lessons ain't anything"--jim was growing more choice in language, and taking infinite pains with his parts of speech--"when a feller has such good help as miss milly or mr. edward. if they're too hard for me, one of 'em always helps me an' makes 'em plain, an' i keep along good enough in the classes. but it's the keepin' cool, an' not flyin' out when i get provoked, 'specially with that theodore yorke. miss amy, you never saw the like of him. he's just the meanest chap ever breathed; and the way he finds out things you don't want him to know, an' keeps bringin' 'em up an' naggin' about 'em, is the worst." "all the more credit to you, then, jim, if you keep your temper under such provocation," i answered soothingly, "and you show yourself by far the better man of the two. you know the bible says, 'greater is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.'" "well, miss amy," he said, "i guess it ain't no such rememberin' nor bible texes that keeps me cool. it's lots of other things. first, i do want awful bad to do credit to miss milly; then i don't want to fight theodore, nor have a real sharp fallin' out, on account of the captain an' mrs. yorke; then i'm thinkin', if i don't learn to hold my temper now, how will it be if i come to be president of these states? i s'pose there's lots of things that'll be provokin', an' hard to stand, when you're president; and if congress don't want to mind you right spang off when you tell 'em to do a thing, an' goes to foolin' round about it, i s'pose it don't do to be flyin' out, 'cause then folks would think you wasn't fit to be president. besides, when one's mad he can't think about the best way to do things, an' i might make foolish laws they wouldn't like. but most of all it will be a great deal better way to get even with theodore if i come out first with mr.----" here he suddenly checked himself, and even in the dim twilight i could see the color mounting to the roots of his carroty hair. he had evidently been on the verge of some disclosure which he would have regretted, and no questions succeeded in drawing forth any thing further from him. he had been sufficiently candid, however, in admitting that he was not influenced, in the struggle with himself, by any abstract notions of right and wrong, or by any special desire to please a higher power. but that he had some motive still undeclared, and of greater weight with him than any of those he had mentioned, i was convinced; and why should he wish to keep it back? however, my cogitations on the subject, and jim's confidences, were now cut short by the appearance at the corner, of another escort, who took charge of me at once with a very decided remonstrance against my remaining out till this hour "with only the protection of that boy." this was a slight which would have wounded jim to the quick had he heard it, which he fortunately did not, as it was spoken in an undertone; and he was evidently pleased to be freed from an attendance which had become embarrassing to him by his own indiscretion. "what do you suppose he could have meant?" i asked of milly that night, after i had rehearsed to her, in the privacy of our own room, my conversation with jim. "i am sure i do not know," said my sister. "if it were possible, i should think he meant uncle rutherford's prize; but as he does not and can not know of that, of course it cannot be. and while we must all wish that he were acting from a higher motive than any of these, still it is a great point gained, that he is so learning to control himself; the habit will be formed, and he will learn to be his own master. but i fear that theodore yorke is not a truthful or upright boy. even our own boys, who see so little of him, call him a sneak; and although he has a bold, self-assertive manner, it has none of jim's frankness. oh, uncle rutherford, i wish that you could have seen things differently!" but as uncle rutherford had not only seen things in his own light, but had acted thereon, there was nothing for us to do beyond giving jim what help we could. there was little, however, a lady could do to help a boy in a public school in his struggle with adverse circumstances, save by advice and encouragement; and milly did not fail him in these. taking a hint from what i had seen of jim's influence over matty, i now based my plans for her benefit and regeneration upon that, in addition to the play upon her vanity by means of that wonderful and much-prized hair. jim, too, i knew would paint me and all my doings in glowing colors, making much of any little kindness i might do for her. the blue dress and other decent clothes were kept at kind mrs. petersen's "for fear of the drink," and matty donned them there when she found occasion to wear them; and this led me to carry out the idea of rescuing the children, matty and tony, entirely from the intemperate wretches who dishonored the names of father and mother, and placing them under the care of mrs. petersen. so long as the two little cripples brought home such portion of their weekly earnings as jim had agreed should be allowed to blair and his wife, the latter cared little where or how the neglected children spent their time, especially as they were now provided with their dinner as a part of the price of their services at the peanut-stand. the disapprobation in milly's manner, which i had noticed and wondered at, when my new enterprise was under consideration, had altogether vanished after that first afternoon; and she had not only helped with all her might in the making of the blue dress, but she had ever since been interested and full of thoughtful suggestion. "milly," i said to her one day soon after, "why did you seem so unwilling to have me undertake to care for that little cripple? you surely had formed a precedent for such things in our family. i never could understand your objections; for, that you had objections, i could not help seeing." milly laughed. "i find that such objections as i entertained were not well founded," she answered. "perhaps so, but that does not tell me what they were," i insisted. "well," she said, "i was a little afraid that jim might feel that you were trespassing on his preserves; and your field for charity is so large, and his so small, that i did not wish him to imagine that he was interfered with." "well, that is disposed of, for he is delighted with my co-operation," i said. "now, what else was it?" milly was reluctant to say; but i persisted, and at last she answered,-- "i feared that it was only--that you would soon tire of it, amy, and that the experiment would then prove good neither for you nor for matty; but in that too i hope i was wrong." after events left no room to prove whether or no i should have been long steadfast to my purpose of caring for poor matty; that was taken out of my hands. jim's report from school had been one of unbroken credit for weeks now,--in conduct, that is; and to those who knew the boy's fiery, impulsive, and, until he fell under milly's care, untrained, nature, the record was a remarkable one. in his classes, he was doing fairly well, and making progress of which he had no need to be ashamed, but his lessons were by no means always perfect; and, happily, it was not so much to them that we looked, as the chief means for his gaining uncle rutherford's prize, for theodore's standing in this respect was generally a better one than his own. i had noticed, and milly at length came to do so, that if the record was an unusually good one, and he received an extra amount of praise, he still always appeared sheepish and ill at ease, and as though he had something on his mind which he was half-inclined to make known. but he never came to the point of doing so, and milly had ceased to ask him. we were kept pretty well informed, too, of the progress and standing of theodore yorke; partly by uncle rutherford's interest in the matter and the inquiries he made of the teachers every week, and also by the captain's pride in his grandson, whom he considered a prodigy of learning. the boy was certainly bright and clever, as was jim; and the two kept fairly even in their record, both for lessons and conduct. but while jim continued to grow in popularity with both teachers and scholars, it was not so with theodore, and there was a strong prejudice against him, especially among the boys. there seemed to be no particular cause of offence or instance of wrong-doing to be brought against him, but there it was; and neither masters nor schoolmates seemed to place any confidence in him. as far as trade went, jim was certainly making a good thing out of the school; for, owing to his persuasions, to say nothing of that leaning toward peanuts which is a marked feature of every boyish mind, the calls at matty's stand on the way to and from the school were very frequent; and while pennies and nickels flowed in upon the small vender, peanut-shells were scattered all over the building and playground, until at last they called forth a remonstrance from the janitor. finding this of no avail, he threatened an appeal to the higher authorities; but, as he was a good-natured old soul, he hesitated to draw reproof upon the boys, when about this time an incident occurred which made complaint unnecessary, as peanuts became prohibited altogether within school bounds. "jim," said a boy, coming to him one morning before the school-bell rang, "do you see the lot of peanuts theodore yorke has?" "i don't pay much heed to theodore yorke or his havin's," answered jim scornfully. "it's no odds to me if he has bushels of peanuts or nary a one." "but maybe it is odds to you," answered the other boy. "i ain't a telltale; but theodore yorke's always buyin' peanuts off of your stand, an' you can bet he comes away from that stand with a lot more peanuts for two cents or five cents than any one of the rest of us does." jim turned sharply upon him. "you don't mean matty gives him over measure, rob?" he said. "she don't _give_ him over measure, but he gets over measure," replied rob; "an' i tell you 'cause i think it's a shame to be cheatin' you an' the girl." "what is it, then? out with it!" exclaimed jim. "i can see how she can cheat him givin' him short measure if she likes, but i can't see how he can cheat her gettin' _over_ measure." "s'pose when she's measurin' out what he's asked for, he puts his hand into the big basket on her other side, maybe more than once, too; how'll that do for helping himself to long measure, hey?" said robert. "how do you know?" asked jim, trying to control his rising fury until he had all the facts. "i've seen him do it more than once, an' more than twice," replied rob. "you know we live in the same house, and mostly come on to school together, an' both him an' me is apt to stop for peanuts. and the first time i saw him do that, taking out a handful extra for himself, was one morning when i hadn't any money to buy; but he stopped in, and i staid out, 'cause it was too kind of tantalizing to go in and smell 'em all freshly roasted, and not get any; and i was looking in between the posies and plants in the shop, and when matty was filling up her measure for him--only the two-center one--i saw him do that mean trick; on a girl, too, and she a hunchback! he slipped his hand into the basket, and carried it full to his dinner-basket. so after that i watched, whether i went in or staid out; and he never lets a time go by that he don't hook a handful, maybe two, if he gets the chance. you see, that girl's got such a lot of thick hair hanging round her, it's most like a thick veil, and would keep her from seeing what goes on behind or by the side of her. i tell you, jim, i guess with one time and another he must have bagged two or three quarts of peanuts off of you and the hunchback, and i couldn't let it go on any longer. this very morning he bought two cents worth, and hooked as much as five." jim's indignation had grown higher and fiercer with every succeeding word of this story; and, unfortunately, at this moment theodore came around a corner of the school-building upon the playground, and, as a combination of ill luck would have it, he was eating peanuts, which he extracted from a pocket whose bulging proportions showed that the stock from which he was drawing was a large one. the sight inflamed jim's passion beyond all bounds; and he immediately advanced upon theodore in a manner and with a look which left no doubt as to his purpose. the culprit dodged the first blow aimed at him; but in another instant jim's hand was upon his collar, while, with language which was neither choice nor mild, he struck him several times, and would have continued the blows had he not in his turn been seized upon by one of the masters, who had seen the whole thing, to whom it appeared to be the most unprovoked attack. jim's fury had so passed beyond restraint, that for a moment neither the sight of the teacher nor his stern voice calling him to order had the effect of bringing him to his senses; and he even turned upon the gentleman himself, probably believing for the moment that it was one of the other boys. his crestfallen, mortified look when he was recalled to himself did not help him in the estimation of the teacher, who took it as a sign of guilt; while theodore, once freed from his assailant, stood by as the martyr and peaceable boy who would not strike a blow, even in self-defence. rob, meanwhile, frightened by the consequences of his disclosures to jim, slunk off without waiting to bear testimony to the provocation which jim believed himself to have received. jim was "reported," of course, and punished; and the knowledge that this must come to the ears of miss milly and mr. rutherford did not tend to soothe his anger, nor did he feel that his desire for vengeance was yet satisfied. as he had been deprived of his recess, however, he had no immediate opportunity of gratifying it; and when school was over, the principal, who was a just though strict man, and who was particularly interested in uncle rutherford's scheme and the two rivals for his prize, called both jim and theodore before him, and inquired into the cause of the disturbance. now, theodore was perfectly well aware of this, for jim had not failed to make use of his tongue as well as his fists, and he knew that in some way his petty and oft-repeated thefts had come to light; but he was not going to confess his own iniquities, and jim was what rob stevens, with less reason, had asserted himself to be,--"no telltale." he rather sulkily replied, to the questions of the principal, that "theodore knew, and could tell if he liked;" but theodore doggedly declared that he had given and knew of no cause of offence, and that the attack had been entirely without reason. as jim could not be persuaded to bring any accusation other than the scornful, ferocious looks with which he regarded theodore; while theodore himself was evidently uneasy and fearful lest his antagonist should speak the truth,--mr. rollins was convinced that the latter was really, in some way, to blame. but of course he could not punish him without reason; while jim had been caught red-handed, and must, at least, be reprimanded and warned. the gentleman told him that he forfeited his recess for a week, and that, if he trespassed again in this manner, he would be degraded to a lower class. jim received his sentence in silence; but when mr. rollins spoke of the penalty to follow future offending, his ruddy face blanched. _that_ meant not only disgrace in the school, but, what was far worse to him, before miss milly and mr. rutherford, and the lessening of his "chance" with the latter, and theodore's preferment above him. as the boys were dismissed from the tribunal of justice, and turned away, mr. rollins caught a glance of gratified malice which theodore cast at the other boy; and he was more than ever persuaded that there was something behind all this, and that theodore was, perhaps, the one who was the most to blame. they had reached the door, when jim turned, and, coming back to the desk of the principal, said in a low tone, "thank you, sir, for not puttin' any thing more on me than the recess. i don't mind that so much, an' i'll try hard not to break rules again; but _you_ can't tell how hard it is not to get mad when the mad lies so near the top, an' you're gettin'"--"cheated" would have been the next word, but jim checked himself ere it was spoken. "do i not, my boy?" answered the gentleman: then seeing that theodore was lingering at the door as if anxious to hear what passed, he said to him, with something of sternness in his voice, born of the doubt as to which of the two boys was the greater culprit, "go on, sir, you have no need to wait;" adding to himself, "that boy has a guilty conscience." then, when theodore had closed the door behind him, he turned again to jim, and continued, "you are mistaken, jim, if you think i do not know what it is to struggle with a quick temper." "you, sir?" said jim. "yes, i," answered mr. rollins; and then he followed with the story of his own struggles with a passionate temper, and the final victory over himself, with much good advice and encouragement to jim. encouraged the boy certainly did feel, as he left the presence of the master, fortified with new resolutions for the future. but master theodore was not to escape without his share of punishment. as his own ill luck would have it,--perhaps it would be better to say, as a righteous retribution would have it,--as he was on his way home from school, and was crossing the park on which our house fronted, he fell in with three or four of his classmates, among them rob stevens, the witness of his thefts. "what have you done with jim?" asked one of the boys. "he's getting it from the commander-in-chief," said theodore exultantly. "he's lost his recess for a week, and is to be put down to class four if he gets into another of his rages, as he's sure to do; and now he's taking no end of a blowing-up. the commander sent me out so i wouldn't hear it. good enough for him. i hope he'll get it hot and heavy." "what did _you_ get?" asked rob. "what did i get? nothing; why should i?" responded theodore, who had not the slightest idea of the way by which jim had learned of his thefts, or that here was his accuser. "didn't you tell why jim pitched into you when you saw he was gettin' held up for it?" asked rob. "no!" roared theodore, partly in fear, partly in anger, for he now could not fail to see that rob knew _something_, but how much he could not tell. "i hadn't any thing to tell, and hadn't done any thing to jim,--to his high-mightiness jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington, the fellow with a whole dictionary-full of names, and not a right to one of them but the jim. i just wish he would get into a dozen tantrums, till he gets expelled from the school." "nothin' mean about you, is there?" said one of the other boys indignantly, although he was still ignorant of the cause of jim's provocation. but this was too much for rob. the boys had neared the fountain in the centre of the park. at this season, it was never or seldom playing; but some repairs had been found necessary, and the workmen had had the jet in action for some hours, and the large basin around it was full of water. the boys stopped beside it, not noticing a tall figure which sat upon one of the park benches near. "nothing mean about _him_!" repeated rob in a loud voice, which might easily be heard on the other side of the fountain, "nothing mean about theodore yorke! he's the meanest sneak in our school, or out of it, either! i'll tell you why jim pitched into him. he's been stealing peanuts off of jim's stand when the little hunchback's head was turned. i saw him, more than once, and i wasn't going to have it any longer; so i told jim, and i'd just told him of it when theodore came on eating peanuts, the very ones, for all i know, that i saw him steal this morning; and no wonder jim's spirit was up, and he pitched into him. i wish he'd had it out with him, too, before mr. leeds came up. if he was going to be punished, he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. and jim's never said a word, i s'pose, or let on what he did it for; and you let him take all the blame. bah! i wouldn't be you, for a cart-load of peanuts!" "you didn't see me, either. i don't know what you're talking about!" stammered theodore, so taken aback by the damaging testimony of this unexpected witness of his sin, that he lost all self-possession, and his looks proclaimed him guilty of the offence with which he was charged. uprose from the bench beyond the group the figure sitting there, and, striding towards the still unobservant boys, laid one hand upon theodore's collar, the other on that of rob; and the startled theodore looked up into the stern, set face of his grandfather. "have i heerd aright?" said the old man in his righteous wrath. "have i heerd my gran'son called a thief, an' a sneak, what let a boy like jim be blamed for doin' what he had a right to do, if what this 'ere feller says is true?--kin ye prove it?" turning to rob, while he still kept a tight hold on either boy. "yes, i can," said rob, maintaining his ground, although he was a little frightened by the captain's looks and tones; and once more he rehearsed the story in all its details. by this time several persons, attracted by the somewhat unusual spectacle of an old man holding two boys by their collars, had stopped to hear what was going on; and there were symptoms of a crowd. seeing this from afar, a policeman bore down upon the scene,--the very one who had had the dispute with the captain as to the propriety of daisy playing peanut-vender on the street-corner. as he came near, captain yorke released his hold upon rob's collar; then tightening that upon theodore's, the still stalwart old seaman lifted the boy from his feet, and, stepping close to the basin of the fountain, plunged him over his head in the icy water. the day had been a mild one, sunny and bright, for spring was in the air; but the water was still sufficiently cold to make such a sudden plunge any thing but pleasant, and this summary method of punishment, well deserved though most of the spectators knew it to be, was not to be tolerated in such a public place. so thought the policeman who now came running up, as the captain, having given his grandson three good dips, lifted him dripping and shivering from the basin, and placed him upon his feet. [illustration: "plunged him over his head in the icy water."--_page_ .] "what's this?" asked the officer, who had long since made his peace with the old man, who was wont to hang about the park, and in the vicinity of our house, and who amused him vastly with his comments upon men and things in the city. "what are you up to now, captain?" "givin' this boy a duckin'; an' if i told ye what for, i donno but ye'd be for takin' of him up," answered the captain, disregarding all considerations of parental or family pride. "if ye fin' me a meaner one nor he is in this big town, i'll duck him, too, an' keep him under till he begs an' swears he'll mend his ways.--now, git along home, sir," to the shaking theodore. "i'd willin' pay for two suits of clo's to have the satisfaction of givin' ye yer desarvins, though i don't know as ye've got 'em yet. git!" theodore, only too glad to obey, sped away like the wind; while the captain, as the policeman was about to interfere further, turned to the officer, and, taking him by the arm, as if he were going to arrest _him_, repeated in a friendly tone, "he's had no more than his desarvin's,--young scamp; an' them's my opinions. i'll tell ye." "but what are you about, ducking that boy in a public fountain?" asked the officer, doubtful what course to pursue with the old original. "don't you know such a thing is a breach of the public peace?" "i don't know nothin' about your breaches," said the old veteran, no whit disturbed; "but i knows i got a right to duck that boy where'er i've a min' to. he's my gran'son,--more shame to me,--an' a little water ain't goin' to hurt him. his fam'ly's used to water,--good salt water, too," with a contemptuous look at the fluid in the fountain basin, "an' if i could wash the meanness outer him, i'd duck him a dozen times a day. come along." and still with his hand upon the policeman's arm, the captain turned away with him, soon satisfying the guardian of the peace that this was no case for arrest. barney agreed that he had the right to take the law into his own hands, although this was hardly the place for him to do so. of course theodore's thefts, and the story of the grandfather's summary punishment, went the rounds of the school the next morning, and it soon reached the ears of the teachers and principal; and theodore was called up again before the latter, this time to receive a far sterner reprimand than had been bestowed upon jim. as the offence had been committed out of school bounds and school hours, the punishment for it did not lie within the jurisdiction of mr. rollins; but, in addition to that which he had received from his grandfather, it was meted out to him on the school premises. from that time he acquired the _sobriquet_ of "peanuts,"--a name which, short as it was, attracted far more derision and notice than that of jim grant garfield rutherford livingstone washington. and jim, for his silence before the principal, his heroic determination to "tell no tales," was more of a favorite than ever. whether this tended to lessen theodore's animosity toward him, or to soften the standing feud between them, may be judged. the contempt and dislike which the school generally entertained for theodore were brought to their height, when the edict was promulgated that peanuts should be no longer brought within bounds. being a forbidden fruit, they at once acquired a value and desirableness even beyond that which they had possessed before. by some unexplained process of reasoning, the authorities had arrived at the conclusion that they were the cause of the late disturbance; and so they were tabooed, much to the displeasure of the boys, who, beside the deprivation to themselves, considered jim a victim, as the order, of necessity, in a measure lessened his sales. chapter xi. five dollars. dear old mrs. yorke had improved rapidly under the care of the specialist who was treating her case; but she was ill at ease in her city quarters, partly because she was unaccustomed to her surroundings, partly because she was never certain, when the captain was away from her, that he was not doing some unheard-of thing which might bring him into a serious predicament. and now here was this trouble between jim, of whom she and the captain were so proud and so fond, and her grandson, and the disgrace of the latter; so that just now her bed was not one of roses, and she longed for the quiet and peace of her simple seaside home. "if adam would but go home, and take the boy with him," she sighed to mammy one day, "i could be easy in my mind, for i know that jabez and matilda jane and mary would look after him well, and he would be out of harm's way; but now i wouldn't be a bit surprised if some day he turned up in the police-court, just for doin' something he thought was no harm, but that is against city rules. his ways and city folks' ways ain't alike. an' there's the boy, an' what he's done; all the school learnin' in the world ain't goin' to pay for such a shame. no, you needn't say it was on'y a boyish trick; you on'y say that to make me more easy like; an' with thanks all the same to governor rutherford, i'd a sight rather he'd left theodore down to the point, an' out of the way of such temptations as he gets here. an' when they once begin that way as boys, you never know where they'll end. no, no; i wish adam and the boy were home." poor mrs. yorke! she had, indeed, too much reason to dread the after results of "once beginning that way;" for theodore seemed likely to follow in the footsteps of his good-for-nothing father. uncle rutherford, of course, heard of the peanut episode, and expressed a fitting censure on theodore's conduct, both to our family and to the boy himself; but we said among ourselves, that he not only appeared to endorse, but to enjoy, jim's swift, passionate punishment of theodore, and he escaped with a very slight reproof, if, indeed, the few words he said to him concerning the matter could be called reproof; and milly felt no fear that he had lost ground with uncle rutherford. fortunately the captain, knowing little or nothing of the streets, was given, when by himself, to haunting our neighborhood and the park opposite; so that he came much under the notice and patronage of the friendly policeman, whose daily beat was in that quarter, and who kept him on many an occasion from going astray, or making a spectacle of himself. the captain had sought out rob stevens, insisted that he should tell him just how many times he had seen theodore steal peanuts from matty, and, so far as he could judge, to what amount each time; then counting up what he supposed them to be worth, which he put at an enormously high valuation--the honest old man!--that he might be sure to err on the right side, he forced theodore to go with him to the stand, and pay matty for the stolen fruit. he endeavored, too, to make him apologize to jim, both for the theft of his property, and also for his contemptible meanness in keeping silent on the occasion of jim's attack on the playground. but here he was powerless: theodore absolutely and doggedly refused to do it; and his grandfather was obliged to content himself with relieving his own feelings, and further expressing his sentiments on the boy's conduct, by giving him a severe flogging. spring was upon us now; an early, mild, and beautiful spring. day after day of sunny delicious weather succeeded one another; the children came home from their walks or drives in the central park, in ecstasies over the robins, blue-birds, and squirrels they had seen. in the woods at oaklands,--whither father went once or twice a week to have an eye upon his improvements and preparations for the summer,--spring-beauties, hepaticas, and anemones, and even a few early violets, were showing their lovely faces; and all young things--ah, and the older ones too--were rejoicing that the "winter was past and gone." with the advent of the mild weather, matty's stand had been removed out of doors and beneath the shelter of johnny petersen's shop; and this situation proved more profitable than it had been within, as many a charitable passer-by, seeing the pitiful figure and pinched face of the poor child, would stop to purchase. during the hours of the day when the sun was warm and bright, her surroundings were not much less attractive than they had been within; for the glass sashes of the little flower-store were generally wide open behind her, while johnny frequently brought forth some of his plants for an airing upon the sidewalk. as his custom increased with the warm weather, and people came for potted plants and so forth for their gardens and windows, johnny occasionally found it necessary to be away for a few hours buying new stock at the larger greenhouses and markets; and when mrs. petersen did not find it convenient to take his place in the shop, he depended upon tony to keep watch, and make small sales for him. the lame boy was bright and apt; and johnny had drilled him well as to prices and so forth, and found him a tolerably satisfactory substitute during his own times of absence. one would have thought that theodore yorke would have avoided the neighborhood of the peanut-stand after his exposure and disgrace; but it was not so. his grandfather had cut short the small amount of pocket-money which he had occasionally given him, and he was now left penniless, and so no more visited the place as a customer; but he seemed to take a delight in hanging around it, and annoying matty and tony, who were now on their guard, and watched him unceasingly. tony and he frequently exchanged sundry compliments not suited to ears polite; and johnny, if he saw him, would come out and drive him away. the shop was absolutely forbidden ground to him; within it he was not suffered to set a foot. one bright afternoon when johnny petersen happened to be away, and tony was in charge, theodore came sauntering up to the stand, to the great dissatisfaction of the children. matty was in her usual seat behind her table; tony seated on the low door-step of the store, his crutches lying on the ground beside him and within reach of his hand. theodore came up, glanced into the store, and, seeing that the master was absent, addressed himself to the amiable amusement of teasing and worrying those who were too helpless to defend themselves. "me an' matty's lookin' out for ye, an' ye needn't come roun' to be stealin' no more peanuts," said tony at length, "an' i'll call the m. p. if you comes too close to the stand. we ain't goin' to stan' no foolin', we ain't; an' jim told us you don't have a cent of money now, so you ain't come to buy with one hand an' help yourself with t'other. it'd be helpin' yourself with both; so clear out!" "i ain't comin' near your old peanuts," said theodore; "an' they ain't yours, anyway." this style of converse continued for some minutes, growing more and more personal each instant; till at last theodore said to matty, who, according to her usual custom, had remained perfectly silent,-- "if i had such a cushion on my back as yours, i wouldn't make it bigger piling such a heap of hair on it. you look like a barber's-shop show figger. i wonder you don't sell yourself for a show figger. you'd look so pretty an' smart." matty only gave him one of her most vicious looks, and clinched her small claw-like hands as though they longed to be at him; but tony answered for her. "they don't get no such hair to the barbers' shops without payin' lots for it," he shouted; "an' she ain't no need to make a figger of herself. she can sell it for a heap of money,--five dollars, if she chooses,--mr. petersen says so, an' jim says so, too. but she ain't a-goin' to have it cut off; she likes it too much, an' the ladies likes it, jim's ladies do, an' they telled her to leave it hang down, an' one on 'em give her a blue dress to make it look purtier on it; an' she's give her lots of things more. an' they've give me lots of things, too; the ole un she give me a whole suit for easter, an' me an' matty looked as good as any of 'em. an' jim says--now you keep off," as theodore drew nearer, "you keep off, or i'll call the m.p. he ain't so fur." "oh, you will, will you?" said theodore; "you've got to catch him first, and me, too, old hippity-hop," and with a kick he sent both crutches far beyond the reach of the lame boy, then, with a derisive laugh, ran off. and there tony sat, helpless and unable to pursue, till a compassionate passer-by brought him the crutches; for matty could not stoop for them. had the old captain seen this cowardly, contemptible deed, he would probably have thought that all the waters of all the oceans could not "wash the meanness" from the soul of his grandson. for the rest of that day and for the next, and for two or three succeeding ones, theodore's thoughts dwelt much upon this last interview with the two cripples; but do not let it be thought, with any disquieting reproaches from his conscience, or any feeling of remorse. to him, all that had passed was a mere nothing, not worth a second thought, save for the one idea which had made a deep impression on him. that hair of matty's, that mass of beautiful, shining hair, which even his boyish, unpractised eye could see was something uncommon,--worth five dollars; it was impossible! and yet could it be? if "jim's ladies" thought it so beautiful, it might be that it was worth a good deal of money. what fools, then, were matty and tony, the one for keeping it upon her head, the other for not persuading her to part with it, and taking a share of the money for himself! in all his life theodore had never had so much money; and his mean, selfish soul at once set itself to devise means by which one--he did not yet, even to his own thoughts, say himself--could gain possession of the girl's hair. he had heard of girls being robbed, in the street, of their hair; but that would never do here with matty, no, not even though he had an accomplice to help him. and he knew of no one to whom he could even suggest such a thing; for he had no acquaintances in the city save the boys in his school; and to no one of them could he or would he dare to propose it, although he knew that there were among them some who were none too scrupulous to do a shabby thing if they thought they could gain any advantage by it. all this time i had vainly, as i thought, tried to gain any influence over matty. she took my gifts, it is true, and wore or otherwise made use of them; but she never showed the slightest token of pleasure in them, or uttered one word of acknowledgment, and she was still entirely unresponsive to any other advances on my part. it was tony, bright, jolly little tony, who thanked me with real irish effusion, always greeted me with the broadest of smiles, and testified his gratitude and appreciation of my efforts for matty's welfare by various small offerings, till i really wished i had chosen him to befriend instead of that hopeless subject, his sister. it became quite a little family joke, as almost every evening when he and matty came to deliver the day's earnings to jim--for it was not considered safe for them to carry the money to their own home--he brought also some small token for "jim's second young lady," whereby i was understood; now a couple of daisies, a rose, or two or three violets, or a few sprigs of mignonnette, begged from dutch johnny; now a bird's nest, manufactured by himself out of twine and a few twigs; and once a huge turnip which he had seen fall from a market-cart as it passed on its way down the avenue, and picking it up, after vainly trying to make the carter hear, had laid it aside as a suitable gift for me; and another time he brought for my acceptance a hideous, miserable, half-starved kitten, which, as i was known by the servants to have a horror of cats, was declined for me both by jim and thomas, greatly to tony's mortification and disappointment. at the easter festival, when he and matty had "looked as good as anybody," to his mind, each child in the sunday school had been presented with a small pot of pansies; and tony, instead of taking his home, had come from the church to our house, and, asking for me by his usual title of "jim's second young lady," had shyly presented his easter token. yes, i would fain have made an exchange, and taken tony as my charge; but pride, and the recollection of milly's fear that i would not persevere with matty, forbade. i had thought over all manner of plans for removing both children from the influence of their wretched home and drunken parents; but most of these were pronounced by the more experienced to be visionary and not feasible. so they still continued to return to them at night, although, "weather fair or weather foul, weather wet or weather dry," they never failed to be present at their post as early as possible in the morning. miss craven and i had taken from jim the charge of providing the cripples' dinner; and for a trifling sum mrs. petersen, who had no children of her own, gave them that meal and their supper in her room, so that in many respects they were far better off than they had been. but still there seemed no loop-hole where i could insert a wedge for matty's moral regeneration; she appeared to remain hard, impenetrable, and suspicious. the story of the "ducking" had, of course, been graphically rehearsed by those of the schoolboys who had witnessed it, to those who had not; and there were but few, if any, who did not enjoy the recital of theodore's punishment and disgrace. and from that time captain yorke had become a marked figure with the boys. before this, he had not been known to many of them; but now he was pointed out by the few who had been present at the scene at the fountain, as the spartan grandfather who had not hesitated to deal out punishment to his own flesh and blood, when it seemed to him that justice demanded it. he was often to be seen now in the park, the centre of an admiring and appreciative group, to whom he related thrilling adventures which were his own experience as a sailor and a surfman, holding his audience spell-bound, not only by their interest in the subject, but also by his quaint and simple manner of telling. among this audience one day, were the two boys who had been present at the theatre on the night when the captain had made such an exhibition of himself; and they recognized him at once. of course, it was soon spread about that he was the hero of that adventure; and the next morning at school, jim was asked if he had not known it. acknowledging this, it was then inquired _why_ he had not "got even with theodore," by turning the laugh on him, and telling that it was his grandfather who had made himself a laughingstock. "'cause i wasn't goin' back on the old captain," answered sturdy, loyal jim. "he's stood up for me, an' been a good friend; an' i ain't goin' to point him out for to be laughed at, not if he is theodore's grandfather." he expected to be laughed at in his turn, and stood with defiance and "laugh if you choose" in his air. but no one laughed or jeered: somehow his steadfastness struck a chord in most of those boyish hearts; and rob stevens, clapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed,-- "and 'tain't the first time he's held his tongue, either, is it, peanuts? we'll all vote for the feller that stan's by his friends an' don't go back on 'em. three cheers for president jim washington!" and if a voice there was silent, save theodore yorke's, it was not noticed in the number which responded. school-life having by this time rubbed off some of his _freshness_, jim had learned that it would be to his own advantage to discard several from the string of names which he had seen fit to adopt on his entrance; and he now contented himself with signing his name james r. l. washington, which appeared upon all his books and any thing else to which he could lay claim. after the manner of those who have fixed their minds upon that to which they have no right, the more the unprincipled theodore thought of the mint of money, as he called it, upon matty's head, the more he wished that he could find the means to possess himself of the material to be so easily turned into that money; and he finally arranged a plan which he thought both practicable and safe. "matildy jane," whose theory it was that there were no articles of diet in new york "fit for plain folks to eat," and who believed that her father and mother would return home only to die victims to indigestion brought on by high living, had sent, by the hands of a friend who came to the city, a large basket of apple turnovers and ginger cookies, in order that her parents might have "a taste of home cookin'." slyly possessing himself of two of these turnovers and sundry cookies, theodore thought to make his peace with tony and matty by bestowing them upon them, as an equivalent for the stolen peanuts; and having ascertained when dutch johnny was off on another purchasing expedition, and tony left in charge, he hurried home, and came back to the florist's shop with these delectable viands. no sooner did tony see him than he warned him off, threatening to call the police if theodore came any nearer; but the latter hastened to propitiate him by holding up the turnovers and saying,-- "oh, i came to make up. don't make a row." now, if there was any thing in which the soul of tony delighted, it was an apple pasty of any shape or dimensions; and the tempter had unwittingly chosen his bait well. tony's threats and denunciations ceased, and he sat staring at the proffered treat; while theodore, seeing it was taking effect, drew a few steps nearer. "don't you want 'em?" he said. "i've got one for you, and one for matty; and i've got some ginger-cakes, too." warned by past experience, tony grasped his crutches, and, still expecting some trick, sat dubious, with his eyes fixed as if fascinated upon the coveted dainties, but still more than half inclined to call to the policeman, whom he saw upon the upper corner. "oh, come now!" repeated theodore; "make up. don't you want 'em? they're first-rate." the temptation proved irresistible; and, rising to his feet, tony went toward his whilom antagonist in order to prevent him from coming too near the stand, accepted one of the turnovers, looked at it on all sides, smelled of it, and finally set his teeth deliberately but with caution into it; then turned, and looked inquiringly at matty. "pisen!" uttered that little sceptic, still unconvinced that treachery did not lurk behind these demonstrations of friendship. ay, poison indeed! but not in the sense poor matty meant. nor would she accept the other turnover or the ginger-cakes, or look at or speak to theodore; but sat gazing afar off as if into vacancy, her face perfectly expressionless, although tony, now completely won over, sat eating his with the utmost gusto. meanwhile theodore, having turned over the whole contents of his pockets, talked in a friendly way, leading gradually up to the matter in his mind; although he was afraid to linger long, lest johnny should return, or some one come by who would wonder at seeing amicable relations established between himself and tony. "been makin' good sales to-day?" he asked at length; but this put tony on his guard again at once. "now you let peanuts alone; they ain't none of your business," he said, his mouth full of ginger-cake. "i ain't goin' to touch your peanuts," said the older boy. "i just asked. jim's makin' an uncommon good thing out of this peanut-stand with you and matty to run it for him, an' i hear you're doin' first-rate. but--don't i know something about jim!" "so do i, lots," answered tony, as well as he could speak. "you don't know what i know; and jim wouldn't want you to," said the bad boy. "it's his secret, and a monstrous one, too; but i know it, and i'm goin' to tell it, too." "i sha'n't listen to it," said tony. "ho! i don't want you to. it's not you i mean to tell," said theodore. "it's the police." "jim ain't done nothin' for the perlice," said tony furiously. "the perlice likes him, an' wouldn't do nothin' to him." "ha! you wait and see," said theodore; "they've got to when i tell 'em. it's a secret on jim an' one of his young ladies, miss amy there, that gives matty her clo's an' things. he'll feel awful to have himself an' miss amy told on, and the police will go for 'em when they know it; but nothin' ain't goin' to put me off talkin' without i was paid for it, as much as five dollars, too." "what they done?" asked tony, curiosity and alarm for his friends getting the better of his aversion to discuss the subject with theodore. theodore came nearer, and making tony promise with the most solemn asseverations that he would not repeat, and would not suffer matty to repeat, to any one, what he told him, said,-- "they had some poisoning done, round to mr. livingstone's, an' jim and miss amy was mixed up in it. they did the poisoning; but 'twas found out in time, an' their folks hushed it up. but _i_ know it, an' i'm goin' to set the police on them unless some one would make it worth my while not to. five dollars would buy me off; but there's no one i know of, would give me five dollars, so i'm goin' to tell." street arab though he was, with his wits sharpened into preternatural acuteness in some respects, in others tony was guileless and easily imposed upon; and for a moment he stared at theodore in dismay, but presently doubt and suspicion again obtained the upper hand. "i don't take no stock in that," he said; "it's a lie, i know. i'll ask jim himself." "if you let on to him what i've told you, i'll tell the police for certain, whether or no," said theodore; "but if anybody was to say they'd give me five dollars, an' you don't tell jim, i'll never say a word." and he walked away, leaving his words to take what effect they might. that they had already taken effect, he saw, as matty, who had not spoken a word all this time, drew the beautiful, shining tresses in front of her, and passed her skinny little hands lovingly over them. tony stood staring stupidly after him for a moment, then burst out at him with a torrent of abuse and threats which theodore did not deign to answer. that evening about dusk, when tony and matty came to our house to render up the day's account to jim, after they had settled business, tony asked in a mysterious whisper, and half as if he feared to put the question,-- "jim, tell us; has you got a secret you don't want any one to know?" by the light of the gas-jet, beneath which they stood, in the basement hall, tony saw the color rush in a flood to jim's face, and an angry light came into his eye, as he answered roughly,-- "'tain't none of your business if i have; you let my secrets alone." tony was a little frightened, but he persisted,-- "but tell us; did you and yer young lady, her what's good to us, did you once get mixed up wid pisenin' some folks, an' it was kept dark so's the----" "now you shut up an' clear out quick, you little rascal!" shouted jim furiously. "if you come paul pryin' round here, a-tryin' to find out my secrets, me an' you will fall out, an' you'll get no more help from miss amy nor me. clear!" but tony, alas! was answered; and the crestfallen little cripple shuffled out from the presence of the offended head of the peanut firm as fast as possible; jim putting his head out of the door, and shouting after them, still in the most irate tones,-- "now you let me an' miss amy an' all my folks alone, or there'll be trouble, sure!" then slammed the door after them. in silence they went up the street, but not immediately home: they had other business to attend to first. chapter xii. caught in the act. johnny petersen looked in surprise, consternation, and wrath when the two little cripples entered his shop the next morning, shamefaced and sheepish, as if they expected to be called to account for something. and he did not lose time in making known the cause of his displeasure, could they, indeed, have had any doubt on that question. matty's hair was gone, cut close to her head, almost shaved off; and the loss of it gave the poor little face a more wizened, pinched, and unnatural expression than ever. the effect was perfectly startling, and repulsive in the extreme; and after staring at the child for a moment, and all but dropping the flower-pot he held in his hands, he broke forth into a torrent of words, mingling german and broken english in a manner which made them all but incomprehensible to the poor little ones. but they knew well enough what brought them forth, and they had no explanation to offer. it was their secret, and must remain a secret, so they thought, if the sacrifice were to be worth any thing. naturally, johnny laid the blame of the transformation on the debased parents, whom he knew to be capable of any deed, no matter how shameful or cruel, if thereby they could obtain the means to procure liquor. tony and matty gathered, from the jargon which he sputtered forth, that this was his idea; and they were quite satisfied to have it so, for no sentiments of filial affection moved them to enlighten him. and it was not only the loss of that wealth of hair which made matty look far worse than she had ever done before. she had not on the decent garments she had worn for some time past, but was in the ragged and soiled clothes which she had of late worn only when she went home at night, discarding them in the morning when she stopped at mrs. petersen's and put on the better ones which had been given to her. to all petersen's questions she opposed a sullen silence; although she hung her head, and appeared embarrassed, which she was not apt to be. but tony, with his jolly little face clouded over, appeared really distressed, and looked from his sister to the florist and back again in a distraught, helpless sort of way, which quite touched the heart of the kind old dutchman; but neither from him could johnny's rather incoherent questions draw forth any satisfaction, and the children both were glad when the entrance of a customer drew johnny's attention for the time from themselves. but the situation did not improve for the two little unfortunates when mrs. petersen, uneasy that they had not appeared at her rooms for the usual change of clothing, came bustling up to know if her husband could tell her any thing of them; and, not a little astonished to find matty at her post and tony also at his, plied them anew with questions in english rather better than her husband's, and to which it was more difficult to avoid giving straightforward replies. but she gained as little as he had done, and she, too, took it for granted that either the father or mother had deprived the little hunchback of her hair. the truth was, that the children had not cared to face her with the change in matty's appearance, and hence had concluded to come to the day's business in their old clothes. but mrs. petersen, energetic and stirring, was not going to let the matter rest thus, but was determined to probe it to the bottom if possible, and declared that she was going at once to see the mother, and call her to account. whether she had some vague idea of bringing the supposed offenders to justice, or of restoring the lost locks to matty, i cannot tell; but just as she was leaving, milly, bessie, and i, bound for an early trip to spend the day with a friend in the country, whose birthday it was, came into the shop to purchase some flowers. the morning was damp and chilly, although there was the promise of a fair day later on; and matty's stand was placed inside when we entered the shop, and the first thing our eyes rested upon was matty's shorn head. we all three leaped at once to the same conclusion with the petersens. but whether it was that i was more forcibly struck than the others with the cruelty of the thing, from having something of a fellow-feeling for matty in the possession of a profuse quantity of hair somewhat like her own, although, as she had said, hers had been "purtier" than mine, despite the lack of the care which mine had always received, or that i had less self-control over my emotions; certain it is that i burst into a passion of tears and sobs, which astonished not only the good florist and his wife, but also my own sister and friend. i was ashamed of them, but could not control them; and perhaps it was as well that i could not do so immediately, for those tears made their way where all else had failed to effect an entrance; and, to my great astonishment, matty seized with both her hands upon mine, which in my great pity and sympathy i had laid upon her shoulder, and, carrying it to her face, laid her cheek upon it. the next instant she dropped it, and sat looking down with the same stolid expression that she ordinarily wore. indeed, it had hardly changed even at the moment of that most unusual demonstration, for no trace of any emotion had been visible on the worn, old little face. tony was delighted, as pleased as though his sister had given evidence of some wonderful talent, or performed some heroic action. "she likes ye, miss," he exclaimed, "an' i allus knowed she did, though she wouldn't let on. she likes ye fust rate, though she wor kinder back'ard 'bout lettin' on. now don't ye like the lady, matty? if she hadn't liked ye lots, miss, she wouldn't er----" here he checked himself with a frightened, embarrassed look, and rushing out of the little store, applied himself vigorously to the turning of his empty, tireless peanut-roaster. but not a word, and not another token of any thing like feeling, was to be drawn from matty. the rock had hardened again, and to all appearances no softening influences could be brought to bear upon it. it was not until mrs. petersen again expressed her positive intention of going to call the elder blairs to account, and was about to start off for that purpose, that the child roused herself again, and turned, with something of apprehension in her expression, to look for tony, who, having discovered that he was working aimlessly, was making ready to kindle his charcoal and fill his roaster. "i go to dat mutter an' fader; i gif dem some pieces of my mi-int," said mrs. petersen, as she turned toward the door; but milly stopped her. "do not, please, mrs. petersen," she said, in a tone too low to reach matty's ear. "it will only make trouble for yourself and us. we cannot give poor matty back her beautiful hair; and if you vex those dreadful people, it will only put fresh difficulties in the way of persuading them to give up the children." "i tell dem my mi-int," persisted mrs. petersen; but finally she was persuaded to listen to reason and to satisfy herself with relieving her "mi-int." my idea had been to induce mrs. petersen and johnny--or mrs. petersen rather, for johnny was sure to follow her lead, to take matty and tony under their care, and give them a home. cousin serena had offered to furnish the means for tony's support, and i to do the same for matty. but the florist and his wife had been unwilling to undertake the charge, even if the parents could be bribed to give up the children, lest they should be exposed to trouble in the future; therefore the blairs had not yet been approached on the subject. i was for taking high-handed measures, and having the children separated from them on the ground of neglect and cruelty; but wiser and less impulsive heads than mine had decided that there was hardly sufficient reason for this, and i had been obliged to restrain my impatience and content myself with such alleviations of their lot as i could compass at present. i am not patient by nature, and could not bear to have any delay or hinderances put in the way of my schemes for the benefit of those children, and in secret i chafed a little over this. it will readily be surmised what had become of matty's hair. doubting the truth of theodore's story, and yet fearing that there might be some foundation for it, tony had confided to his sister that he meant to ask jim about it, notwithstanding theodore's warning to beware how he did so. jim's anger at the questions he had put, especially at that regarding the "poisoning," had been enough to convince him that it was all true. jim _had_ a secret which he was afraid to have known; and that secret could be nothing more nor less than the alleged poisoning, which he plainly could not or would not deny; and which, according to ignorant little tony's ideas, he was afraid to have come to the ears of the police. theodore had learned of that unfortunate occurrence--as we heard later when all this came to light--through the medium of a stray copy of the objectionable paper containing the paragraph before referred to. this he had happened to read to his grandfather and grandmother, who, proud of his ability to do this far better than they could do it for themselves--for reading with captain and mrs. yorke was a work of time and difficulty, involving more pains-taking than pleasure--often set him to amuse them in this way in the evening. "madison avenue" to captain yorke was comprised in the block on which our house was situated; and the curiosity of the old man being insatiable, he had never rested until he had located the house. by dint of questioning thomas and the other servants, he soon learned all there was to know, and was greatly excited and very wrathy when he heard the truth. he repeated this to his wife and grandson, bidding them never to say a word about it, as the family had been much annoyed and displeased. theodore, however, had once ventured to ask jim about the matter, and had been met by such a burst of fury that he had never ventured to speak of it again to him. not for fear of offending jim, however, but because he dreaded the anger of his grandfather, should jim complain, as he threatened to do, to the old man; for jim would have told in this case on my account. but it answered theodore's purpose when he set himself to work to devise means to obtain the five dollars he coveted. he had aroused the fears of these ignorant children for those who had been kind to them, and having been convinced by jim's behavior that it was all true, tony had proposed what indeed had been in matty's mind before, that she should sell her hair, and so buy theodore's silence. matty had agreed; and that morning, before they had made their appearance at the florist's, they had gone to a barber's, and, with small worldly wisdom, tony had demanded if he would give five dollars for matty's hair. gazing with astonishment and delight at the mine of wealth displayed for his approbation, the barber drew the long silky tresses through his fingers, and closed the bargain at once, as well he might, supposing him to be possessed of neither heart nor conscience. matty's head was expeditiously shorn, and the proceeds of the unrighteous sale were put into tony's hands; for he had appeared as the speaking partner throughout the transaction, matty maintaining the usual impassive, sullen silence, so seldom broken save for her brother and the petersens. the next thing to do was to see theodore and to hand him the money; and being in haste to do this before he should have time to give the dreaded information to the police, tony went to the boarding-place which was his home at present, matty waiting for her brother on the neighboring corner, and asked for theodore. now, this proceeding, as it proved, brought swift detection and punishment upon the young blackmailer. theodore had not remembered to guard against the children coming to the house; indeed, he had not thought of his rascally scheme bearing fruit at all so soon. happily for the frustration of that scheme, theodore was out, having been sent on an errand by his grandfather; and the old captain himself, who was lounging on the front steps, was the one who first met the lame boy. tony, who was not able to read numbers, had not been quite sure of his ground in the row of houses all so much alike; but he had no further doubt when he saw captain yorke. at first he drew back, uncertain whether to make it known that his business was with theodore; but his fear that his tormentor would "tell the perlice" before he had the opportunity to quiet him was too strong for his caution, and he asked the captain if theodore was "to home." "no, he ain't; an' what ye want with theodore, sonny?" asked the captain. tony hesitated and fidgeted; and the old man asked sharply and quickly, "he ain't been hookin' your peanuts agin?" "no--o," stammered tony; and the captain, coming down the steps to where the boy stood, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and said sternly,--although the sternness was not for the cripple,-- "ef he's touched another peanut, or been a-wrongin' of ye any way, tell me,--tell me right off. what is it?" but tony dared not tell; and the honest old seaman, whose confidence in his grandson had never been fully restored, was convinced that he had been about some of his evil ways again. he could do nothing with tony, however; no persuasions could avail to draw any explanation from him; and he presently made his escape, hobbling down the street with the marvellous celerity with which he used his crutches, leaving the captain a prey to disquietude and apprehension. nor had he hope of obtaining any thing like the truth from theodore himself: so he asked him no questions when he returned, nor did he tell him that tony had come to ask for him, but, after taking counsel with himself, resolved to see johnny petersen, and tell him to be on the watch; and soon after we had left the florist's, he appeared there. tony saw the old brutus coming down the street, stern and determined of aspect, trouble in every line of his weather-beaten countenance, and supposed himself to be his objective point. dreading further catechism, and not being willing to encounter it, he dropped the crank of the peanut-roaster, and was off again before the captain was near enough to speak. johnny could tell nothing, he thought, save that matty's hair was gone, which the old man could not fail to see for himself; and his sister, he well knew, would not speak. for a moment he thought he would seize his opportunity, and hasten back to the house while captain yorke was away, and hand theodore the five dollars; but he recollected that the oppressor would be at school, and so this would be useless. from a safe distance he watched for the captain's departure, and did not venture near his post till he saw him come out and walk away. as he had foreseen, not a word could either captain yorke or the florist draw from matty, when the former had made known the purpose of his coming; and they both questioned her closely. one might have thought that she was utterly deaf and dumb as she sat opposing that stolid, determined silence to all they said. johnny knew nothing which could throw any light on the subject; and after telling him of tony's embarrassment, and bidding him be on the watch, the heavy-hearted old man left the little shop. johnny did keep on the watch, but refrained from asking tony any questions, keeping his eye upon him, however; but no further developments appeared until later in the day, when he saw theodore coming down the other side of the avenue, and observed that tony raised a warning finger to him as if to bid him keep his distance. theodore paused on the opposite corner, and tony went over to meet him. considerations of delicacy did not withhold johnny from intruding upon what was evidently meant to be a private interview; and when, after a moment's converse, tony put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth something which he gave to theodore, the florist darted from his shop, and rushed across the street with an agility which was hardly to be expected from one of his years and girth. theodore saw him coming, and his guilty conscience leaped to the truth; johnny suspected something wrong, and was coming to accuse him. closing his hand tightly on the prize which he had just received from his victim, he turned, and started to run. but an avenging nemesis, in the shape of a piece of orange-peel, was behind him; his foot slipped upon it, and he came heavily to the ground. before he could rise, the florist precipitated himself upon him with so much momentum, that he too lost his balance, and fell flat upon the boy. not one whit disturbed was johnny, however, by the fear that he might have injured his prisoner, although he had half knocked the breath from the boy's body; on the contrary, he would, i think, have been quite pleased to know that theodore was seriously bruised. rising with some difficulty, and not without assistance from a passer-by who had seen the catastrophe, puffing and panting, but still retaining the hold he had taken of theodore's collar, he hauled the boy to his feet, and, regardless of the punishment he had already inflicted, gave him a hard cuff upon the ear, saying,-- "you runs away from me, will you? i learns you, my poy, you shtays ven i vants to shpeak mit you." supposing from this authoritative address that he was the father of the boy who had been guilty of some wrong, the man who had helped him passed on his way, leaving him to deal with the culprit as he saw fit. and johnny saw fit to handle him with any thing but gentleness, pushing him before him across the street, and into the shop, giving him now and then a vicious shake, diversifying this with an occasional punch in the back with the fist of the disengaged hand. had they had any distance to go, they would probably have drawn a crowd after them; as it was, they reached johnny's quarters without attracting any special attention. "now," said the breathless florist when he had his captive safely within the shelter of the shop, "now, vat is your pusiness mit tony? tony is my scharge, an' i don' let him talks mit poys what shteals what don' pelongs to dem. vat you got here?" and he seized the tightly closed hand containing the five dollars, which theodore had not yet found opportunity to conceal in a safer place. theodore resisted; but he was no match for petersen, who tripped him up again without compunction, and, regardless of consequences to the surrounding plants,--which happily came to no harm in the struggle,--sat upon him, and opened his hand with both his own. five dollars! johnny was not a particularly brilliant dutchman, and his mind was generally slow in arriving at any conclusion; but the two and two which were to be put together here were not difficult to compute; and as he looked from the five-dollar bill to matty's shorn head, and back again, he was not long in deciding that they made four. matty for once showed some sign of emotion as she sat rubbing her hand over her poor little head in a nervous manner; although beyond this, and the stare with which she regarded the combatants, she showed no trace of interest in the affair, never once opening her lips. "so!" said the florist, holding out the bill at arm's length,--"so! how is dis? you put matty's head to de schissors, an' take him all off, und you shteal den her monish. de peanuts is a pad pisness; but dis is so much vorse as it goes to de prison. tell me, tony, how is dis?" "i didn't steal it, he gave it to me; and i didn't touch matty's hair," panted the prostrate theodore. "he--he--he wanted me to do something for him, and he said he would give me that if i did it. oh! let me up!" "hole your mout, and shpeak ven you is shpoken mit," said johnny. "tony, shpeak an' tell me. how vas it? you is cut off matty's head; you is got de monish, five tollars, vat i tells you he is vort; now tell me what for you gifs dis five tollars to dis pad poy, a poy so vorse as i do not know. i _vill_ haf you tell me; if no, i calls de police." there was no escape; on all hands tony saw visions of the police, who would soon ferret out the whole matter, away back to miss amy and jim (so tony thought); and he found it best to throw himself and all concerned on the mercy of his old friend, and make a full confession. as he told the shameful story of how theodore had threatened to tell jim's "secret," and to let the police know of the "poisoning" unless somebody paid him five dollars to keep it quiet; of the confirmation he had himself received from jim's manner and words when he asked him about it; of how he and matty had resolved to save their friends by the sacrifice of the hair which johnny himself had often told them was worth so much money; of how they had gone to the barber's, and sold the hair; and lastly, how he, seeing theodore on the opposite side of the street, had hurried over to bribe him with the five dollars to hold his peace, and how theodore had accepted the price,--the kind-hearted florist waxed more and more angry; and when he rose, and once more hauled the boy to his feet, it was only to seize a cane, and administer such a chastisement as the culprit had seldom or never received. theodore made little or no outcry, however, for he was afraid of attracting attention from without, and perhaps himself falling into the hands of the law; for he did not know, if his deeds were once made public, how far he might be under the ban of that authority. "now you go," said johnny, when at last he paused, breathless from all his exertions, and with one final shake released his captive; "go und tell de gran'fader i fin' vat is de matter out, und i gifs de vorst vips as i could gif to de vorst poy in all de down, und so i safes him some droubles. but if he dinks to gif you some more of de same veesic, i dink it not too moosh. for dat gran'fader, i says notings to de police for dis time; bud if you says one leetle more vord apout de young lady or dat goot poy jim, or makes afrait any more dese schillens, den you see some dings to make you shtare. go, go!" and theodore stood not upon the order of his going. the pleasure of the day with our friends had been much marred for me by the recollection of the shorn head of my forlorn little _protégée_ and the repulsive appearance she now presented; and i was more than ever anxious to remove her from the father and mother, who, i thought, had treated her so unjustly and cruelly; and i could not reconcile myself to the idea that this afforded no grounds for my taking them away. but that difficulty was presently to be solved in the most satisfactory way to those who had at heart the welfare of the crippled children. mother had occasion to send jim upon an errand shortly after his return from school that afternoon; and he found it convenient, according to his usual custom, to return by a roundabout way, and stop at the peanut-stand. the excitement in johnny's small establishment had hardly subsided when he made his appearance, and it was little wonder that he tarried long on his errand; so long, indeed, that mother rather lost patience, and said that she should forbid his stopping at his favorite haunt, except by express permission, if this occurred again. but his want of punctuality was quite forgiven when he came in with the tidings which he bore. as usual, however, when any question arose of theodore's want of principle, or any instance of it was shown, there was something in jim's manner which excited the attention of those of the household under whose immediate observation he most came; and again milly was surprised to see how wistful, uneasy, and absolutely nervous he was, appearing, as he often had before, as if there were something on his mind which he wished to tell her, but which he could not muster courage to confess. chapter xiii. matty is provided for. "of course," said uncle rutherford, that evening in family conclave, "this business settles the question of that scholarship for theodore yorke. he has proved himself more utterly without principle or common honesty, than i could have believed possible; and while, for poor old yorke's sake, i should be glad to give him another chance of redeeming his character, i do not feel that the boy himself is worthy of it. he is radically bad and vicious, with a natural leaning toward deceit and dishonesty, and a capacity for crime that is absolutely startling, or he never could have arranged so deliberate a plan to obtain money from these poor little cripples. it was absolute blackmailing; and the yorkes, i fear, have sad trouble in store for them with the boy. all the better for your _protégé_, milly, if he continues to do as well as he has done lately. that fellow is in earnest, whatever may be the aims and influences which control him." "i think," said aunt emily, "that mrs. yorke is right, and that it would be best both for the captain and for theodore to go home. the old man keeps her in a constant worry, by his very innocence and simplicity, which are so easily imposed upon; and it will be far better for that boy to be where he is not surrounded by so many temptations. do you not think so, nicholas? better for him to be in his quiet, out-of-the-way home, than here, where there are so many inducements to evil for a boy without principle, such as has certainly proved himself." before uncle rutherford had time either to agree or dissent, thomas announced that captain yorke wished to see mr. rutherford and mr. livingstone, and was told to show the old man into the adjoining library, whither papa and uncle rutherford adjourned to see him. but through the half-drawn portières, the rest of us heard all that passed; and, indeed, the captain was not reticent,--it was not in his nature to be,--and he would have been quite as garrulous in the presence of an audience of any size, provided he knew all his hearers to be friends. and not even the gravity of his errand, or the subject on which he held forth, could restrain him from the various deviations and wanderings to which he was prone when talking. it will not be necessary to repeat all these here. the old man had gone back to johnny petersen's just as the florist was closing his shop for the night, timing his second visit after the hour at which he knew the cripples would have left, and asked johnny if he had any further information for him. johnny was not inclined to talk, he found, and tried to evade his questions; but he was obliged to allow that theodore had appeared again; and finally, so determined was the captain, that he asked him to come with him to his home, where he would tell him all. seated in mrs. petersen's cosey room, the poor old seaman heard the story in all its details, half bewildered by the good dutchman's broken english, but fully able to extract from it all the painful and shameful particulars of his grandson's rascality. once launched into his narration, johnny spared nothing, and, at the end, rather glorified himself for having taken matters into his own hands, and administered condign punishment to the culprit upon the spot; nor did he deem it necessary to apologize to the grandfather for having done so, neither did captain yorke seem to expect this, or to think that he was not perfectly justified in all that he had done. theodore had gone home, after his encounter with johnny, evidently suffering and much crestfallen; but when his grandfather had questioned him, he had added to his sins, and accounted for this, by saying that he had had a fight in school; he being quite unaware of the captain's suspicions, and of his interviews with tony and the florist in the morning. his grandfather had not yet confronted him with the discovery of his sin; for he had come directly from the petersens to our house, deeming it best to take counsel with those whom he considered wiser and less interested than himself. "i thought i had done with all sich work when i heered tom was took," said the old man pathetically; "but here it's broke out agin, an' me an' mis' yorke not so young as we was by a long shot, an' can't stan' it so well. the scriptur says, 'like father, like son;' an' i've faith to b'lieve it, seein' i'm provin' it in my own fam'ly." "no, no, captain," said uncle rutherford, holding out his hand kindly to the veteran, "you must not say that, for if tom had been like _his_ father, he would have been a man in whom all who knew him placed confidence. and"--contradicting his own words spoken some time since--"we will not despair of your grandson yet. he is young, and under good influences now." "it's all the wus, gov'nor," said the captain, shaking his head, "all the wus to see him so young and so wicked. the scriptur' says, 'the ways of transgressors is hard;' but i b'lieve the ways of them what has to do with the transgressors, an' foller them up, is harder, an' them's my opinions." father and uncle rutherford each offered a few words of sympathy, and endeavored to comfort him; but he was not yet to be consoled, and could see no hope for the future. he was terribly distressed over the necessity of telling mrs. yorke, and said that he meant to "sleep over it," and think of the best way of breaking it to her. but we all knew how much probability there was of that. no sooner would he see his wife, than his full heart would overleap all restraint he might have intended to put upon it, and she would be put in possession of all the facts, down to the smallest details. in the midst of his own perplexities, however, the captain did not forget a piece of news he had brought with him, and which especially interested me, and speedily drew me into the library. while he was still with the petersens, but on the point of taking his leave, the sound of crutches had been heard on the stairs; and johnny, turning to listen, said,-- "dems is tony mit his crushes. vat is upper now?" and opened the door to admit not only tony, but also his sister. tony was flustered and frightened, with eyes half starting from his head; but matty was impassive as usual, and showed neither terror nor excitement. "they've gone!" exclaimed the lame boy. "who are gone? vat is de madder?" asked johnny; then added, before tony could answer, "poor leetle poy, he is all upside down mit dis day. shpeak, tony." "they've gone," repeated tony; "an' what is wus, the furnitur' is gone too, an' there ain't no beds nor nuthin'." "vat is gone?" asked mrs. petersen in her turn; then, jumping at her own conclusions, added, "de vater an' de mutter?" "yes, and good riddance, too; on'y we ain't got any place to sleep," said tony; which filial sentiment found an echo in the hearts of all present. it was all true, as johnny found on investigation. when tony and matty had gone home that evening, they found the wretched room on the top floor of a tenement-house, which they had inhabited with their father and mother, empty and tenantless; the few articles of worthless furniture (if furniture it could be called) which it had formerly held, taken away. but if there was no one there to welcome them, neither did there await them the abusive language and hard blows they too frequently encountered. they were not in the slightest degree troubled by the loss; their only feeling seemed to be, as tony expressed it, that it was a "good riddance," save that they had no other resting-place for the night. a pitying neighbor had given them their supper; and they were told that their mother had gone out early in the morning, soon after they had gone to business, and, re-appearing with a carter, had had her few possessions carried away, leaving no word whither she was bound, or message for the helpless children. the mystery was solved in a degree, when two police-officers appeared a few hours later, saying that blair was "wanted" for a grave offence against the law; but the bird had flown, and so far left no trace. i was delighted, and could almost have thanked blair for committing a crime which rendered flight necessary, and seemed to leave the way open for a decent provision for the destitute children. captain yorke told us that mrs. petersen was going to keep them for the night, and that they were already quite at home and comfortable, and tony excitedly happy,--happiness and matty could not be associated,--with the motherly german woman and her husband. but our two gentlemen and captain yorke had not yet come to any conclusion as to what was to be done with theodore; and it was an embarrassing question to decide. to take the boy, a boy who was making fair progress in his studies, and who was pains-taking and ambitious, from school, and bury him in the quiet sea-side home, where, save for three or four months of the year, he would be almost altogether cut off from association with any but the few still primitive inhabitants of the point, and where he would be entirely deprived of any advantages of education, seemed almost too much punishment even for the grave offences which those three honorable, high-minded men found it hard to condone. but, again, it was not to be thought of, that, devoid of conscience and right feeling as he was, he should be left alone exposed to the temptations of the great city. for captain and mrs. yorke must shortly return home, mrs. yorke's physician having pronounced her sufficiently cured to be allowed to do so in the course of a few weeks; and, even as it was, the nominal protection of theodore's grandparents had formed no safeguard against evil. the evil was in his own heart, but he might be placed where there would be fewer opportunities for its development. it was a grave matter for consideration, and could not be hastily decided. "of course," said uncle rutherford, as he bid the captain good-night, "of course it is out of the question for theodore to remain in the city after you and mrs. yorke leave, even under the care of the kind woman with whom you now board; he would not recognize her authority, and would consider himself free to go any lengths. no, that is not to be thought of; but we may devise some other plan by which he may have some schooling and be kept in proper restraint; and he may yet in time prove a help and comfort to you, yorke. for your sake i would do much to set him in the right way; and his teachers think that he has the making of a clever man in him, if we can but instil something like principle into his character. take heart, man." but the captain went out sadly and hopelessly shaking his gray head, over which twenty years seemed to have passed since the morning of that day. it was not, perhaps, that his affection for his grandson had been so deeply grieved; for the boy had, until less than a year since, been quite a stranger to his grandparents, and theodore was not an attractive boy even to his own family; and, had the choice been given to the captain, he would undoubtedly have much preferred to claim jim as his own, his open, sunny, joyous nature responding much more readily to the old man's than did that of the far less amiable theodore. but he felt ashamed and disgraced, and as if he could not bear to look any one of the name of rutherford or livingstone in the face, while he still felt that to our family alone could he turn for help and advice in this sad business. "ye see, you and mr. livingstone knows a heap more 'bout wicked ways an' doin's than me an' miss yorke does, gov'nor," he said to uncle rutherford, altogether innocent of any uncomplimentary inference which might be drawn, "an' so ye'd know the best ways out of 'em. yes, i says to myself, says i, if there's enny one knows the ways out of a bad scrape, it'll be them city born and bred gentlemen; so i come along to tell ye afore i tole miss yorke or nothin'. mebbe ye could tell me how to make it a little lighter for her," he added wistfully. alas! beyond the promise to think the matter over, and to consider what was best to be done, his two friends could give him little consolation to convey to the poor grandmother, who had built so much on the opportunities offered to the boy who she had hoped and believed would prove a credit and support to the declining years of herself and her husband. the next morning, directly after breakfast, i announced my intention of going immediately round to see cousin serena, and asking her to go with me to mrs. petersen's, to ascertain if there were any hope that she would take tony and matty, now that their father and mother had apparently deserted them. i would provide for matty, and cousin serena wished to do the same for the boy. i was very eager now to carry out my plans, believing that the lions in the way were entirely removed, and that no one could have any further objection to my doing so. but, to my great disgust, again there were dissenting voices; for father and mother, aunt emily, yes, and even impulsive, push-a-thing-ahead uncle rutherford, said that it would not do to take it for granted that the elder blairs would not return and claim the children. it was not probable, they agreed, but it was more than possible; and all my elders were quite positive that the petersens would not undertake the care of tony and matty until they felt assured that the parents were not likely to meddle with them, or to make trouble for those who had them in charge. "but i want to go and see," i said, determined, if possible, to carry my point at once, "if the petersens _will_ do it--and they may. there is no use in leaving matty unprovided for. what will she and tony do if mrs. petersen will not keep them while it is uncertain whether that man and woman return or not?" i spoke in rather an aggrieved tone, feeling somewhat inclined to think my relatives hard-hearted. "interview mrs. petersen, if you choose, my daughter," said papa; "only be prepared for disappointment." "i only want to see matty provided for, papa," i answered, a little ashamed of my former pettishness. "and matty, and tony also, shall not be allowed to suffer, amy," said uncle rutherford sympathetically; mindful, perhaps, of his own propensity for forcing things to a wished-for conclusion at once. "i'll see cousin serena, and take her views, anyway," i said, my good humor restored; and i lost little time in carrying out my purpose. miss craven herself was so eager and earnest when in pursuit of any plan, especially when it was for the benefit or pleasure of others, that i built much on her co-operation in the work of persuading the petersens to take the cripples under their protection at once; and i was proportionately crestfallen when i found that she took the same view of the case as my own family, saying also that she did not believe that johnny and his wife would agree to my proposal, and that she did not think it advisable that they should. however, she willingly consented to go with me to the petersens. and, lo! i returned triumphant; for mrs. petersen, moved probably more by the utter desolation of the children than by any arguments or persuasions of mine, had consented without difficulty to take them for the present, and to retain them so long as the parent blairs did not return or claim them. and whatever his wife decided, that was sure to be the best in johnny's eyes; so, her consent being gained, there was no fear of a dissenting voice from him. moreover, recollections of his own youth inclined johnny's heart to be merciful. "und why for no," he said, when appealed to on behalf of the deserted children, "why for no? sometime ven mine fader und mutter die mit me, und dere vas nopody to gif leetle johnny notings, vat should he do, if did not come some goot peoples vat take und eat him und sleep him? i don' forget; und how i vas done py, i do mit der oders. mine wife she vas so goot as a mutter for dem." the arrangement was concluded to the mutual satisfaction of the petersens and myself, to say nothing of that of tony,--matty, as usual, showing no sign either of pleasure or the contrary. there was no time lost in settling the cripples in their new quarters, so superior in all respects to any they had ever enjoyed before. there was nothing to be moved from those they had occupied with their father and mother; not a splinter, not a shred, beyond the clothes they had on and those kept at mrs. petersen's, was left to them; indeed, had there been, we never should have allowed them to claim it, nor would mrs. petersen have allowed it to come into her tidy apartments. my day was occupied in a fever of energy, running from one place to another, providing beds and clothing and other articles,--many of which, had i not been checked by wiser counsels, would have been unnecessary and unfit,--dragging cousin serena with me; begging from mother, aunt emily, and mrs. sanford, and drawing somewhat heavily on my own resources. at last every thing was ready, to the serene content of mrs. petersen, who now seemed to feel as if she had really adopted the children; and when evening came, i rested in the happy consciousness that matty was at last well provided for, as i would have her, and that i had carried my point with comparatively little trouble. jim beamed upon me every time he came near me, and he appeared to have a sense of partnership which was not a little amusing. amy had "taken it awfully hard," my brothers, norman and douglas, said as they ran me on my new burst of philanthropy; but i was too complacent and well satisfied to be at all disturbed by their comments. little did i dream, while dwelling on the future i had planned for the little hunchback, that a higher hand than mine was so soon to take all provision for her into its own keeping. on the afternoon of the next day, as milly and i, just dressed for a very different scene from that to which we were suddenly called, were passing down the stairs to the carriage which was awaiting us, jim came rushing up in a state of terrible excitement, with distressed, frightened eyes looking out of a deadly white face. "miss milly! miss milly!" he gasped, all out of breath as he was with rapid running, and addressing first the one to whom he was accustomed to turn in all emergencies or need for help, "miss milly, oh, come quick! no, no--it's miss amy i mean. miss amy, come quick; she wants you!" "who wants me? what is the matter?" asked both milly and i in one breath, and very much alarmed as we saw that there was really some serious trouble. "matty! she'll be gone, miss. oh, come quick!" he answered, still in the same breathless manner. visions of the drunken mother returning for the child, and striving to take her away against her will, at once presented themselves to my imagination; and now, indeed, my boasted interest in matty was tried. was i expected to face this worthless, angry woman, and rescue my poor little _protégée_? i could not do it; this was my first thought. then, again, was i to abandon the poor child without one struggle, without one effort to prevail on the woman to leave the helpless child in the better hands into which she had fallen? like a flash of lightning all this passed through my brain; then i said to jim faintly and with a faltering heart,-- "is there any one there to help?" "yes, miss," answered jim; "there's johnny, an' mrs. petersen, an' the policeman brought her in, an' the doctor. but, o miss amy, do make haste! she wants you so bad, an' the doctor said to bring you quick." the doctor? then was matty ill, in danger? "what is it, jim? do speak," said milly. "what _is_ the trouble? is matty ill? do you mean she is dying?" "the doctor said so, miss milly. 'twas the fire-engine. but _do_ be quick!" a sickening horror came over me, and milly turned as white as a sheet; but no more time was lost. we hurried into the carriage, bade jim mount beside the coachman, and, not even knowing whither we were bound, left the directions to him. but the drive to our unknown destination was not a long one; and in two minutes we drew up at dutch johnny's little flower-store, around which a crowd had gathered, through which we had to push our way; or rather the policeman, who stood by the door, opened a way for us. stretched upon the floor, in the midst of all the delicate verdure and brilliant color in the florist's small store, lay matty, her little shorn head supported upon the breast of mrs. petersen, who was bending over her with the tears running down her cheeks. at mrs. petersen's side was tony, leaning his head against her other shoulder, his face a mixture of terror, grief, and bewilderment, both his hands clasping those of matty; around were grouped johnny, a doctor, and a second officer. matty's eyes were fixed upon the door; and as we entered, a sudden gleam of intelligence and pleasure lighted them. she drew one of her hands from tony's clasp, and stretched it out to me. regardless of my light spring costume as it came in contact with the damp floor of the greenhouse, i knelt in front of mrs. petersen, and bent over the poor little creature. only once in my life had i seen death; and then neither my affections nor my sympathies had been enlisted, and my sensations, from the nature of the circumstances, had been only those of horror and repulsion, and i had fled from the sight, while now the recollection of it was as some dreadful dream. never before had i seen a soul pass from the one life to the other; but countless experiences could not have told me the truth more forcibly than did the look upon the face so small, so pitifully old and care-worn. the hand of god's angel had already written it too plainly there. a merciful angel, blotting out the traces of suffering and weariness and oppression such as, happily, few of god's little ones are called upon to bear; and imprinting in their place rest and peace unspeakable. for matty was passing away without pain; the injuries she had received had dulled sensation, while they were destroying life. she motioned for me to bend down, for she was almost past speech; then raising both hands she tried to push back my hat. i flung it aside, and she passed her hands over my hair again and again, and drew her thin fingers, from whose touch i did not shrink now, through the curling rings about my forehead and temples; then her lips moved, and tony stooped to listen. "she says hers 'more purtier,'" said the poor little brother, half choking. "yes, matty," i said, "much prettier. you had the prettiest hair i ever saw." then, as a sudden inspiration flashed upon me, "i am going to that barber to buy back your hair, matty; and tony shall have it for his own to keep all his life." her face brightened, and a smile, the first, the only smile i ever saw upon it, lightened it and almost transfigured it; then she turned her eyes from me, and looked around the little store till they rested upon a beautiful pink azalea which stood at a little distance,--beautiful in itself, but not for the purpose for which matty wanted it. taking one hand from my hair, while the fingers of the other still lingered among my curls, she pointed to the plant, and looked wistfully at johnny. the good german was not usually quick of comprehension; but he understood the mute appeal now, and he asked in a voice even more husky than his usual guttural tones,-- "vat you vants, maddy? some dem vlowers?" she nodded assent, and the florist hastily cut a cluster, and put it in her hand. with fast-failing strength she tried to place it in my hair; but the effort was too much; and milly, who stood behind me, assisted her to arrange the blossoms as she would have them. a look of intense satisfaction passed over the pallid face, as though to her untutored taste this glaring adornment was all that could be desired; then the hands fell, and the lips moved. both tony and i tried to hear; but the only word i could hear was, "suffer." "do you suffer so, poor little matty?" i asked, for the doctor had assured us that she did not. she shook her head feebly, and i heard the word "children." "what children? do you mean you want to see my little sisters, matty?" i asked. "no, miss," interposed tony. "i knows what she means. it is a teks was hung up in the sunday-school room right forninst where she sat, an' she used to sit starin' at it like she hadn't nothin' else to think on; an' the lady what run the class teached it to her one day, 'cause it was the golden teks for that day, an' she's made me be a-hearin' ov it a many times since. she did set sich a heap by that teks as i niver saw, an' i'm thinkin' she wants yer to be a-repeatin' of it to her, miss.--does yer, matty?" again she nodded; and i said as well as my sobs would let me, "suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "more, more," she whispered faintly; and i repeated over and over again the sweet, gracious invitation which has lasted and shall last through all time, gathering into those loving arms the little ones of every degree, the beautiful and the uncouth, the happy and the oppressed; until to the echo of that golden text poor matty's soul floated away peacefully and quietly. unsightly, unhappy, and unloved, save for the faithful young brother to whom she was all in all,--to her, little had been given; and we may surely believe that from her little would be required. so was matty provided for, and the care of her taken from my hands and those of generous jim, who really seemed to mourn for her as though she had been his own sister. the particulars of the circumstances which led to her death, as related by johnny petersen, tony, and the policeman who had witnessed the accident,--for accident it was,--were these. matty had had the most unbounded terror of the fire-engines,--perhaps owing to the fact, stated by tony, that her deformity had been occasioned by her being thrown from a window during a fire when she was a very young child; and she probably associated the engines with all the misery, both mental and physical, which she had ever since suffered. however that may be, the sight or sound of them was sufficient to rouse her from the state of dull apathy usual to her, into a paroxysm of alarm and nervousness; and if tony were anywhere within reach she always sought his side with some fancied idea of protection, until the terror was beyond her vision and hearing. tony had been sent by johnny on some errand, and was returning, and had nearly reached the opposite corner of the avenue, when the sound of the galloping hoofs and rattling wheels of a fire-engine were heard. matty at her stand without the florist's shop was out of harm's way; but no sooner did the clatter of the approaching steamer strike her ear, than she hastily rose from her seat, and started to meet tony, who, pausing with boyish interest to watch the engine as it came up the cross street, did not see or heed his sister until it was too late. johnny saw from within the shop, and started to hold back the child: but fear lent wings to matty's usually slow and faltering footsteps; she heeded not or heard not his calls; and, before he could reach her, the engine swung around the corner into the avenue, and the already so sadly disfigured little form lay among the trampling hoofs and crushing wheels. johnny himself had raised her, and carried her tenderly into his little bower, where he laid her down among the flowers to breathe away the few short moments of her waning life. seeming to be conscious at once of what was before her, she had made tony understand by signs and one or two faintly gasped words that she wanted me; and jim, who had as usual stopped in on his way from school, had hastened to bring me. sobered and sadly impressed, and yet with a feeling that matty's release was a blessing beyond all expression, milly and i returned home, with no heart, as may be supposed, for the entertainment for which we had been bound when we were called to her. chapter xiv. jim's confession. two days had passed, and poor little matty had been laid to the rest which knows no breaking; and all about mrs. petersen's rooms and the little flower-shop had settled to its usual routine, save that tony still abode with the kind germans, and that he tended alone both the peanut-stand and his roaster. his parents had not yet returned, nor have we to this day obtained, or indeed sought, any trace of them; all concerned being only too glad that they have made no claim upon the little lame boy. tony, now no longer a peanut-vender, has been promoted to the post of assistant and errand-boy to johnny petersen, who, with his wife, treat the lad as if he were their own son, instead of a little deserted waif cast by a merciful providence into their kind hands. i had, happily,--or rather edward had for me,--been able to rescue matty's beautiful tresses from the hands of the conscienceless barber, who, when approached on the subject, demanded the most exorbitant price for them; but finding that the circumstances of the first sale were known to the gentleman, and being confronted with tony, whom my brother had taken with him and left outside till he should ascertain what advance in price would be asked, he came down in his demands, and parted with them at exactly three times the sum he had paid for them, and which probably, in righteousness, he should have given to matty. they were at once given to tony, whose pride in them had been only less than that of his sister, and who, with a show of tender sentiment scarcely to be expected from one of his surroundings and antecedents, received them as a gift from the dead. cheery, jolly little tony! but for this and other similar tokens of an affectionate heart, it might have been thought that he was wanting in feeling, so easily did his elastic, joyous spirit throw off trouble; so completely did he extract all the sweet, and throw aside all the bitter, offered to him by a lot in life which most of us would not have envied. in the trouble and excitement over the sudden fate of the little "deform," as allie and daisy had called her, we had for the moment put aside the question of what was to be done with theodore yorke; but now it was to be decided. that the boy could be touched; that he was not lost to all trace of human or decent feeling,--was shown by the trouble, and, his grandparents thought, remorse, which he testified on hearing of matty's tragical death; and he would even have tried to make some amends to tony, had not the lame boy absolutely refused to let him come near him; while the florist, seeing him from within the shop, rushed out upon him, and threatened him with some more of the same "veesic" as he had administered before, seeming inclined to do so whether or no; and theodore, plainly thinking discretion the better part of valor, had lost no time in putting a safe distance between himself and the pugilistic old german. not wishing to discuss the subject in the presence of the culprit or his distressed and anxious grandmother, uncle rutherford had told captain yorke to come again to our house in the evening of the day on which matty was buried; having first taken counsel with father and mother and aunt emily as to the best course to be pursued for all interested. the captain seemed quite to have lost his usual independence and courage, and had put himself and his family into the hands of those who he knew were good friends to him and his. "i didn't let on to the boy, gov'nor an' mr. livingstone," he said, rubbing up his grizzled locks as was his wont when talking, "i didn't let on to the boy as we was thinkin' he was to be took from school; but i'm glad to say he was consid'able cut up along of that poor little hunchback, an' his bein' so mean to her jes' afore she was took; an' i'm thinkin' he has some kind of feelin's in respecks of her, all the more mebbe as he thinks he's goin' to get off 'thout any more punishment than what he got; an' i don't bear no grudge agin that dutch flower-man for what he done to him,--an' isn't he a dutchy though! 'pears like he ain't never studied no grammar nor good english, nor nothin', an' them's my opinions. he do talk the funniest, an' mos' times i don't hardly make no sense of it. but," with a heavy, long-drawn sigh, "what was yer both of ye thinkin' it was bes' to do?" "we have thought, captain," answered uncle rutherford, to whom father left all explanations, "we have thought it would be best and wisest, if you and his grandmother and mother agree, to send theodore to a boarding-school on long island, where he will be kept under very strict discipline and supervision." "supervision! an' what may that be, gov'nor, askin' yer pardon?" said the old man, as uncle rutherford paused for a moment to see how he would take his proposal. uncle rutherford explained, and, seeing that he must confine himself to simple words, went on,-- "we know the gentleman in charge, and believe that he will have an especial eye to theodore if we ask him to do so; and he is an excellent teacher, and will bring him on in his studies. if theodore does well there for a year or two, and shows himself fit to be trusted, we may then remove him to a different and higher school, where he may still fit himself to be a man, and a help and comfort to you. he has his future in his own hands; let him do well, and mr. livingstone and i will see that he is provided for till he is fitted to take care of himself; but an opportunity which might have been his"--o, dear uncle rutherford, why need you have told this?--"must pass to another who has better deserved it. do you feel that you can part with the boy, and let him go to boarding-school?" "i reckon i ain't goin' to have much feelin's agin it," answered the captain, whose face had assumed an expression of intense relief as uncle rutherford unfolded his plans. "i don't set such a heap by the boy as to set my face against his goin' to the boardin'-school, if it do be stric'; it'll do him good; an' he ain't got roun' me so's the other gran'children have, an' i'd a sight rather we had jim for a gran'boy than this one, if he is my own flesh an' blood, as they say. i ain't never took no stock in him sence the first day he come, when i see him take his little sister's bigger cake unbeknownst to the little one, an' put his'n what was not so big in its place." there were no family secrets or shortcomings which would not come to light when the captain was on the high-road to such disclosures; for a wise and discreet reticence was not his distinguishing characteristic, as we know. "i hope he'll do well, an' turn out a credit to ye, gov'nor an' mr. livingstone," he continued, as though washing his hands of the boy, though all the while the trouble dwelt upon his weather-beaten old face; "but _i_ bet on jim, an' i wish it was him had the chance ye speak of. mebbe it is, now; an' if it was, it'd be 'most a set-off agin the other not havin' it. i set a lot on jim!" and the old man looked inquiringly at uncle rutherford, who was not, however, _quite_ so indiscreet as his interlocutor, and kept his own counsel so far as this. so it was settled, then. theodore was to be removed from the school he was attending at present, and sent to the boarding-school, where he would be under far closer restraint than he could be in the city, or even at home with his grandparents; and there could be no question that the old man felt that a great responsibility was taken from his shoulders. "i wish it was time to go home. i mean, i wish miss yorke was cured up so's we could go home," he said. "i reckon i've seen about all there is to see in this town; an' it's my opinions i might 'bout as well be thinkin' of the seines an' poles, an' lobster-pots, an' so on. course they wants lookin' arter 'cordin' to custom this time o' year; an' jabez he's took so to carpenterin' an' what he calls cabiny-makin', he's goin' to let 'em slip, jabez is; an' come time for settin' 'em they ain't goin' to be ready, an' i reckon i oughter to be there; but the doctor, he says four weeks more for miss yorke, an' he'll let her go cured. she's pretty first-rate now, an' she don't walk no more with a cane, on'y comin' up an' down the stairs. i never did see such folks to have long ladders of stairs as york folks is; when i fust come, i used to think i wouldn't never get to the top of 'em; an' even the poor folks here has to go a-pilin' theirselves up atop of stairs as high as a mast, one lot atop of another. ye get up near the sky there; not that folks is so good an' heavenly; no, no; there's on'y a few of 'em that way;" with an approving nod at father and uncle rutherford, and a comprehensive wave of his hand, as if to say that he excepted from his adverse criticism both of his present companions, and all who belonged to them; "on'y a few; but they're pintin' straight for the new jerusylem,"--another nod pointed the compliment. "where was i? oh, them stairs. wa'l, as i was a-sayin', i reckon i've had 'bout enuf of 'em, an' i'd like to be home where i can be down onto the flat groun' an' not like to what's his name's coffin, what i heerd the boys speakin' about, what got hitched half way up to heaven an' stuck there. he's a fable feller, ov course; mahomet, that's his name; there ain't never been no such doin's sence miracle days 'cept in the theayters an' them places. an' t'other night miss dodge, she asked me would i go to the opery, an' i says 'yes.' i was boun' to see all there was to see, an' we went; an' such a goin' up stairs as there was there, up an' up an' up, an' when we got there i thought we might ha' stopped sooner; for down below there was lots of folks sittin' an' standin', an' i asked miss dodge why she didn't stop onto some of them floors, three or four of 'em below, an' she kinder smirked, an' says it costs lots to go in there. wa'l, i couldn't make out what they was at on the platform,--the play actors; it wasn't half so nice as the mother-in-law actin'; they did all their talkin' to singin', an' they died singin', an' all sorts of things; an' there was a old man got young an' fell spooney on a girl; an' they all got foolisher an' foolisher, an' the devil was there, an' such a mix-up; an' bimeby the girl, she died in a prison, an' angel actin' folks come down an' took her up,--leastways was takin' her up to heaven,--an' there come a hitch, an' there they stuck, half up, half down. miss dodge said there must ha' been somethin' wrong with the machinery what h'isted 'em; an' it made me think of that feller's coffin, so i sung out, 'mahomet's coffin!' an' the folks, some larfed, they was mostly boys an' young fellers, an' some few below looked up; an' miss dodge, she was awful affronted, an' she says she was glad enough we wasn't below, she would ha' been too mortified. w'al, that ain't nothin' to do with miss yorke, for she wasn't along; she couldn't ha' clumb so high; an' i never was a man of many words, so i'll get to my p'int. as i was a-sayin', miss yorke, she can't go home yet, an' she can't be left alone, so i've got to stay on." here mamma went to the rescue; for, as before, the rest of the family were gathered in the next room, and heard all that had passed. the two gentlemen had allowed the captain to ramble on, partly because he amused them and us, partly because they knew it was of little use to try to stop him after he had once started to expound his views on men and things. "captain," said mamma, joining the two in the library, "mrs. rutherford and i thought you were growing weary of the city, and wanted to go back home; so we have arranged a little plan which may suit you both, and will certainly suit me well. i have a great deal of sewing to be done now, which i should like to have done in the house, and mrs. yorke is such a beautiful seamstress that i should be glad of her assistance. suppose that she comes here. i can give her accommodation on the basement floor, so that she need not go up and down stairs; and mammy and my own seamstress will gladly do all that is needful for her. then you can go home as soon as you choose. will you ask her?" the captain gazed for a minute into mother's face, then looked from her to father, from him to uncle rutherford, and drew a long breath. "wa'l!" he ejaculated, "when you folks gets histed to heaven, i reckon there ain't goin' to be no hitch in the histin'. an' them's my opinions." having delivered himself of these "opinions," he rose, shook hands with mother, father, and uncle rutherford, a long hard shake, expressive of his feelings; came into the room where the rest of us were gathered, and went through the same ceremony all round; returned to the library and repeated it, then once more back to the drawing-room for a second pumping of each arm, and finally managed to convey himself away; the last words which father heard as he closed the door behind him being, "no hitch in _that_ histin'." two days after, mrs. yorke was comfortably settled in our basement, and industriously plying her needle; the captain was on his way home by water, where he would not be apt to go astray; while at a very few hours' notice theodore had been removed from the one school, and sent to the other. "miss milly," said jim, meeting my sister in the hall on the afternoon of the day on which he had learned that his rival had been taken from the school they had both attended, and speaking in evident but repressed excitement, "miss milly, they say theodore yorke has left school for good. has he, miss milly?" "he has left your school, and been sent to another, jim, where you will not be likely to meet him soon again," answered milly. "and they say it's an awful strict school, miss milly, a kind of a bad-boy school, where a feller don't get half so much chance as he does in ours." "i think the discipline is very strict, jim," replied his young mistress. "and," wistfully, "he was sent there because of what he done--i mean, did--to matty?" even in the midst of excitement, jim was becoming careful to correct himself when he lapsed inadvertently into any inaccuracies of speech. milly hesitated for a moment, but she thought that the lesson might possibly point a moral, and she answered,-- "yes, for that especially, jim. it was his crowning offence; but theodore is not a good, upright boy, and it was thought better to remove him to another and a stricter school." "thank you'm," said the lad as he walked away with a crestfallen air which much surprised milly. was he going to take so much to heart the absence of the boy between whom and himself there had waged a constant state of warfare ever since they had first met? amy must be right, thought milly, and there must be something behind these singular moods of jim's. was it possible that he, too, had fallen into temptation and sin, and, seeing with what consequences these had been fraught for theodore, was now trembling for himself? she could hardly believe this, jim had proved himself so frank and upright; but there must be something which he was hiding, and this was the only solution at which she could arrive. but she was not kept much longer in doubt. jim slept over the matter upon his mind and conscience, and the next morning, which happened to be saturday, and therefore a holiday, came to her, and requested a private interview. the request was readily granted; and, taking him aside, milly waited with more anxiety than can well be appreciated by those who did not know her interest in the boy. "miss milly," he said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, and twisting his hands nervously together as he stood before her, "miss milly, i've got something i ought to tell you." "well, jim?" said milly encouragingly. "i don' know what you're goin' to think of me, miss," he answered with a very shamed face. "if you have done wrong, jim, and are ready to confess it now, i shall not be very severe with you,--you know that, jim," said milly. "you are in some trouble. i have seen for a long time that you had something on your mind; if you tell me, i may be able to help you out of it." "i ain't in no scrape, miss milly, if that's what you mean," said the boy; "only--only--it's a mean kind of a thing, an' i've got to tell. 'tain't fair for me to keep it to myself any longer. bill's the only other feller knows. it's going to take my chance, for sure; but all the same, i've got to tell. i ain't so afraid of you as of--some others." he paused again, and again milly had to re-assure and encourage him, bidding him remember that others as well as herself had his good and interest at heart, and that he had already tested these and not found them wanting. "i know, miss milly," he answered, "but i can't bear for you or none of the family to think me a sneak, an' that's what i feel i've been now. 'twasn't fair, an' now i know it. i did know it all along, on'y i wouldn't let on." "well, come, jim," said milly, determined to bring him to the point without any more of this shilly-shallying which was exceedingly unlike jim; "you must tell me at once if you wish to do so, for i have an engagement, and shall have to leave you very soon." "well, miss," he replied, thus urged, "i found out--don't you be ashamed of me, miss milly--i found out about how mr. rutherford was goin' to give a big thing, some kind of a thing in the way of eddication, to me or theodore yorke, whichever turned out best this year at school, an' how he thought theodore was a sneak, an' me too hot-tempered, an' always ready for a fight,--an' how he was goin' to see which did the best, not on'y in his learnin', but in his conduck, quite without us knowin' about what was afore us, an' then give that one this big thing. and, miss milly, you an' mr. rutherford, an' the rest of the fam'ly, maybe, thought me doin' well, an' takin' care of my temper. an' maybe so i was; but it was 'cause i was _bound_ to beat theodore, an' not let him get that prize. i felt awful mean all along; but now theodore's cut up so, an' got sent off, an' he never knew nothin' about it, or maybe he'd done better, an' i don't feel it's fair in me. i knew, an' he didn't. i stood a lot from theodore, an' didn't fly out at him on'y once or twice that you know about; but i wouldn't ha' stood it, an' there's many a time i would ha' fought him an' the other boys, too, on'y for thinkin' of that. so, you see, i did get more chance at the beginning than him, an' 'tain't fair in me. an' i thought to myself, if you're goin' to do a mean thing like this to get a hitch in life, how you goin' to get fit to be president? if you see somebody doin' a sneaky or dishonest thing, you can't have the face to pull him up an' send him to prison,"--as may be seen, jim's ideas of the presidential authority were that it was unlimited and autocratic,--"when you know you got there yourself on the sly; an' i wouldn't feel fit for it. so there wasn't no comfort in it one way or another; an' i made up my mind i'd tell you, an' you can tell mr. rutherford; an' anyhow i'll come out fair an' even chances with theodore. mr. rutherford will maybe think this is worse than fightin' an' blowin' out?" interrogatively and wistfully. milly had let him go on without interruption when she had once succeeded in starting him, and had asked no questions; now she said,-- "i think, jim, that mr. rutherford will be pleased that you had so far the mastery over yourself that you would not take what you considered an unfair advantage over theodore. i am glad, truly glad that you have succeeded in learning to control your temper; but still more glad that your sense of honor and right led you to tell of this. but how did you learn of mr. rutherford's plan?" jim related how bill, overhearing the conversation, or at least a part of it, on the evening on which the matter had been discussed by the family, had been the medium of communication, and how they had both resolutely guarded their knowledge of it until now; when jim had told his comrade that he _must_ make confession, and put himself, as he thought, on equal ground with his antagonist and unconscious rival. "i didn't do it for no good feelin' to theodore, miss milly," he added, "for i b'lieve i just _hate_ theodore. i didn't feel none too good to him ever since first i seen him, an' the more i saw him the worse i got to like him; but all the same, i'd got to be fair to him when it come--came--to his chance bein' lost. if i couldn't take care of myself that way, i ain't goin' to be fit to take care of these united states. miss milly, you'll tell mr. rutherford? i could tell you, but i couldn't tell him." milly answered him that she would be the bearer of his confession; and left him, much relieved herself to find that he had been guilty of nothing more serious, and thankful from her very heart to see that her teachings and his newly-awakened sense of justice would not allow him to take unfair advantage of another, even though that other might be one whom he considered an enemy. she lost no time in seeking uncle rutherford, and telling him all, so that the boy might not be in suspense longer than was necessary; for she well knew that he would find a lenient judge in our uncle. nor was she wrong. uncle rutherford sent for jim, and taking the boy's hand, shook it heartily, as he said, "my boy, you have gained the mastery over yourself, and no man can achieve a greater victory. i could wish that you had tried to keep control over your temper from a better and higher motive than the wish to outstrip theodore; but we may trust that you will set that before yourself now. go on as you have begun, and the scholarship is yours in good time. my best wishes go with you, and i sincerely trust that you may win the prize." international children's digital library (http://www.icdlbooks.org/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the international children's digital library. see http://www.childrenslibrary.org/icdl/bookpreview?bookid=cupbluf_ &summary=true&categories=false&route=advanced_ _ _cupples_english_ _all&lang=english&msg= bluff crag; or, a good word costs nothing. a tale for the young. by mrs. george cupples, author of "the story of our doll," "the little captain," etc., etc. london: t. nelson and sons, paternoster row; edinburgh; and new york. . [illustration: a scene at bluff crag.] bluff crag. "this is such a capital night for a story, papa," said robert lincoln to his father, who had laid away his newspaper and seemed inclined to take an extra forty winks. "indeed, robert," said mr. lincoln, smiling, "i wonder if you would ever tire of hearing stories. i don't think i have one left; you and lily have managed to exhaust my store." "o papa, please don't say that," cried lily, who was putting away her school-books on their proper shelf at the end of the room. "i am sure, if you shut your eyes and think very hard for a few minutes, you will be sure to find one." "very well, then, i shall try," said mr. lincoln; "perhaps there may be one among the cobwebs in my brain." covering his face over with his newspaper, mr. lincoln lay back in his chair, and the children, drawing their stools closer to the fire, waited in patience to see the result of his meditation. it soon became evident, however, by his breathing, which became louder and longer, that mr. lincoln was falling asleep, and when at last he gave a loud snore, robert could stand it no longer, and springing up, pulled the newspaper away, exclaiming,-- "o papa, you were actually going to sleep! you'll never find the story if you do!" "i think, after all, i _must_ have dropped over," said mr. lincoln, rubbing his eyes; "but you are wrong in thinking i couldn't find a story in my sleep, for i was just in the middle of such a nice one, when you wakened me, and, lo and behold, i found it was a dream." "oh, do tell us what you dreamed, papa," said lily. "your dreams are so funny sometimes. i think i like them better than the real stories." "but it was only a bit of a dream. bob there in his impatience knocked off the end, and i think it was going to be a very entertaining one." "i'll tell you how you can manage, papa," said lily earnestly, "you can make an end to it as you go along: you do tell us such nice stories out of your head." mrs. lincoln having come into the room with the two younger children, a chair was placed for her and baby beside mr. lincoln. little dick trotted off to robert's knee, and the dog, charley, hearing that a story was going to be told, laid himself down on the rug before the fire, at lily's feet. [illustration: waiting for papa's story.] "it's a very strange story, mamma," said robert. "papa fell asleep for two or three minutes, and dreamed the beginning of it. i am so sorry i wakened him; but he gave such a loud snore, i never thought he could be dreaming when he did that." "ah, but you are wrong there," said mr. lincoln, laughing; "you will hear the reason of the snore very soon. well, then, to begin--but how can i begin? lily likes stories to set out with 'once upon a time;' and you, master bob, like me to mention the hero's name, and tell you how old he is, and describe him particularly. now, in this case, i can do neither." "you will require to say, once upon a time, when i was taking 'forty winks,'" said mrs. lincoln, laughing. "i cannot see how you are to relate this strange story without a beginning." "neither can i," said mr. lincoln. "you know everything depends upon a good beginning. therefore i think i had better go to sleep again, and perhaps i shall dream one." "oh, please, papa, don't; i am sure the one mamma suggested is first-rate," said robert impatiently. "very well, then, once upon a time i dreamed a dream--" "it's joseph and his broders papa is going to tell us about," cried little dick. "oh, i like that." every one laughed, while robert explained that this was papa's dream, not joseph's; which set the little fellow's mind wandering away still more into the favourite narrative, and it was only after a whispered threat from robert that he would be taken up to the nursery if he did not sit quiet and listen, that he consented to leave joseph and his brethren alone for the present. "it's no use," said mr. lincoln, laughing, "somehow the dream has fled. i'll tell you what we shall do,--we shall ask mamma to tell one of her stories about when she was a little girl." "i should like to have heard the dream, papa," said lily, "but if it has fled away it won't be brought back. i know i never can get mine to do it till perhaps just when i am not thinking about it, then there, it is quite distinctly." "well, that will be the way mine may do," said mr. lincoln. "come, mamma, we are waiting for yours. a good story-teller should begin without delay, and we all know what a capital one you are." "very well, then," said mrs. lincoln. "you must know that when i was a little girl i had been ill, and your grandmamma sent me to live with her brother, my uncle john, who was the rector of the neighbouring parish. uncle john had no children, and his wife had died just a few weeks before i went to pay him this visit. he had been very fond of my aunt, and he was still very sad about her death; so that it would have been rather a dull life but for dolly, the housekeeper. every morning after breakfast dolly had to go for potatoes to a small field at a little distance from the rectory, and she usually took me with her if the day was fine. i ran about so much chasing butterflies and birds, that when the basket was filled i was quite tired out, and very glad to be placed upon the wheel-barrow and be taken home in this manner by the good-natured dolly. "and had you no little girl to play with, mamma?" asked robert. [illustration: coming from the potato-field.] "not for some time," replied mrs. lincoln. "every one knew how sad my uncle was, and did not intrude upon him; but i never wearied so long as i had dolly beside me. she could not read herself, but she was very fond of hearing me read to her, and though i could not do it very well then, i managed to make out the stories. then your grandmamma had taught me a number of hymns, and i used to repeat them, and sometimes to sing them, which pleased dolly very much. i think it was overhearing me singing one of the hymns that made uncle john take notice of me at last. he used to shut himself in his study, and i scarcely ever saw him from one week's end to the other; but one day as he was going up-stairs i had been singing, and he came into the parlour, and, taking me on his knee, asked me to sing the hymn over again. i was a little nervous at first, but grandmamma had always told me to do the best i could when asked to repeat or sing a hymn, and i did so now. i suppose the words of the hymn pleased him, for from that time he always had me to dine with him; and he had such a kind manner, that i soon recovered from my shyness, and used to sit on his knee and prattle away to him as if he had been your grandpapa, and i had known him all my life. it made dolly so pleased, too, for she said her master was beginning to look quite like his old self; and she only hoped your grandmamma would allow me to stay ever so long with him. "one day uncle john returned earlier than usual, and calling dolly, said, 'get miss lilian ready to go out. mrs. berkley wishes me to spend the afternoon there, and i think it will do the child good. i fear she has had but a dull time of it lately.' "'oh, please don't say that, uncle!' i exclaimed. 'i would rather stay at home with dolly;' for the thought of the grand mrs. berkley, who came into church with her powdered footman carrying her bible behind her, frightened me. "'no, no, my child; you must go with me,' said uncle john quietly. 'it isn't good for you to be so much alone. you will have a good romp with some young people who are staying with mrs. berkley at present.' "'but i shall be beside you, uncle john, shall i not?' i asked, with trembling lip. "'why! are you afraid, dear? come, come, this will never do; what is there to make you afraid? i am quite sure you will be sorry to leave when the hour comes for returning here.' "mrs. berkley's house stood upon a rising ground having a beautiful view of the sea. the rectory was about a mile inland from it; but though i had been very anxious to go to the beach, dolly had never been able to spare the time, and as for trusting mary, the younger servant, to take me, that was quite out of the question. "'i wonder if you could walk to mrs. berkley's,' said uncle john. 'if so, we could go by the field-path, and so have a fine view of the sea. do you think she could manage it, dolly?' "'oh yes, sir,' said dolly, catching a glimpse of my delighted expression. 'miss lily has been wishing to take that walk ever since she came; for she has never seen the sea, she tells me.' "'has never seen the sea!' said uncle john, smiling, 'then there is a great treat in store for you; so come away, my child, and we shall have a quiet half-hour before going to mrs. berkley's.' "i don't think i shall ever forget that walk with uncle john. seeing that i was interested in the birds and the butterflies, he told me all sorts of stories about them--how the former built their nests, and how the latter was first a caterpillar before changing into a bright butterfly. then he pointed out many curious things about the flowers i plucked on the way. he seemed to my mind to know about everything; and, in consequence, my respect increased for him more and more, and i somehow became a little afraid of him. "but when, from the top of the hill, we caught the first glimpse of the blue sea lying below, with the fishing-boats in the distance, i quite forgot i was beginning to be shy of uncle john, and screamed aloud, clapping my hands delightedly. he was so good to me, too. fearing that in my rapture i might lose my footing and slip down the face of the rocks, uncle john took me by the hand, and holding me fast, let me gaze upon the scene without interruption. [illustration: the first walk by the sea-side.] "'now we must go, dear,' said uncle john. 'strange, that of all the works of creation none make such a wonderful impression as the first sight one gets of the sea.' "'do you ever walk this way, uncle?' i inquired, as we turned into another path that led to mrs. berkley's mansion. "'sometimes; indeed, it is a favourite walk of mine,' he replied. 'i like to come and sit just at that point where you stood. your aunt used to be very fond of that walk also.' "'it will be such a nice place to see her in the clouds,' i said, but a little timidly, for this was the first time he had ever mentioned her name, and he had sighed heavily when he did so. "'why, what do you mean, lily?' he asked abruptly, and, as i fancied, a little sternly. "'when my sister alice died, uncle, i was so sad and lonely without her,' i replied. 'mamma was so busy nursing my brother william, that i had to amuse myself the best way i could; and so i used to sit by the window gazing up into the sky; and when the clouds came sailing past, i used to fancy i saw sister alice in the very white ones. nurse told me she is now clothed in white, and i knew alice would weary to see me too; and i used to think god, who is so good and kind, would perhaps let her hide in the white clouds.' "uncle john drew me closer to him, and instead of reproving me for my fancy, he kissed me, as he said, 'poor child, poor little town-bred child, if you had had flowers, and birds, and butterflies to chase, it would have been better for you. i think we shall have to write and ask mamma to send us willie here also.' "'oh, that would be so nice!' i exclaimed. 'willie would enjoy it so much! but see, uncle, there are some children with a donkey coming this way.' "'these are some of the young people i told you were living with mrs. berkley.--hollo!' cried uncle, signalling to the children, who came running down the path as fast as they could the moment they heard the rector's voice. there was a little girl on the donkey's back, and two boys by the side of it, with a stable-lad to see that she did not tumble off. "'we were so glad when you called, sir,' said the oldest boy. 'aunt berkley said we might go and meet you, but we thought you would come by the highway.' "'yes; but this little niece of mine had never seen the sea, and i wanted to let her have her first view from the bluff crag.' [illustration: vea on her donkey.] "'then you have never been down to the beach?' said the little girl. 'we must get aunt to allow us to go there after dinner. it is such a delightful walk;--isn't it, sir? and you needn't be afraid to trust her with us, for we take natilie when we go, and she is so careful.' "'and who is natilie?' inquired uncle john, lifting the little girl from the donkey at her request. "'oh, natilie is our french maid, and she is so nice; even the boys like natilie.--but what is your name, please?' she continued, turning to me. 'mine is vivian berkley, but the boys and all my friends call me vea.' "'my name is lilian, but i am called lily at home--lily ashton,' i replied. "'then i shall call you lily too, may i not?' she said, looking up into my face with a kindly smile, and taking my hand, while her beautiful blue eyes sparkled. 'i am so glad you have come, dear lily,' she continued. 'i do want a companion like you so much!' "'do you find the boys unsocial, then, miss vea?' inquired uncle john. "'oh no, sir,' she replied; 'but they are boys, and you know girls are not allowed to do exactly what they do, so i am often alone.' "'and what do you do when you are alone?' said uncle john, evidently amused with the precise though sweet tone of voice of little vea. "'i play with my doll edith, and i read my story-books, and i talk to natilie. do you know, sir,' she said, letting my hand loose and taking my uncle's as we mounted up the steep slope to the road above, while the donkey was led round by another way, followed by the boys, 'poor natilie, when she came to stay with us, could not speak a word of english, and she was so sad. and the boys used to laugh at her, and so did i sometimes, till aunt mary, in whose house we were living, told us that if we only knew poor natilie's sad story we would be so sorry for her, that, instead of laughing, we would be apt to cry.' "'and what was the story?' inquired the rector. "'oh,' said vea, laughing, 'aunt mary was so cunning about it, she wouldn't tell us a word, but said we must learn our french very fast, and that then natilie would tell it for herself; and as aunt mary said it was far more interesting than any we could read in our story-books, we did try to understand what she said to us very hard indeed. but we haven't heard the story yet; only we never laugh at natilie now, for we have made out little bits of it, and we know the chief reason why she is sad is this: her husband is a very bad man, and he ran away and left her, and carried off her two little children, and she cannot find them.--but will you please walk into the garden, sir?' she continued, opening a side gate. 'aunt said we might show you the new rustic table as we came along.' [illustration: the new rustic table.] "patrick, the eldest boy, who had run on before, joined us just as we came up to the arbour, where a neat round table stood, having curious feet made out of the rough branches of a tree; the top had been polished, and painted with varnish, and looked very splendid indeed. but the quick eyes of vea soon detected an ugly scar on the bright surface, as if some boy had been attempting to cut out a letter upon it. "'oh dear, who has done this?' cried little vea, while patrick turned away with blushing face. 'patrick, this is a wicked action; do you know anything about it? now be careful; think well before you answer.' "uncle john could scarcely keep from smiling at the way vea spoke, and the anxious manner shown towards her brother. 'o patrick,' she exclaimed, 'if you did this, it is very wicked; you must go and tell aunt about it at once.' "instead of answering, however, patrick set off at a gallop, and disappeared behind some bushes, leaving vea standing looking after him with glistening eyes. 'what is to be done now?' she said, as if to herself; 'it is so difficult to get patrick to own a fault, and i fear he will lead alfred into more mischief. o mamma, mamma, i wish you had never left us! i do try to keep the boys right, but they are so wild sometimes.' "'you cannot do more than your best, my child,' said my uncle, laying his hand tenderly on her bowed head. 'would you like me to speak to your aunt for patrick?' "'oh no, sir, thank you very kindly,' she said, drying her eyes hastily; 'patrick must confess the fault himself, if he has done it. aunt berkley is so good-natured, that i am sure she would excuse him if you asked; but that would not be safe for patrick,--he forgets so soon, and will be at some other mischief directly. aunt mary warned me about this very sort of thing.' "'well, i am sure he ought to be a good boy, having such a kind, good little sister to look after him.' "'please, sir, don't say that,' said vea, the tears coming to her eyes again; 'i don't deserve such praise; for the reason why aunt mary told me of patrick's faults was, she wished to point out my own, and she knows i am so lazy, and don't like to check the boys, lest they should call me "goody;" but aunt mary said i ought to look after them,--that a good word costs nothing; at anyrate, if i had only to bear being called a harmless name, it was but a very small cross, compared to the evil i might cause by allowing the boys to play mischievous tricks.' "'that is right, my dear child,' said uncle john; 'we must do our duty, however hard it may be; and though a good word in one sense costs nothing, still we all know it sometimes costs a good deal, and is a difficult matter, to a great many people.' [illustration: on board the steamer.] "to vea's astonishment, instead of her aunt berkley letting her brother off easily, when she found out about the mischief done to the table, she was so very angry that she would not allow him to join the party that afternoon in the excursion in the steamer. while she pointed out the various objects of interest to vea and myself, seeing that poor vea was depressed in spirits--her kind heart suffering extremely when her brothers fell into error--aunt berkley whispered, 'you are not vexed with me, dear child, for punishing patrick? if he had owned the fault, i would have forgiven him; but he was so stubborn, and would not even speak when spoken to. alfred is so different.' "'oh no,' said vea quickly; 'i am only sorry that he was so naughty and required the punishment;' but, as if afraid she was condemning her brother, she added, 'patrick has a warm, affectionate nature, aunt; if he could only get over his love of mischief he would be a dear, good boy.' "'well, my dear, we must try to help him to be good. boys will be boys, however; though it is necessary to punish them sometimes, else they might get into serious disgrace. we must have another excursion soon, and perhaps the thought of it will keep patrick from being naughty.' "on reaching home that afternoon they found the school-room empty; and though patrick had been told he was to remain in the house till his aunt returned, he was nowhere to be found. alfred sought for him in all their favourite haunts about the out-houses and garden, but without success. 'i'll tell you where he will be, vea,' said alfred, on his return to the school-room from a last hunt in the orchard,--'he has gone to the cave at the bluff crag.' "'oh, surely not,' said vea in distress. 'aunt told us distinctly we were never to go there without leave from her, and then only with some person who knows the coast well. what makes you fancy such a thing, alfred?' "'because, i remember now, he muttered to himself about giving aunt something to be angry for; and he has often been wanting me to go there.' "'i hope this is not the case, alfred,' said vea. 'but perhaps aunt would allow us to go down to the beach with natilie, to look for him.' "'i daresay she will,' said alfred; 'but if you do ask her, don't mention patrick's name; you needn't be getting him always into a scrape by your tale-telling.' "'o alfred, how cruel you are,' said vea, 'when you know i am always trying to get you boys out of scrapes!' and the tears rose to her eyes. "'very well, then, i won't,' said alfred; 'you are a dear, good little sister, and we do bother you tremendously sometimes. stay you here, and i will ask aunt to let us go to the beach.' "alfred soon returned, stating that his aunt had said yes at once to his request; 'but,' he added, laughing, 'i think she did not know very well what she was saying, she was so busy talking to the rector.' "natilie was quite willing to accompany us, and very soon we were down on the beach; but whichever way we looked we could not see any trace of the missing patrick. all of a sudden alfred gave a shout, and pointed in the direction of some great high rocks upon which stood a light-house. "'see, vea, there is wild dick running upon the rocks!' cried alfred excitedly. "'where?' said vea, standing on tip-toe, and straining her head forward towards the place alfred was pointing out. "'i see von boy,' said natilie, in her strange broken english. 'him not be master patrick. i know him now for that same wicked boy mrs. berkley forbid you speak to.' "'but i tell you patrick is with him,' said alfred, showing he knew more about his brother's movements than he had owned at first. 'dick offered to help him to find some sea-birds' eggs, and they have gone off to get them now.' "at this moment the boy called dick observed us, and as soon as he did so he began to make signs in a most excited manner to us to hasten. [illustration: wild dick.] "'there has been some accident to master patrick, i much fear,' said natilie, beginning to run. 'oh, when will that boy be good?' "on coming closer to dick, it soon became evident that an accident had really happened; and in a few moments more they learned that the unfortunate patrick, in climbing the rocks, had lost his footing, and had fallen down from a considerable height. "'i think he's broken his leg, miss,' said dick to vea. 'and how he is to be taken out of that 'ere hole he has fallen into, is what i'd like very much to know.' "'do show us where he is, dick,' said vea. 'oh, be quick; he may die if his leg is not attended to at once!' "it was no easy matter to scramble over the stony beach to the place where patrick was lying; and rather a pitiable sight it was to see him with his leg doubled under him, and with a face so very pale that it was no wonder vea cried out with pure horror, for she evidently thought he was going to faint, or die altogether, perhaps. "'oh, what shall we do?' cried vea. 'how are we to get him up? and how are we to get him carried home?' "'i would not have you distress yourself so, miss vea,' said natilie. 'i think i can get him out of this difficulty, with very little patience, if we could get him carried home.' "'if you get him out of the hole he has fallen into,' said dick, 'i will manage the rest.' "'but how can you carry him over such a rough beach?' asked alfred. "'i will get the boat from my grandfather,' replied dick, 'and we can row him round to the harbour, where the men can help us up to the house with him.' "'oh yes, that will be the plan,' said vea. 'do run, like a good boy, and get the boat; i am sure your grandfather will be very glad to lend it to us, for patrick was always a favourite with him.' "'and i know somebody who is a greater favourite than even master patrick,' replied dick, smiling, before he hurried away towards his grandfather's house. "very soon, though it seemed a long time to vea, dick was plainly seen shoving out the boat from the shore, with the assistance of two boys, who then jumped in and rowed it round as close to where patrick lay as they possibly could. "natilie had by this time managed to get patrick up out of the sort of hole he had fallen into, and by our united efforts we at last succeeded in getting him into the boat, where we all helped to support him, as he had fainted away again. it was considered advisable to row to dick's grandfather's house for the present; and accordingly the boat was steered for a cove, up which the tide carried us. [illustration: fetching the boat.] "the hut where dick's grandfather lived was a very poor one, built mostly of turf, and thatched with rough bent or sea-grass. the chimney-can was made with an old barrel, which stood the blast and served better than an ordinary one would have done at such a stormy part of the coast. one or two fishing-boats lay at the rough pier or jetty old dick had constructed, the men belonging to which were earnestly engaged preparing their nets for going to sea that evening; while a number of boys were busy sailing miniature boats in a small pool left by the last tide. no sooner, however, did they hear the shouts of their companions in our boat, than they left their sport, and hurried down to lend a hand in pulling in the boat to a place of security. "'has grandfather come back from the town, jack?' cried dick to a rough-looking boy, the tallest of them all, and who had carried his model boat in his arms, instead of leaving it as the others had done theirs. "'no, he ha'n't,' replied jack; 'and, what's more, it's likely he won't be for some time either; for i hears tom brown saying to tim that my father would be late to-night, and i knows your grandfather is to keep him company.' "'then what's to be done now, miss?' said dick. 'i had been thinking grandfather, who knows all about sores, seeing as he was boatswain's mate aboard a man-o'-war, might have been able to put young master's leg to rights.' "'oh no, dick, that would never do,' said vea; 'we must get him ashore and laid in your grandfather's bed, and somebody had better run up to tell aunt of the accident, and get her to send for the doctor at once.' [illustration: wild dick's home.] "while natilie prepared the bed in the old fisherman's hut, patrick was being carried by the men who had been summoned from the boats. the poor boy was still in a fainting state, and it was not till after he had been laid on the bed that he opened his eyes and showed signs of consciousness. 'oh, where am i?' he uttered; but even this exertion was too much for him, and he became insensible once more. "'it's a bad break, this,' said one of the men to his fellow; 'i shouldn't wonder, now, if he had to lose his leg altogether!' "'oh, please don't speak of it,' said vea, her face becoming ghastly pale. 'do look out again, lily dear, and see if alfred is coming with the doctor.' "yes; there he was at last, running at a break-neck speed down the steep and rocky bank to the beach, while the doctor was distinctly seen high overhead on the regular path, coming very quickly too. indeed, though he had taken the longest road, and did not seem to hasten like alfred, he was only a few minutes behind him, and showed no signs of heat and over-exertion. "'heyday, this is a pretty business,' said dr. blyth cheerily. 'what's this you've been about, miss vea? breaking your brother's leg, eh?' all this time he had been unrolling a case of formidable-looking instruments, taking off his coat, and getting fresh water brought, and bandages prepared with the help of natilie. when these were ready, he turned to look at his patient, and bidding every one leave the hut but the two fishermen and natilie, he shut the door against them himself, and secured it firmly. "'oh, please, doctor, let me stay,' vea had said pitifully. 'i'm sure patrick would like me to stay.' "'i'm sure of that too,' said the doctor kindly; 'but you shall have plenty of nursing by-and-by: don't be afraid, i mean to engage you as my chief assistant. meanwhile, my dear, trust me for knowing what is best for you and for your brother, and take yourself off to the beach there. come, miss lily,' he continued, turning to me, 'you take your friend down to the beach, and keep her there till i call you. remember, you are not to leave the rock there till i call you, miss vea.' "'oh dear, dear, it does seem hard,' said vea, when we were seated under the rook, 'to leave patrick in the hands of strangers. and yet, dr. blyth is such a good, kind man, i'm sure he won't give him unnecessary pain.' "'would you like me to read a story to you, dear vea?' i inquired, opening a book i had brought out with me. 'it might help to pass the time away.' [illustration: down on the beach.] "'thank you, lily,' said vea; 'but i feel as if i couldn't listen to anything; and yet, if i sit here i shall go mad with the suspense.' "'come, then, take a walk along the beach,' i replied; 'we will be within reach of the doctor's voice quite as well. i know he will take some time to set the leg; for when our stable-boy, reuben, got his leg broken, the doctor took a long time to set it.' "'and did reuben's leg get well again--quite well, i mean?' inquired vea earnestly; 'was he able to walk with it as he did before?' "'oh yes; he could use it quite as well as before,' i replied. 'indeed, papa used to say reuben was quicker at going a message after the accident than before.' "'oh, i am so glad to hear that,' said vea, sighing. 'i do hope it will be the same with patrick. poor patrick! aunt mary has so often said he would need to get some severe lessons to make him think. she was always telling him that he would find out the path of transgressors is hard, instead of pleasant, as he seemed to fancy. i don't think there is such a miserable girl as i am in the world?' and here vea began to cry. "after comforting her as well as i could, she was at last prevailed upon to take a short walk along the beach in the direction where some children were playing. as we walked along i told her that my mother often said, when we fancied ourselves ill-used and very unhappy, if we looked about us we would generally find that there was somebody even more miserable than we were ourselves. by this time we had come up to the children, and found three of them in earnest conversation. we were not long in discovering that the youngest was in evident distress, and her companions were listening to her words with deep interest. "'i wouldn't stand it, if i were you, polly,' said the eldest girl, who was standing in front of the group. "'but what can i do, martha?' replied the girl, rocking herself to and fro, and weeping afresh. "'do? i would run away,' replied the other. 'i would go into service, or beg my bread from door to door, rather than bear what you have to bear.' "'but don't you think you had better speak to teacher, polly?' said the other girl softly, looking from under her sun-bonnet with great dreamy-looking blue eyes; 'i wouldn't do anything rash before speaking to teacher. you remember what she said to us last sunday, that all our trials were sent from our father in heaven.' [illustration: poor polly.] "'yes, rachel, i heard her say that,' replied polly; 'and i try to think about it; but oh! my step-mother would make anybody angry; and then my temper rises, and i speak out, and then i am beaten. i wouldn't mind that, however, if she would only beat me; but when i see her raise her hand to strike little willie, who never was angry in his life, but was always gentle and good--always, always.' "'is there anything i can do for you, little girl?' said vea, stepping forward, forgetting for the time her own trouble while witnessing the distress of another. 'why does your companion want you to run away?' "'it's to escape from her step-mother, miss,' replied the girl called martha. 'she uses her shameful, she do, and all for what? because polly's father made so much of her afore he was lost.' "'and was your father lost at sea, polly? oh, how dreadful!' said vea, seating herself on the stones beside her. 'and have you no mother of your own?' "'no, miss; mother died when willie was a year old,' said polly. "'and do you remember her quite well?' asked vea. "'oh yes, quite well, miss. it was a terrible night that, just before she died. father was away to the town for some tackle, and i was left all alone with her and willie. she hadn't been very well for some weeks, but nobody thought she was going to die. even the very doctor had said that morning so cheerily to father she would weather through. she had been lying sleeping with willie in her arms, but a sudden squall shook the door, and made it and the window-frame rattle, and that startled her, and she wakened. then i couldn't help seeing she was much worse; and i tried to keep from crying, for she seemed wild-like, and the doctor had said she was to be kept quiet. then she looked up in a moment, and said, "polly, promise me you'll look after willie when i die. never let any harm come to willie, mind that; and take care of father, but look well after willie." she never spoke again, not even to father, who came in soon after, and cried like a baby over her. she just opened her eyes once, and looked at him with a smile, and tried to push willie over to him, and then she died. how good father was to us then! he used to take willie down to the beach with him while i made the house tidy and got the dinner; and he made willie a fine boat, and dug out a place for him to sail it in; and oh! but we were happy then!' "'i don't think your father would have been lost if it hadn't been that step-mother of yours,' said martha angrily. 'i can't a-bear her, i can't.' "'oh, don't say that, martha. it was god who took father,' said polly, in a low whisper. 'didn't you hear the rector saying it was god's will to send the storm that night?' [illustration: little willie and his father.] "'yes,' said martha; but if your step-mother had only bade your father stay at home, as all the other men did, he never would have been lost. didn't old joe gafler warn them there was a squall a-coming! but no, she is so grasping, she wanted the money for the fish, and she let him go. it was a shame!' "'but father often says the boat may be found yet,' said rachel; 'and you know even old dick says the thing is likely.' "'well, if so be's it should happen that will dampier comes to land again, i hope he'll know how his polly has been treated when he was away,' said martha. "'oh, i wouldn't mind for myself not one bit,' said polly. 'it's when she strikes willie that i can't bear it; and i somehow think willie is not so well this last week.' "'then you mustn't think of running away, polly,' said vea. 'wasn't that what martha was urging you to do? if you went away, who would take care of willie? do you know, i have a brother i am very anxious about too, polly?' said vea. 'he is lying in dick's cottage, with his leg broken, and the doctor is setting it while we are waiting out here.' "'oh, i am very sorry indeed, miss,' said polly, forgetting her own troubles in turn. 'is that the young gentleman who is living with mrs. berkley?' "'yes, polly,' said vea. 'mrs. berkley is my aunt.' "'he's a very kind young gentleman, miss. is there anything i could do for him, miss? i should like to do something so much, for he helped me more than once.' "vea naturally looked a little surprised, for patrick was so often in trouble, that it was rather astonishing to hear any one praising him. "'i don't think it could be my brother patrick,' said vea. "'oh yes, miss, that was his name,' said polly. 'he told me his name was patrick.' "'and what did patrick do for you?' said vea, looking much pleased. [illustration: the anchor.] "'i was playing with willie one day at the harbour, and young dick was showing me a great anchor some of the men had left on shore for a new boat they were going to build, when my step-mother called from the cottage door, and bade me take the ropes and carry home the drift-wood she had been gathering all the morning. dick said as how he was sorry he couldn't go to help me, as he had to go out in his grandfather's boat that afternoon; and so, after leaving willie beside old dick, i took the ropes and went down on the beach. my step-mother had called after me i was to drag them in three bundles, but they were so heavy that i had to separate the first one into two; and for doing this she beat me. i was going back to the next one, crying a good deal, for i was wishing i could go to my own mother and to father, when a boy jumped up from behind a stone, and asked me why i was crying; and so i told him. and when he heard it, he called my step-mother some hard names; and then says he, "are you the little girl young dick helps when he has any spare time?" and when i answered "yes," he says, "well, then, give me the ropes and i'll help you, for dick is away to-day." i couldn't help saying that dragging drift-wood wasn't fit work for a gentleman; but he just laughed, and said there were lots of people would be glad to know patrick berkley was so usefully employed.' "'and did he drag the wood for you?' said vea, the tears standing in her eyes. "'that he did, miss. and whenever he sees me carrying a heavy load along the beach, he just slips up to me, and, without saying a word, takes it out of my hand. and then if he sees any of the boys frightening me, he won't let them. i was so sorry, miss, for the cut he got on his eye; that was from wild joe throwing a stone at him when he was carrying my basket for me round the bluff crag.' "'you have no idea how happy you have made me, polly,' said vea. 'aunt mary always says there is a great deal of good in patrick, only his love of mischief sometimes chokes the good seed. it is very strange he never lets us see him doing a kind or a generous action.' [illustration: by the beach.] "at this moment natilie opened the cottage door and called to her young mistress to come up. i waited by the beach, and taking off my shoes and stockings, waded into the cool water. the girls were much amused at my delight, and i may say terror also, as, looking down into the clear blue water, i saw various small fishes darting in and out among the stones; and even polly forgot her angry step-mother at home, and screamed with laughter at my sudden fright when a small crab seized hold of my great toe, and hung tenaciously to it, even when i was far up on the sandy beach. "then natilie came and called to me to come up also; and there i found patrick lying very quiet and still on the bed, and vea sitting by the side of it holding his hand. it was arranged that i should return to the house with natilie and alfred, while vea remained with her brother till natilie returned; but just as we were setting out, my uncle john came down to see after the patient, and i was told i might amuse myself for an hour outside till the maid returned with the articles required by the doctor. i would have liked to have stayed with vea, but both the doctor and my uncle thought that as the cottage was so small, the fewer there were in it the better for patrick. "'i would like to get home,' said poor patrick in a faint voice. 'couldn't i be carried home, sir?' he pleaded, turning to the doctor. [illustration: down at the cove.] "'not for some days, my boy,' replied the doctor kindly. 'if you lie very still, and attend to orders, we shall see what can be done for you then.' "but when the doctor had gone, vea came slipping out, and bidding me follow her, went round to where some boats lay moored. a ladder was placed against the side of one of these, and up this vea mounted before i knew what she was going to do. 'i feel sure,' she said, looking over the side of the boat to me, as i stood on the beach below, 'if we could only get patrick hoisted up here, we might get him taken home quite safely.' "'ah, but i don't think the doctor will allow you to do that,' i replied; 'i fear he must remain here for some weeks.' "'he seems very anxious to get home, poor boy. i cannot make it out,' said vea. 'he says he will tell me the reason once he finds himself in his own bed at aunt berkley's. i wonder who this boat belongs to.' "'polly said it belonged to martha's father,' i replied; 'she told me so just before they left me to go home.' "'polly, i hope, has quite made up her mind not to run away,' said vea. "'oh yes, i think she has given up that idea; indeed, i heard her say to rachel she would try to bear it a little longer.' "'there is dick returned already,' said vea; and she scrambled out of the boat, and ran down to the beach to meet dick, who was coming from the doctor's house with a basket containing medicines for the sick boy. [illustration: dick returning with the medicine.] "'oh, you are a good boy, dick,' said vea. 'how fast you must have gone!' "'well, yes, miss, i did go fast,' said dick, pleased with vea's speech apparently. 'i went by the beach, the tide being out, and it is nigher that way by a good mile. i would go faster than most folks for the young master.' "'why, has patrick been kind to you too, dick!' said vea, in much surprise. "'that he has, miss,' said dick gratefully. 'when i lost grandfather's knife, didn't he buy me a new one with the new half-crown his aunt gave him to spend at the fair! and didn't he let grandfather think he had broken the glass in the window, when all the time it was me, and nobody else! and hasn't he often and often brought me a bit of his own dinner tied up in his handkerchief, or a pie he would find lying handy in the pantry, when he knowed i'd had nothing for my dinner that day at all!' "vea said nothing, but she evidently thought her brother was a very curious boy, and that she had not understood him at all. "when natilie had returned with the things required by the sick boy and his attendants, uncle john and i set off home, he promising that we would return the next afternoon to inquire after patrick. the sun was just shedding its last rays of golden light over the sea, lighting it up with a strange lurid light, which, with the stillness of the scene, and the great rocks on the coast, left a strange impression on my mind. "'and you say you have enjoyed yourself, my dear!' said uncle john, after we had walked on in silence for some time. [illustration: going home with uncle john.] "'oh, very much indeed, uncle,' i replied. 'i like vea so much, and alfred is such a funny boy. isn't it a pity that patrick is so fond of mischief, when he seems to have such a kind heart?' "'i've always liked that boy patrick,' said my uncle; 'and, what is more,' he continued, as if to himself, 'i never liked alfred.' "'that is very strange, uncle,' i replied; 'he is such a polite boy, and so quiet in the drawing-room. he is so funny too; he nearly set me off laughing at the funny faces he made behind his aunt's back; and he can speak just like her, in that queer low drawling tone.' "'exactly,' said my uncle; 'that is the very thing i dislike about him. he has the power of mimicry, and is also able to keep a grave face when others are forced to laugh--a thing poor patrick is not able to do, and the consequence is he gets into sad disgrace for laughing, and, to save his brother, won't tell what he is laughing at. alfred is a mean boy, for twice i have seen him allow his brother to be punished, when, by simply telling he was the cause of it, the punishment might have been avoided. now, who do you think was the actual culprit who cut that nice table in the summer-house?' "'it must have been patrick, uncle; he never denied it,' i replied. "'that is the strange thing, dear. patrick is greatly to blame in this, that he will not tell upon his brother, but is so easy-minded, that, rather than exert himself to make his friends think well of him, he allows every one to suppose that he is the offender; and, as i said before, alfred is so mean, that, knowing this, he plays the tricks and lets his brother take the blame. a tale-teller is to be despised; but a boy who is so lazy that he cannot say a good word for himself when his character is concerned, is almost as bad.' "'but how did you find all this out, uncle?' i inquired. "'well, i overheard the two boys speaking about it in the shrubbery; and what struck me most was, even when patrick had an opportunity to reprove his younger brother he did not do so, though a good word costs nothing, and might save his brother much misery in the end. i am half glad he has met with this accident; it will give him time to think.' "at this moment a boat sailed past, filled with gay company, who waved their handkerchiefs to us, and cheered most lustily. one little girl held up her doll, and made it wave its hat to uncle john's polite bow, which made them all laugh very much. "dolly was very glad to see me again, and said so kindly that she had never spent such a long, dull day, and that she hoped i would not go junketting in a hurry, else she would require to go with me herself. there was no time to tell her all the story of our visit to mrs. berkley that night, because a woman came in asking her to go down to the village to see a sick man who had wandered there that day, and had been found lying under a hedge by a field-worker. then, as it was close to my bed-hour, and i was very tired, dolly carried me off to my room at once, and when she had seen me safely in bed, went away. the next morning while at breakfast she told me the sick man was apparently a fisherman, but he was so weak he could not give an account of himself. once or twice he had suddenly become uneasy in his sleep, and had moaned out a name some of the women thought was polly, but so faintly, that they could not be sure even of that. "'oh, it must be polly's father come to life again,' i cried, starting up and knocking over my basin of milk upon the clean white table-cover. 'oh, do let me run and tell uncle about it, dolly; he will know what ought to be done.' [illustration: overtaken by the storm.] "uncle john did not like to be disturbed in the morning, but this was an extra case, and after dolly had heard of the sufferings poor polly had to endure from her cruel step-mother, she allowed me to go to the study door and tap gently. uncle john listened very attentively to the story about us meeting the three little girls on the beach, and at once agreed to set out to inquire for the sick man; and proposed, if he was still too weak to answer questions, to go on to the bluff crag, and get one of the fishermen from there to come up to look at him. fortunately, when my uncle arrived the sick man was much better, and though only able to speak a word at a time, understood all the questions that were put to him. it soon became evident that this was indeed polly's long-lost father. when he was a little stronger he told how the boat that fearful night had drifted away along the coast, and how it at last was dashed up on the rocky beach, and how he had been thrown out into a sort of cave, where there was barely standing room when the tide was full, and how he had lived for days on the shell-fish that he found sticking to the side of the cave, or the eggs he found on the shelves of rock; and at last, when even this scanty supply failed him, and he was nearly mad from the want of water, how he had dashed himself into the sea, determined to be done with his misery. then he told how, when he came to himself, he found he was lying in a cottage, with a woman bending over him, and a man sitting smoking by the fire, stirring some stuff in a pan. it seemed that this man was a collector of birds' eggs, and, knowing about this cave, he had come down, with the help of a great strong rope tied round his waist, to gather eggs. great was his surprise when he saw the body of a man floating in the water; but he lost no time in seizing him by the belt, and, with the help of his comrades up at the top, brought him safely to land. [illustration: rescued.] "you can understand how glad polly was when, that same evening, uncle john took me with him to tell her of her father's safety. i kept fancying all the way that when she heard the news she would dance and shriek with joy, and clap her hands; but, instead of that, she just sat quietly down on a stool by the fire. what a white face she had, and how her lips trembled! even uncle john was struck by her appearance, and must have been afraid the sudden news had been too much for her. 'come, come, polly, this will never do,' he said kindly; 'you must set about getting some clothes put up in a bundle, and come away back with me. father is very impatient to see his little polly, i can tell you!' "'polly again! it's always polly!" said her step-mother. 'i don't believe he cares a pin about me and my children so long as these two are all right.' "uncle john spoke to her very sensibly, as i thought, telling her that her husband's children ought to be as dear to her as her own, for his sake, and that a jealous disposition often led to much misery; but i don't think it made much impression upon her: and i was very glad when polly appeared ready to start, with her clothes and some for her father also, tied up in a little bundle. "some days after, uncle kindly took me to spend the day with vea. i was delighted to find that patrick had been removed to mrs. berkley's, and had stood the journey very well. he had been carried on a stretcher by some of the fishermen; and they had borne him along so gently that patrick declared he had never felt the least motion, and thought he had been lying on his bed all the time. "'i should like to get some flowers so much,' said vea, after i had arrived. 'patrick is so fond of flowers; but he likes the wild ones best. he says the hot-house ones smell oppressively, but the wild ones make him comfortable.' "'then why can't we get him some?' i inquired. "'aunt doesn't like us to go to the wood by ourselves; and natilie is engaged to-day,' replied vea. "'i'll tell you how we will manage it,' i replied, laughing. 'we will ask uncle to go with us.' "'but do you think he will go with us?' said vea eagerly. "'oh yes, i think he will--i am sure of it, almost,' i said; 'because i heard your aunt telling him she had some important letters to write, and he said he would take a walk in the garden till she was done.' "uncle john was very kind, and consented to go with us; and not only so, but took us to the best places, and while we filled our baskets sat reading beside us. then, when we had picked enough, he told us stories while we rested; and we were very happy. something he said about a boy he once knew made vea think of patrick, for she exclaimed, quite suddenly,--'oh! do you know, sir, we have found patrick out at last! when he was lying at the cottage, there were so many poor people came to ask for him, that even aunt became interested; and she made inquiries, and we found that patrick was in the habit of helping them in some way or other. one old woman told us he actually drew all the stock of drift-wood she has at her cottage, and piled it up there for her.' "'but how did he manage to do it without you finding him out?' said uncle john. "'oh, he rose and went out very early in the morning,' replied vea. 'the servants were often complaining of the state of his boots; so, in case they would find him out, he used to leave them in the garden and go without his stockings. and do you know, sir, he was telling me such a sad story about that poor woman, and the reason why he helped her. she has lost her husband and three sons; and then her only child, a little girl, was drowned one day looking for drift-wood on the sea-shore.' [illustration: gathering wild flowers.] "'that will be widow martin then, i suppose!' said my uncle. 'her story was indeed a sad one.--i am very glad to hear such good accounts of my young friend patrick.' "'and i am glad about it too, sir,' said vea. 'aunt mary will be so pleased; but do you know, i am afraid alfred has been the bad boy all the time, for since patrick has been ill he is never done falling into disgrace. aunt was seriously angry with him; and i overheard patrick saying, "you see, alfred, i often told you, you would be found out in the end; i couldn't always take the blame to screen you, so you had better give it up." isn't patrick a strange boy, sir?' "it was a happy day for little vea when her brother patrick was able to be wheeled out, by his faithful friend dick, in the chair his aunt got for the purpose; and i need not say that patrick enjoyed it very much. i was invited to spend a week with them then, and as the weather was indeed beautiful, we were constantly in the open air. patrick had always been fond of gardening, and it vexed him to see how his flowers had been neglected during his illness. 'never mind,' said dick; 'i bean't much of a gardener, but i'll do my best to set it all to rights, and i'm sure the young ladies there will lend a hand.' [illustration: dick trying his hand at gardening.] "while dick dug the ground, vea and alfred and i arranged the flowers, much to the satisfaction of every one; and even alfred, who was not very fond of work, said these busy days were the happiest he had ever spent. "the day before i left my kind friends, uncle john came over with a letter from home, saying that i was to return there immediately. "'oh dear; i am so sorry,' said vea. 'i was hoping, sir, she might be allowed to stay for ever so long--at anyrate till all our gardens were finished.' "'ah! but there is a pleasant surprise awaiting miss lily there,' said my uncle, laughing. 'i am almost certain that even the lovely gardens will be quite forgotten when she sees what it is.' "'a pleasant surprise, uncle!' i exclaimed. 'what is it?--do tell me, please!' "'you can't be told till you reach home,' said my uncle, laughing; 'i am bound over to secrecy.' and though i over and over again tried to get him to tell me, he only laughed, as he replied, 'all in good time, lily; you wouldn't have me break my promise, surely.' "dolly was so sorry to part with me, and i was so sorry to leave her, that while we were packing my clothes we cried over the trunk. "'i wouldn't mind your going, miss,' said dolly, 'if i thought you would remember me sometimes; but i'm thinking, now that there is a new---- oh dear, dear,' she cried; 'i was just about to let the cat out of the bag, and what would your uncle have said to that, i wonder!' "it was plain now that dolly knew of the pleasant surprise that was waiting for me at home, and the thought of it helped me to be less sorry to part with her and kind uncle john and all the pleasant things at the rectory. all the way home i kept thinking what it could be. a new doll, perhaps, that grandmamma was to send for my birth-day present; but then my birth-day did not come for weeks yet. a work-box lined with rose-pink, perhaps; but that was to arrive when my sampler was finished--and oh, what a large piece was still to be sewed. i tired myself trying to think, and at last gave it up in despair. "of all the things i had thought of, it never came into my head to expect a new baby-sister; but so it was. when i entered the parlour, and was rushing up to fling myself into my mother's arms, what was my surprise to find a lovely baby--the very thing i had been wishing for--yes, actually a baby-sister. [illustration: my baby-sister.] "i don't think i was ever so happy in my life as at that moment, when i was allowed to take the baby in my lap and examine her tiny fingers and toes; and when she smiled in my face, and seemed to be pleased with her big sister, i actually cried, i was so happy. while i was sitting holding baby in this way, my father returned home with willie, my brother, and such fun and laughing we had, to be sure! but i must own i did feel a little vexed when papa one day said to me, a few weeks after i had returned home, 'well, lily, now that you have got such a fat baby sister to carry about, you will have to lay aside your dolls.' "i was very sorry, for i loved my dolls exceedingly; they had been my dear companions and friends for so long. but i knew papa scarcely approved of me playing so much with them, and fancied i might be more usefully employed. i took out my last new doll, eva, for a walk that afternoon, feeling somehow that she must be laid away in a drawer till baby grew up, when she should have her to be her faithful companion. stepping out at the side gate into the lane to look for willie, who had gone to the post, i found an old woman sitting down to rest. after speaking to her for a minute or two, i discovered, to my great delight, that she was the mother of will dampier, and the grandmother of polly. she had just come from the bluff crag that very day, where she had been to see her son; and she told me that the last thing she saw, in looking back from the bank above, before turning into the main road, was her son with his crab-basket on his back, and master patrick berkley alongside of him. "'oh, i am so glad to hear this,' i replied; 'that shows patrick's leg must be quite well and strong again. and how are miss vea and alfred? did you see them also?" [illustration: meeting polly's grandmother.] "'no, miss,' said the old woman, 'i didn't see them. the young lady and her brother have gone to stay with another aunt at some distance off; but master patrick is to remain with mrs. berkley all the winter. i'm sure there's more than my son and polly were glad indeed to hear this, for he is a good friend to the poor, and does many a good action to help them when he thinks as they are frail.' "after resting for some time by the kitchen-fire, polly's grandmother went away, not without promising to come in again if ever she was passing that way when going to see her son. * * * * * "that visit was the beginning of many, and very many pleasant days i afterwards spent at the bluff crag rectory. but it is near your bedtime, my dears, and i must stop for the present, and send you to bed," said mrs. lincoln. "oh! do tell us some more, mamma," pleaded robert. "i want you to tell us again of those cousins of vea berkley's who came from india, and you haven't even mentioned their names." "all in good time, my dears," said mrs. lincoln, laughing; "that is only the beginning of the bluff crag stories. it would never do, you know, to have them all told at once. we shall have the story of vea and her cousins another time, never fear;" and with this promise the children had to be content, and say "good-night." [illustration: the end.] none killykinick by mary t. waggaman author of "billy boy," "the secret of pocomoke," "white eagle," "tommy travers," etc. the ave maria notre dame, indiana copyright, by d. e. hudson, c. s. c. killykinick. i.--the "left overs." it was the week after commencement. the corridors, class-rooms, and study hall of saint andrew's stretched in dim, silent vistas; over the tennis court and the playground there brooded a dead calm; the field, scene of so many strenuous struggles, lay bare and still in the summer sunlight; the quadrangle, that so lately had rung to parting cheer and "yell," might have been a cloister for midnight ghosts to walk. the only sign or sound of life came from the open archways of the gym, where the "left overs" (as the boys who for various reasons had been obliged to summer at saint andrew's) were working off the steam condensed, as jim norris declared, to the "busting" point by the last seven days. a city-bound college has its limitations, and vacation at saint andrew's promised to be a very dull affair indeed. the "left overs" had tried everything to kill time. at present their efforts seemed bent on killing themselves; for jim norris and dud fielding, sturdy fellows of fourteen, were doing stunts on the flying trapeze worthy of professional acrobats; while dan dolan, swinging from a high bar, was urging little fred neville to a precarious poise on his shoulder. freddy was what may be called a perennial "left over." he had been the "kid" of saint andrew's since he was five years old, when his widowed father had left him in a priestly uncle's care, and had disappeared no one knew how or where. and as uncle tom's chosen path lay along hard, lofty ways that small boys could not follow, fred had been placed by special privilege in saint andrew's to grow up into a happy boyhood, the pet and plaything of the house. he was eleven now, with the fair face and golden hair of his dead girl-mother, and brown eyes that had a boyish sparkle all their own. they looked up dubiously at dan now,--"daring dan," who for the last year had been freddy's especial chum; and to be long-legged, sandy-haired, freckle-nosed dan's chum was an honor indeed for a small boy of eleven. dan wore frayed collars and jackets much too small for him; his shoes were stubby-toed and often patched; he made pocket money in various ways, by "fagging" and odd jobbing for the big boys of the college. but he led the classes and games of the prep with equal success; and even now the latin class medal was swinging from the breast of his shabby jacket. dan had been a newsboy in very early youth; but, after a stormy and often broken passage through the parochial school, he had won a scholarship at saint andrew's over all competitors. "an' ye'll be the fool to take it," aunt winnie had said when he brought the news home to the little attic rooms where she did tailor's finishing, and took care of dan as well as a crippled old grandaunt could. "with all them fine gentlemen's sons looking down on ye for a beggar!" "let them look," dan had said philosophically. "looks don't hurt, aunt win. it's my chance and i'm going to take it." and he was taking it bravely when poor aunt win's rheumatic knees broke down utterly, and she had to go to the "little sisters," leaving dan to summer with the other "left overs" at saint andrew's. "swing up," he repeated, stretching a sturdy hand to fred. "don't be a sissy. one foot on each of my shoulders, and catch on to the bar above my head. that will steady you." freddy hesitated. it was rather a lofty height for one of his size. "you can't hold me," he said. "i'm too heavy." "too heavy!" repeated dan, laughing down on the slender, dapper little figure at his feet. "gee whilikins, i wouldn't even _feel_ you!" this was too much for any eleven-year-old to stand. freddy was not very well. brother timothy had been dosing him for a week or more, and these long hot summer days made his legs feel queer and his head dizzy. it was rather hard sometimes to keep up with dan, who was making the most of his holiday, as he did of everything that came in his way. freddy was following him loyally, in spite of the creeps and chills that betrayed malaria. but now his brown eyes flashed fire. "you're a big brag, dan dolan!" he said, stung by such a taunt at his size and weight. "just you try me!" and catching dan's hand he made a spring to his waist and a reckless scramble to his shoulders. "hooray!" said dan, cheerily. "steady now, and hold on to the bar!" "do you feel me now?" said fred, pressing down with all his small weight on the sturdy figure beneath him. "a mite!" answered dan. "sort of like a mosquito had lit on me up there." "do you feel me now?" said fred, bringing his heels down with a dig. "look out now!" cried dan, sharply. "don't try dancing a jig up there. hold to the bar." but the warning came too late. the last move was too much for the half-sick boy. freddy's head began to turn, his legs gave way--he reeled down to the floor, and, white and senseless, lay at dan's feet. in the big, book-lined study beyond the quadrangle, father regan was settling final accounts prior to the series of "retreats" he had promised for the summer; while brother bart, ruddy and wrinkled as a winter apple, "straightened up,"--gathering waste paper and pamphlets as his superior cast them aside, dusting book-shelves and mantel, casting the while many an anxious, watchful glance through the open window. the boys were altogether too quiet this morning. brother bart distrusted boyish quiet. for the "laddie," as he had called freddy since the tiny boy had been placed six years ago in his special care, was the idol of the good man's heart. he had washed and dressed and tended him in those early years with almost a woman's tenderness, and was watching with jealous anxiety as laddie turned from childish ways into paths beyond his care. dan dolan was brother bart's especial fear--dan dolan, who belonged to the rough outside world from which laddie had been shielded; dan dolan, who, despite tickets and medals, brother bart felt was no mate for a little gentleman like his boy. "they're quarely still this morning," he said at last, giving voice to his fear. "i'm thinking they are at no good." "who?" asked father regan, looking up from the letter he was reading. "the boys," answered brother bart,--"the four of them that was left over with us." "four of them?" repeated the father, who, with the closing of the schools, had felt the burden of his responsibilities drop. "true, true! i quite forgot we have four boys with us. it must be dull for the poor fellows." "dull!" echoed brother bart, grimly,--"dull is it, yer reverence? it's in some divilment they are from morning until night. there's no rule for vacation days, as mr. linton says; and so the four of them are running wild as red indians, up in the bell tower, and in the ice pond that's six feet deep with black water, and scampering over the highest ledge of the dormitory roof, till my heart nearly leaps from my mouth." "poor fellows!" said father regan, indulgently. "it's hard on them, of course. let me see! colonel fielding and his wife are in the philippines, i remember, and asked to leave dudley with us; and judge norris couldn't take will with him to japan; and there's our own little fred of course,--we always have him; and--" "that dare-devil of a dan dolan, that's the worst of all!" burst forth brother bart. "it's for me sins he was left here, i know; with the laddie following everywhere he leads, like he was bewitched." "poor danny! aren't you a little hard on him, brother bart?" was the smiling question. "sure i am, i am,--god forgive me for that same!" answered brother bart, penitently. "but i'm no saint like the rest of ye; and laddie crept into my heart six years ago, and i can't put him out. wild dan dolan is no fit mate for him." "why not?" asked father regan, gravely, though there was a quizzical gleam in his eye. "sure, because--because--" hesitated brother bart, rather staggered by the question. "sure ye know yerself, father." "no, i don't," was the calm reply. "dan may be wild and mischievous--a little rough perhaps, poor boy!--but he will do freddy no harm. he is a bright, honest, manly fellow, making a brave fight against odds that are hard to face; and we must give him his chance, brother bart. i promised his good old aunt, who was broken-hearted at leaving him, that i would do all i could for her friendless, homeless boy. as for mischief--well, i rather like a spice of mischief at his age. it is a sign of good health, body and soul. but we must try to give it a safer outlet than roofs and bell towers," he added thoughtfully. "let me see! if we could send our 'left overs' some place where they could have more freedom. why--why, now that i think of it" (the speaker's grave face brightened as he took up the letter he had been reading), "maybe there's a chance for them right here. father tom rayburn has just written me that freddy has fallen heir to some queer old place on the new england coast. it belonged to his mother's great-uncle, an old whaling captain, who lived there after an eccentric fashion of his own. it seems that this ship was stranded on this island more than fifty years ago, and he fixed up the wreck, and lived there until his death this past month. the place has no value, father tom thinks; but he spent two of the jolliest summers of his own boyhood with an old captain kane at killykinick." "killykinick?" echoed brother bart. "that sounds irish, father." "it does," laughed father regan. "perhaps the old captain was an irishman. at any rate, there he lived, showing a light every night at his masthead to warn other ships off,--which was quite unnecessary of course, as the government attends to all such matters now." "it must be a queer sort of a place," said brother bart, doubtfully. "but it might do laddie good to get a whiff of the salt air and a swim in the sea. he isn't well, brother timothy says, and as everyone can see. he has a touch of the fever every day; and as for weight, dan dolan would make two of him. and his mother died before she was five and twenty. god's holy will be done!" brother bart's voice broke at the words. "but i'm thinking laddie isn't long for this world, father. there's an angel-look in his face that i don't like to see." and the old brother shook his head lugubriously. father regan laughed. "oh, i wouldn't worry about that! i've seen plenty of just such angels, brother bart, and they grew up into very hardy, mortal men, who had to scuffle their way through life like the rest of us. but freddy is looking a little peaked of late, as i noticed on commencement day. i think that, as you say, a breath of salt air would be good for him. we might send all four off together to this place of his." "is it dan dolan with the rest?" asked brother bart, in dismay. "why, of course! we couldn't keep poor dan here all alone," was the answer. "he'll have laddie climbing the rocks and swimming the seas like--like a wild indian," said the good man, despairingly. "what! that angel boy of yours, brother bart?" laughed the priest. "aye, aye!" answered the good brother. "i'm not denying that laddie has a wild streak in him. it came from his poor young father, i suppose. arrah! has there never been word or sign from him, father?" queried brother bart, sorrowfully. "never," was the grave reply,--"not since he disappeared so strangely six years ago. i presume he is dead. he had been rather a wild young fellow; but after his wife's death he changed completely, reproached himself for having, as he said, broken her heart, and got some morbid notion of not being a fit father for his child. he had lost his faith and was altogether unbalanced, poor man! luckily, freddy inherits a fortune from his mother, and is well provided for; and now comes this other heritage from the old great-uncle--killykinick. i really think--o god bless me! what is the matter?" asked the speaker, turning with a start, as, reckless of rules and reverence, two white-faced boys burst unannounced into the room. "it's--it's--it's freddy neville, father!" panted jim norris. "laddie,--my laddie! what's come to him?" cried brother bart. "he's tumbled off the high bar," gasped dud fielding, "and he is lying all white and still, and--and dead, father!" ii.--old top. there was a hurried rush to the scene of accident; but first aid to the injured had already been rendered. freddy lay on the gym floor, pillowed on dan's jacket, and reviving under the ministration of a sturdy hand and a very wet and grimy pocket-handkerchief. "what did you go tumbling off like that for?" asked dan indignantly as the "angel eyes" of his patient opened. "don't know," murmured freddy, faintly. "i told you to stand steady, and you didn't,--you jumped!" said dan. "so--so you'd feel me," answered fred, memory returning as the darkness began to brighten, and brother bart and brother timothy and several other anxious faces started out of the breaking clouds. "but i'm not hurt,--i'm not hurt a bit, brother bart." "blessed be god for that same!" cried the good brother, brokenly, as, after close examination, brother timothy agreed to this opinion. "and it wasn't the fault of the rapscallions wid ye that ye're not killed outright. to be swinging like monkeys from a perch, and ye half sick and lightheaded! put him in the bed, brother timothy; and keep him there till we see what comes of this." so freddy was put to bed in the dim quiet of the infirmary, to watch developments. brother timothy gave him an old fashioned "drought," and he went to sleep most comfortably. he woke up feeling very well indeed, to enjoy an appetizing repast of chicken broth and custard. but when this went on for two days, freddy began to grow restless. infirmary life was very well in school time; indeed, when there were other patients not too sick to share its luxuries, it proved rather a pleasant break in the routine of class-room and study-hall. in fact, a late epidemic of measles that filled every bed had been a "lark" beyond brother timothy's suppression. but the infirmary in vacation, with no chance for the pillow fights that had made the "measles" so hilarious, with no boy in the next bed to exchange confidences and reminiscences, with no cheery shouts from the playground and quadrangle, with only the long stretch of bare, spotless rooms, white cots, and brother timothy rolling pills in the "doctor shop," the infirmary was dull and dreary indeed. "can't i get up to-day, brother?" asked freddy on the third morning, as brother timothy took away a breakfast tray cleared to the last crumb of toast. "no," replied the brother, who from long dealing with small boys had acquired the stony calm of a desert sphinx. beneath it he was a gentle, patient, wise old saint, who watched and prayed over his patients in a way they little guessed. "no, you can't." "gee!" said freddy, with a rebellious kick at the counterpane. "the bump on my head is gone and i'm not sick at all." "we're not so sure of that," answered brother tim. "you've had temperature." "what's 'temperature'?" asked freddy, roused with interest. "never mind what it is, but you'll have to stay here till it goes," answered brother tim, with decision. and freddy could only lay back on his pillows in hopeless gloom, watching the shadows of the big elm by his window flickering over curtain and coverlet. the great elm--or "old top," as it had been affectionately called by generations of students--was the pride of the college grounds. many a newcomer felt his heart warm to his strange surroundings when he found the name of father or grandfather cut into the rough bark, where men who had made later marks on history's page had left youthful sign manual. more than once the growth of the college buildings had threatened to encroach upon old top; but the big elm held its prior claim, and new dormitory or infirmary was set back that it might rule with kingly right in its historic place. many were the stories and legends of which old top was the hero. in the "great fire" its boughs had proven a ladder of safety before modern "escapes" were known. civil-war veterans told of hunted scouts hiding, all unknown to the fathers, in its spreading branches; while the students' larks and frolics to which it had lent indulgent ear were ancient history at many a grandfather's fireside. but, like all things earthly, the big tree was growing old; a barbed wire fencing surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively prohibited climbing the rotten and unsafe branches. even cutting names was forbidden. freddy had been the last allowed, as the "kid" of the house, to put his initials beneath his father's. it had been quite an occasion, his eleventh birthday. there had been a party (freddy always had ten dollars to give a party on his birthday); and then, surrounded by his guests, still gratefully appreciative of unlimited ice cream and strawberries, he had carefully cut "f. w. n. --" beneath the same signature of twenty years ago. it was then too twenty years ago. it was then too hilarious an occasion for sad reflection; but lying alone in the infirmary to-day, freddy's memories took doleful form as he recalled the "f. w. n." above his own, and began to think of his father who had vanished so utterly from his young life. he had only the vaguest recollection of a tall, handsome "daddy" who had tossed him up in his arms and frolicked and laughed with him in a very dim, early youth. he could recall more clearly the stern, silent man of later years, of whom the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. and he retained a vivid memory of one bewildering evening in the dusky parlor of saint andrew's when a shaking, low voiced father had held him tight to his breast for one startling moment, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear, "good-bye, my little son,--good-bye for ever!" it was very sad, as freddy realized to-day (he had never considered the matter seriously before),--very sad to have a father bid you good-bye forever. and to have your mother dead, too,--such a lovely mother! freddy had, in his small trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty as any of the angels on the chapel windows. and now he had "temperature," and maybe he was going to die, too, like some of those very good little boys of whom father martin read aloud on sundays. freddy's spirits were sinking into a sunless gloom, when suddenly there came a whistle through the open window,--a whistle that made him start up breathless on his pillow. for only one boy in saint andrew's could achieve that clear high note. it was dan dolan calling,--but how, where? freddy's window was four stories high, without porch or fire escape and that whistle was almost in his ear. he pursed up his trembling lips and whistled back. "hi!" came a cautious voice, and the leafy shadows of old top waved violently. "you're there, are you? brother tim around?" "no," answered freddy. "then i'll swing in for a minute." and, with another shake of old top, dan bestrode the window ledge,--a most cheery-looking dan, grinning broadly. "how--how did you get up?" asked freddy, thinking of the barbed wire defences below. "dead easy," answered dan. "just swung across from the organ-loft windows. they wouldn't let me come up and see you. brother bart, the old softy, said i'd excite you. what's the matter, anyhow? is it the tumble--or typhoid?" "neither," said fred. "i feel fine, but brother tim says i've got temperature." "what's that?" asked dan. "i don't know," replied freddy. "you better not come too near, or you may catch it." "pooh, no!" said dan, who was poised easily on his lofty perch. "i never catch anything. but i'll keep ready for a jump, or brother tim will catch me, and there will be trouble for sure. and as for brother bart, i don't know what he'd do if he thought i had come near you. jing! but he gave it to me hot and heavy about letting you get that tumble! he needn't. i felt bad enough about it already." "oh, did you, dan?" asked fred, quite overcome by such an admission. "rotten!" was the emphatic answer. "couldn't eat any dinner, though we had cherry dumpling. and brother bart rubbed it in, saying i had killed you. then i got the grumps, and when dud fielding gave me some of his sass we had a knock-out fight that brought father rector down on us good and strong. i tell you it's been tough lines all around. and this is what you call--vacation!" concluded dan, sarcastically. "oh, i'm sorry!" said freddy. "the tumble didn't hurt me much. i guess i was sort of sick anyhow. and to fight dud fielding!" the speaker's eyes sparkled. "oh, i bet you laid him out, dan!" "didn't i, though! shut up one eye, and made that grecian nose of his look like a turnip. it ain't down yet," answered dan, with satisfaction. "he fired me up talking about aunt win." "oh, did he?" asked freddy, sympathetically. "yes: said i ought to be ditch-digging to keep her out of the poorhouse, instead of pushing in with respectable boys here. sometimes i think that myself," added dan in another tone. "but it wasn't any of that blamed plute's business to knock it into me." "but it isn't true: your aunt isn't in the poorhouse, dan?" said freddy, eagerly. "well, no, not exactly," answered dan. "but she is with the little sisters, which is next thing to it. and i ain't like the rest of you, i know; and don't need dud fielding to tell me. but just let me get a good start and i'll show folks what dan dolan can do. i'll be ready for something better than a newsboy or a bootblack." "o dan, you'll never be anything like that!" said freddy, in dismay. "i have been," was the frank reply. "given many a good shine for a nickel. could sell more papers than any little chap on the street. was out before day on winter mornings to get them hot from the press, when i hadn't turned seven years old. but i ain't going back to it,--no, sir!" dan's lips set themselves firmly. "i'm on the climb. maybe i won't get very far, but i've got my foot on the ladder. i'm going to hold my own against dud fielding and all his kind, no matter how they push; and i told father rector that yesterday when they were plastering up dud's eye and nose." "o dan, you didn't!" "yes, i did. i was just boiling up, and had to bust out, i guess. and when he lectured us about being gentlemen, i told him i didn't aim at anything like that. i wasn't made for it, as i knew; but i was made to be a man, and i was going to hold up like one, and stand no shoving." "o dan!" gasped freddy, breathlessly. "and--and what did he say?" "nothing," answered dan, grimly. "but from the looks of things, i rather guess i'm in for a ticket of leave. that's why i'm up here. couldn't go off without seeing you,--telling you how sorry i was i let you get that fall off my shoulders. i oughtn't to have dared a kid like you to fool-tricks like that. i was a big dumb-head, and i'd like to kick myself for it. for i think more of you than any other boy in the college, little or big,--i surely do. and i've brought you something, so when i'm gone you won't forget me." and dan dived into his pocket and brought out a round disk of copper about the size of a half dollar. it was rimmed with some foreign crest, and name and date. "an old sailor man gave it to me," said dan, as he reached over to freddy's bed and handed him the treasure. "he was a one-legged old chap that used to sit down on the wharf sort of dazed and batty, until the boys roused him by pelting and hooting at him; and then he'd fire back curse words at them that would raise your hair. it was mean of them, for he was old and lame and sick; and one day i just lit out a couple of measly little chaps and ducked them overboard for their sass. after that we were sort of friends, me and old 'nutty,' as everyone called him. i'd buy tobacco and beer for him, and give him an old paper now and then; and when he got down and out for good aunt win made me go for the priest for him and see him through. he gave me this at the last. he had worn it on a string around his neck, and seemed to think it was something grand. it's a medal for bravery that the poor old chap had won more than forty years ago. ben wharton offered me a dollar for it to put in his museum, but i wouldn't sell it. it seemed sort of mean to sell poor old nutty's medal. but i'd like to give it to you, so you'll remember me when i've gone." "oh, but you're not--not going away, dan!" said freddy. "and i can't take your medal, anyhow. i'd remember you without it. you're the best chum i ever had,--the very best. and--and--" the speaker broke off, stammering; for a second visitor had suddenly appeared at his bedside: father regan who had entered the infirmary unheard and unseen, and who now stood with his eyes fixed in grave displeasure on the daring dan. iii.--a judgment. "dan dolan!" said father regan, as the reckless interloper flushed and paled beneath his steady gaze. "dan dolan!" echoed brother tim, who had come in behind his honored visitor. "how ever did he get past me! i've been saying my beads at the door without this half hour." "swung in by old top," ventured dan, feeling concealment was vain. "you dared old top at this height, when scarcely a bough is sound! you must be mad, boy. it is god's mercy that you did not break your neck. don't you know the tree is unsafe?" "yes, father," answered dan. "but--but i had to see freddy again, and they wouldn't let me come up. i just _had_ to see him, if it killed me." and there was a sudden break in the young voice that startled his hearer. but a glance at the dizzy and forbidden height of old top and father regan was stern again. "why did you have to see him, if it killed you?" he asked briefly. "because i wanted to tell how bad i felt about letting him get hurt, because--because he has been better to me than any boy in the school, because--because--" (again dan's tone grew husky) "i just had to bid freddy good-bye." "o father, no, no!" freddy burst out tremulously. "don't let him say good-bye! don't send dan away, father, please! he won't fight any more, will you, dan?" "i am not promising that," answered dan, sturdily. "i won't stand shoving and knocking, not even to keep my place here." "o dan!" cried freddy, in dismay at such an assertion. "why, you said you would work day and night to stay at saint andrew's!" "work, yes," replied dan, gruffly. "i don't mind work, but i won't ever play lickspittle." "and is that the way ye'd be talking before his reverence?" broke in brother tim, indignantly. "get out of the infirmary this minute, dan dolan; for it's the devil's own pride that is on yer lips and in yer heart, god forgive me for saying it." "we'll settle this later," said father regan, quietly. "go down to my study, dan, and wait for me. i have a message for freddy from his uncle." "o dan, dan!" (there was a sob in the younger boy's voice as he felt all this parting might mean.) "i'll--i'll miss you dreadfully, dan!" "don't!" said dan, gripping his little comrade's hand. "i ain't worth missing. i'm glad i came, anyhow, to say good-bye and good-luck, freddy!" and he turned away at the words, with something shining in his blue eyes that father regan knew was not all defiance. it was a long wait in the study. dan had plenty of time to think, and his thoughts were not very cheerful. he felt he had lost his chance,--the chance that had been to him like the sudden opening of a gate in the grim stone wall of circumstances that had surrounded him,--a gate beyond which stretched free, sunlit paths to heights of which he had never dreamed. he had lost his chance; for a free scholarship at saint andrew's depended on good conduct and observance of rules as well as study; and dan felt he had doubly and trebly forfeited his claim. but he would not whine. perhaps it was only the plucky spirit of the street arab that filled his breast, perhaps something stronger and nobler that steadied his lip and kindled his eye, as he looked around the spacious, book-lined room, and realized all that he was losing--had lost. for dan loved his books,--the hard-earned scholarship proved it. many a midnight hour had found him, wrapped in his worn blankets, studying by the light of a flaring candle-end stuck perilously on his bedpost, after good aunt win had thriftily put out the lamp, and believed danny was sound asleep preparatory to a start on his beat at break of day. "one of the brightest, clearest, quickest minds i ever knew," dan's teacher had told father regan when awarding the scholarship,--"if he can only keep the track. but he has a bold spirit, and it will be hard on him among all those 'high-steppers' of yours at saint andrew's. he is likely to bolt and break away." but dan had been too busy with his books all the year to mind "high-steppers." his patched jacket kept the head of the classes, and his stubby-toed shoes marched up every month to get the ticket, and he had helped more than one heavy-witted "high-stepper" through conditions that threatened to put him out of the race. most of the saint andrew's boys were manly youngsters, with whom jackets and shoes did not count against brain and brawn; and strong, clever, quick-witted dan had held his place in schoolroom and playground unquestioned. but there were exceptions, and dud fielding was one of them. he had disliked the "poor scholar" from the first. dud was a tall, handsome fellow, filled with ideas of his own importance; and dan had downed him more than once in field and class-room, to his great disgust. worst than all, in appreciation of his careful costuming, dan had alluded to him as "dudey,"--a boyish liberty which, considering the speaker's patched jacket, master fielding could not forgive. it was the repetition of this remark, when dud had appeared garbed in a summer suit of spotless linen, that had precipitated yesterday's fight. altogether, with all the restraints and interests of school time removed, vacation was proving a perilous period to the "left-overs" at saint andrew's. dan realized this as, turning his back on the book-lined room, with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily out of the broad window that opened on the quadrangle, he stood awaiting "judgment." he expected no mercy: he felt grimly he had no claim to it. maybe if he had a rich father or uncle or somebody grand and great to speak up for him, he might be given another chance; but a poor boy who, as dud fielding said, ought to be "ditch digging"--dan choked up again at the thought that, after all, perhaps dud was right: he was not the sort to be pushing in here. he ought to be out in his own rough world, working his own rough way. all those fancies of his for better, higher things had been only "pipe dreams." but jing, it would be hard to give up! dan looked out at the quadrangle where he had led so many a merry game; at the ball field, scene of battle and victory that even dud fielding could not dispute; at the long stretch of the study hall windows opposite; at the oriel of the chapel beyond. all spoke to him of a life that had been like air and sunshine to a plant stretching its roots and tendrils in the dark. and he must leave it all! he must go back again to the old ways, the old work! he was big enough now to drive a butcher's wagon, or clean fish and stuff sausages at pete patterson's market store; or--or--there were other things he could do that a fellow like him must do when he is "down and out." and while he still stared from the window, the grim, dogged look settling heavier upon his young face, dan caught a footstep behind him, and turned to face father regan. "i've kept you waiting longer than i expected, dan, but i had great news for freddy,--news that took some time to tell." the speaker sank into the tall stiff-backed chair known to many a young sinner as the "judgment seat." "now" (the clear, keen eyes fixed themselves gravely on the boy) "i want to have a talk with you. things can not go on in this way any longer, even in vacation time. i must say that, after the last year's good record, i am disappointed in you, dan,--sorely disappointed." "i'm sorry, father," was the respectful answer, but the grim, hard look on the young face did not change. "i've made a lot of trouble, i know." "you have," was the grave answer, "and trouble i did not expect from you. still, circumstances have been against you, i must confess. but this does not alter the fact that you have broken strict rules that even in vacation we can not relax,--broken them deliberately and recklessly. you are evidently impatient of the restraint here at saint andrew's; so i have concluded not to keep you here any longer, dan." "i'm not asking it, father." dan tried bravely to steady voice and lip. "i'm ready to go whenever you say." "to-morrow, then," continued father regan,--"i've made arrangements for you to leave to-morrow at ten. brother francis will see that your trunk is packed to-night." "yes, father," said dan, somewhat bewildered at the friendly tone in which this sentence was delivered. "i'd like to see mr. raymond and mr. shipman before i go, and thank them for all they've done for me; and father roach and father walsh and all of them; and to say i'm sorry i made any trouble." "good gracious," laughed father regan, "one would think you were on your dying bed, boy!" "i--i feel like it," blurted out dan, no longer able to choke down the lump in his throat. "i'd rather die, a good deal." "rather die!" exclaimed father regan,--"rather die than go to killykinick!" "killykinick!" echoed dan, breathlessly. "you're not--not sending me to a reform, father?" "reform!" repeated the priest. "for i won't go," said dan, desperately. "you haven't any right to put me there. i'm not wild and bad enough for that. i'll keep honest and respectable. i'll go to work. i can get a job at pete patterson's sausage shop to-morrow." "reform! sausage shop! what are you talking about, you foolish boy, when i am only sending you all off for a summer holiday at the seashore?" "a summer holiday at the seashore!" echoed dan in bewilderment. "yes, at freddy's place--killykinick. i have just heard from his uncle, and he thinks it would be a fine thing to send freddy up there to shake off his malaria. there's a queer old house that his great-uncle left him, and an old sailor who still lives there to look out for things; and all the boating, bathing, swimming, fishing a set of lively young fellows can want; so i am going to ship you all off there to-morrow morning with brother bart. it's plain you can't stand six weeks of vacation here, especially when there will be a general retreat for the fathers next month. you see, i simply have to send you away." "and you mean--you mean--" (dan's voice trembled, his eyes shone,)--"you mean i can come back?" "come back, of course, when school opens." "jing!" said dan, drawing a long breath. "i--i thought you were putting me out for good and all. i thought, with the fight and the climb and hurting freddy i--i had done for myself. i thought--" here dan's feelings became too much for him, and he could only gulp down the sob that rose in his throat, with a look that went to father regan's kind heart. "my poor boy, no, no! put you out of saint andrew's for good and all! i never thought of such a thing for a moment. of course i object seriously to fighting, to your reckless venture to old top; but--well, you had strong temptations, and in vacation time one must not be too severe. at killykinick there will be more elbow-room. have you ever been to the seashore?" "never farther than the wharfs. but i can swim and dive and float," answered dan, wisely reserving the information that, as a member of the "wharf rats," he had been ducked overboard at the age of six, to sink or swim. "good!" said father regan. "then you'll have a fine time. and i am depending on you to look out for the other boys. they have grown up in softer ways, and are not used to roughing it, as it is likely you will have to rough it at killykinick. but it will be good for you all,--for you all," repeated the speaker cheerily, as he saw in dan's brightening face the joyful relief the boy did not know how to speak. "and you will come back ready for double 'x' work in the fall. i am looking for great things from you, dan. you've made a fine start, my boy! keep it up, and some day you will be signing all the capital letters to dan dolan's name that saint andrew's can bestow." "sure i don't know about that, father," said dan, his speech softening into aunt winnie's irish tones with the warming of his heart. "you're very good to me, but sometimes i think--well, what i thrashed dud fielding for telling me: that i've no right to be pushing into a grand school like this. i ought to keep my place." "and where is your place?" was the calm question. "sure, sure--" dan hesitated as he recalled a very checkered childhood. "now that aunt winnie is all broke up, i can't say, father." "then i will tell you, my boy! just now, by the goodness and guidance of god, it is here,--here, where you have equal rights with any boy in the school. you have won them in winning your scholarship; they are yours as justly as if you had a father paying a thousand a year. there may be a little rough rubbing now and then from fellows like dud fielding; but--well, everything that is worth having has its cost. so stand to your colors! be, as you said yesterday, neither a bully nor a coward, but a man. now go to see aunt winnie and bid her good-bye. tell her i am sending you off for the jolliest kind of a holiday to killykinick." "i--i don't know how to thank you, father!" stammered dan, feeling that his blackened sky had suddenly burst into rainbow light. "don't try," was the kind answer. "i understand, dan. god bless you, my boy!" and, laying his hand for a moment on dan's sandy thatch of hair, father regan dismissed the case. iv.--aunt winnie. it was a delighted dan that bounded down the broad staircase and took a flying leap from the stone portico of the great hall door. "hello!" said jim norris, who was lazily stretched on the grass, reading. "is that a jump or a kick out?" "a jump," answered dan, grinning: "though i was primed for the other, sure. how is dudey's nose?" "coming down," said jim, who was an easy-going mixer, whom everybody liked. "about the size and shape of a spring radish to-day. my, but he's hot against you, dan! look out for him! snake in the grass is nothing to dud fielding on the boil. won't even rattle fairly before he strikes." "wouldn't take the glad hand if i stretched it out to him and said i was sorry?" asked dan. "just now i feel like being at peace with everybody." "not much!" said jim, impressively. "or if he did there would be a snake sting ready for you, all the same. i know dud fielding. he'll get even with you if he dies for it." "all right!" was the cheerful reply. "let him get even then. have you heard about killykinick, jim?" "yes: father regan told me. i don't know what or where it is, but i'm ready for a start if it's a cannibal isle. anything is better than dying of dullness here. where are you off so fast, dan?" "to see my aunt. she--she--" there was a moment's hesitation, for dan knew all the admission meant to boys like jim. but he added boldly: "she is at the little sisters', you know, and i want to bid her good-bye before i leave." "of course you do. these old aunts are great," said jim, with a friendly nod. "i've got one myself up in the country. wears bonnets and gowns that look as if they came out of the ark. but, golly, she can make doughnuts and apple pies that beat the band! i'd rather spend a week at aunt selina's than any place i know. going to walk or ride, dan?" "walk," was the answer. "i generally do. it's good for my health." "not on a day like this. i've got a pocketful of car tickets," said jim, shaking a dozen or so out on the grass. "we'll have no use for them at killykinick. help yourself." "no," said dan, sturdily. "thank you all the same, jim! but i don't mind walking a bit. i'll match you at a game of tennis when i get back, and do you up." "all right!" answered jim, who, though slow and lazy and a bit dull at his books, was a gentleman through and through. three generations of norrises had cut their names on old top. and, lighter hearted for this friendliness, dan kept on his way by short cuts and cross streets until he reached the quiet suburb where the modest buildings of the "little sisters" stretched long and wide behind their grey stone walls. he was admitted by a brisk, kind little old woman, who was serving as portress; and after some parley, was shown up into aunt winnie's room. it was spotless in its cleanliness and bare save for the most necessary articles of furniture. there were three other old ladies about in various stages of decrepitude, who seemed only dully conscious of dan's appearance; but aunt winnie, seated in her armchair by the window, started up in tremulous rapture at sight of her boy. despite her age and infirmity, she was still a trig little body, with snow-white hair waved about a kind old wrinkled face and dim soft eyes, that filled with tears at "danny's" boyish hug and kiss. "it's a long time ye've been coming," she said reproachfully. "i thought ye were forgetting me entirely, danny lad." "forgetting you!" echoed dan. "now, you know better than to talk like that, aunt win. i'm thinking of you day and night. i've got no one else to think of but you, aunt win." "whisht now,--whisht!" aunt winnie sank her voice to a whisper, and nodded cautiously towards the nearest old lady. "she do be listening, lad. i've told them all of the grand, great college ye're at, and the fine, bright lad ye are, but i've told them nothing more. ye're not to play the poor scholar here." "oh, i see!" said dan, grinning. "go on with your game then, aunt win." "i'm not looking to be remembered," aunt winnie continued dolefully. "what with all the french and latin ye have to study, and the ball playing that you're doing. i can't look for you to think of a poor lone lame woman like me." "aunt win!" burst forth dan, impetuously. "whisht!" murmured aunt win again, with a glance at the old lady who was blinking sleepily. "don't ye be giving yerself away. and i suppose it's the fine holiday that ye're having now wid the rest of yer mates," she went on. "yes," said dan, feeling he could truthfully humor the old lady's harmless pride here. "we're off to-morrow for the jolliest sort of a time at the seashore. freddy neville, the nicest little chap in college, has a place up somewhere on the new england coast, and four of us are going there for the summer." and danny launched into eager details that made aunt winnie's eyes open indeed. but there was a little quiver in her voice when she spoke. "ah, that's fine for you,--that's fine for you indeed, danny! we can talk plain now; for" (as a reassuring snore came from her dozing neighbor) "thank god, she's off asleep! it's the grand thing for you to be going with mates like that. it's what i'm praying for as i sit here sad and lonely, dan, that god will give ye his blessing, and help ye up, up, up, high as mortal man can go." "and you with me, aunt win," said dan, who, seated on the footstool of the chair, was smoothing her wrinkled hand. "ah, no, my lad, i don't ask that! i'm not asking that at all, danny. i'll not be houlding to ye, and dragging ye down while ye're climbing. and whisper, lad, while there's no one listening: it's naither wise nor best for ye to be coming here." "why not?" asked dan, for he knew that he was the light of poor aunt win's eyes and the joy of her old heart. "because--because," faltered aunt winnie, "though it's fibs i've been telling about yer grandeur and greatness--god forgive me that same!--the old busybodies around will be wondering and prating about why ye lave me here, dan,--because i might be a shame to ye before all the fine gentlemen's sons that have taken ye up,--because" (aunt win's voice broke entirely) "a poor old woman like me will only hurt and hinder ye, dan." "hurt and hinder me!" echoed dan, who, with all his cleverness, could not understand the depths and heights of good old aunt winnie's love. "aye, lad, hurt and hinder ye; for ye're on the way up, and i'll not be the one to hould ye back. i do be dreaming grand dreams of ye, danny lad,--dreams that i don't dare to spake out." "whisper them, then, aunt win," urged dan, softly. "maybe i'll make them come true." "ye couldn't," said the old woman, her dim eyes shining. "only god in heaven can do that. for i dream that i see you on his altar, the brightest place that mortal man can reach. i'll ne'er live to see that dream come true, danny; but i believe it would make my old heart leap if i was under the sod itself." "o aunt win, aunt win!" dan lifted the wrinkled hand to his lips. "that is a great dream, sure enough. sometimes, aunt win, i--i dream it myself. but, then, a rough-and-tumble fellow like me, always getting into scrapes, soon wakes up. but one thing is sure: you can't shake me, aunt win. dreaming or waking, i'll stick to you forever." "ah, no, lad,--no!" said the old woman, tremulously. "i'd not have ye bother with me. sure it's the fine place i have here, with my warm room and nice bed, and the good little sisters to care for me, and the chapel close to hand. but i miss our own little place, sure, sometimes, danny dear! i miss the pot of flowers on the window (it's against the rule to grow flowers here), and me own little blue teapot on the stove, and tabby curled up on the mat before the fire." aunt winnie broke down and sobbed outright, while danny was conscious of a lump in his throat that held him dumb. "poor tabby!" continued aunt winnie. "i hope the mulligans are good to her, dan. d'ye ever see her as ye pass their gate?" "i do," answered dan. "molly mulligan has tied a blue ribbon around her neck, and she is the pride of the house." "and she has forgotten me, of course!" sighed aunt winnie. "but what could i expect of a cat!" "forgotten you? not a bit! molly says she steals into your room upstairs and cries for you every night." "ah, it was the sore parting for us all, god help us!" said aunt winnie, brokenly. "but as long as it brings you luck, lad, i'll never complain. this is the holy place to die in, and what could a poor sick ould woman ask more?" "a lot--a lot more!" burst forth danny, passionately. "you should have a place to live and be happy in, aunt win. you should have your own fire and your own teapot, and your own cat in your own home; and i mean to get it back for you just as quick as i can." "whisht! whisht!" said aunt win, nervously, as the old lady nearby roused up, startled from her nap. "it's time ye were going, danny; for ye're a long way from college, and i wouldn't keep ye against rules. i hope ye'll have a fine time at the seashore, with the fishing and boating and all the other sports. good-bye and god bless ye, lad, until we meet again! good-bye, danny dear!" and, realizing from the wide-open eyes of the old lady near him that all confidential communications were over, dan kissed aunt win's withered cheek, and, his heart swelling with feelings he could not speak, took his way back to saint andrew's, all his dreams, hopes, ambitions for the future strangely shaken. aunt win,--gentle, loving, heartsick, homesick aunt win! aunt win, begging him to give her up lest she should hurt and hinder him in his opening way! aunt win sighing for the little place she had called home, even while she was ready to give it up forever and die silent and lonely, that her boy might climb to heights of which she could only dream and never see! dear, faithful, true-hearted, self-forgetting aunt win! dan felt his own eyes blurring as he thought of all she had done, of all she was ready to sacrifice. and--and--the other thought followed swiftly: he could give it all back to her,--the little attic rooms over mulligans', the flowerpot in the window, the blue teapot on the stove, tabby on the hearth-rug,--he could give it all back to aunt win and bring her home. it would be long, long years before the higher paths into which he had turned would yield even humble living; but the old ways were open to him still: the "ditch-digging" with which dud fielding had taunted him, the meat wagon, the sausage shop, that he had been considering only a few hours ago. what right had he to leave the good old woman, who had mothered him, lonely and heartsick that he might climb beyond her reach? and yet--yet to give up saint andrew's, with all that it meant to him; to give up all his hopes, his dreams; to turn his back on those wide corridors and book-lined rooms for counter and cleaver; to give up,--to give up! quite dizzy with his contending thoughts, dan was striding on his way when a hearty voice hailed him: "hello! that you, dan? jump in and i'll give you a lift." and pete patterson's ruddy face looked out from the white-topped wagon at the curb. "i was just thinking of you," said pete, as dan willingly sprang up to the seat at his side; for pete had been a friendly creditor in the days of the little attic home when credit was sometimes sorely needed. "are you in with the 'high brows' for good and all?" "i--i don't know," hesitated dan. "because if you're not," continued pete--"and what tarnation use a sturdy chap like you will find in all that latin and greek stuff, i can't see,--if you're not in for it, i can give you a chance." v.--a "chance." "i can give you a chance," repeated pete, as he turned to dan with his broad, ruddy face illuminated by a friendly smile. "it's a chance i wouldn't hold out to everybody, but i know you for a wide-awake youngster, as honest as you are slick. them two don't go together in general; but it's the combination i'm looking fur just now, and you seem to have it. i was thinking over it this very morning. 'lord, lord,' sez i to myself, 'if dan dolan hadn't gone and got that eddycation bug in his head, wouldn't this be the chance for him?" "what is it?" asked dan; but there was not much eagerness in his question. wide and springy as was the butcher's cart, it did not appeal to him as a chariot of fortune just now. a loin of beef dangled over his head, a dead calf was stretched out on the straw behind him. pete's white apron was stained with blood. dan was conscious of a dull, sick repulsion of body and soul. "well, it's this," continued pete, cheerfully. "you see, i've made a little money over there at my corner, and i'm planning to spread out,--do things bigger and broader. there ain't no sort of use in holding back to hams and shoulders when ye can buy yer hogs on the hoof. that's what i'm in fur now,--hogs on the hoof; cut 'em, corn 'em, smoke 'em, salt 'em, souse 'em, grind 'em into sausage meat and headcheese and scrapple, boil 'em into lard. why, a hog is a regular gold mine when he is handled right. but i can't handle it in that little corner shop i've got now: there's no room fur it. but it's too good a business there fur me to give up. so i'm going to open another place further out, and keep both a-going. and i can't afford no high-class bookkeeper or clerk, that will maybe jump my trade and gobble all my profits. what i want is a boy,--a bright, wide-awake boy that knows enough about figguring to keep my accounts, and see that no one 'does' me,--a boy that i can send round in the wagon to buy and sell 'cording to my orders,--a boy that will be smart enough to pick up the whole business from _a_ to _izzard_, and work up as i worked up till i kin make him partner. that's the chance i've got, and i believe you're the boy to take it." "i--i would have to give up college of course," said dan, slowly. "give up college!" echoed pete. "well, i should rather say you would! there ain't no time fur books in a biz like mine. now, dan, what's the good of college anyhow fur a chap like you? it ain't ez if you were one of these high mug-a-mugs with a rich father to pay yer way through, and set you up in a white choker and swallow-tail coat afterwards. what's the good of a strong, husky fellow fooling along with latin and greek, that will never be no use to him? you'd a heap better spiel plain strong english that will bring you in the spondulics. why, look at me! i never had two years' schooling in my life. it's all i can do to scrawl 'p. j. patterson,' so folks can read it, and thump out the rest on a secondhand typewriter. but that 'ere same scrawl will bring five thousand dollars out of the bank any time i want it. if i had as much eddycation as you have, dan, nobody couldn't keep me in any school in the land another minute. it's all nonsense,--a dead waste of time and money." "what would you pay me?" asked dan, as the big loin of beef above joggled against his shoulder. "well, let me see!" considered pete. "i ain't paying any fancy price at start, fur i don't know how things will work out; but i won't be mean with you, dan. what do you say to four dollars a week and board?" "no," answered dan, promptly. "i don't want your board at all." "ye don't?" said pete in surprise. "it will be good board, dan: no fancy fixings but filling, i promise you that,--good and filling." "i don't care how filling it is," answered dan, gruffly. "i'd want my own board, with aunt winnie. that's all i'd come to you for,--to take care of aunt winnie." "ain't they good to her where she is?" asked pete, who knew something of the family history. "yes," answered dan; "but she is not happy: she is homesick, and i want to bring her--home." and something in the tone of the boyish voice told pete that, with aunt winnie and a home, dan would be secured as his faithful henchman forever. "i don't blame you," he said. "i've got an old mother myself, and if i took her out of her little cubby-hole of a house and put her in the marble halls that folks sing about, she'd be pining. it's women nature, specially old women. can't tear 'em up by the roots when they're past sixty. and that old aunt of yours has been good to you sure,--good as a mother." "yes," answered dan, a little huskily, "good as a mother." "then you oughtn't to go back on her sure," said pete, reflectively. "considering the old lady, i'll make it five dollars a week, if you'll agree for a year ahead, dan." "a year ahead!" echoed dan, thinking of all that year had promised him. "yes," said pete, decidedly. "it must be a year ahead. i can't break you in at such a big figger, and then hev you bolt the track just as i've got used to you. i wouldn't give five dollars a week to any other boy in the world, though i know lots of 'em would jump at it. it's only thinking of that old mother of mine and how i'd feel in your place, makes me offer it to you. five dollars a week will bring your aunt winnie back home. and, between you and me, dan, if she ain't brought back, she'll be in another sort of home before long, and past your helping. mrs. mulligan was telling me the other day that she had been out to see her, and she was looking mighty peaked and feeble,--not complaining of course, but just pining away natural." "when will you want me?" blurted out dan, desperately. "right off now?" "oh, no, no!" was the hasty answer. "i haven't got the other place open yet, and this 'ere hot weather ain't no time fur it. i'm just laying plans for the fall. what were you thinking of doing this summer?" "going off with a lot of fellows to the seashore. but i'm ready to give it up," answered dan, gulping down the lump that rose in his throat. "no, don't,--don't!" said pete. "i haven't got things fixed for a start yet. won't have them fixed for a couple of months or so. i ain't a-hurrying you. just you think this 'ere chance over, and make up your mind whether it ain't wuth more than all that greek and latin they're stuffing into your head at saint andrew's. then come around somewhere about the first of september and see me 'bout it. i won't go back on my offer. it will be five dollars cash down every saturday night, and no renigging. i turn off here," concluded pete, drawing up as they reached a busy corner. "you'll have to jump down; so bye, bye, dan my boy, until i see you again! remember it's five dollars a week, and a home for aunt winnie." "i'll remember," said dan, as, half dazed, he jumped from the wagon and took his way back to saint andrew's. he entered the cross-crowned gateway that guarded the spacious grounds, feeling like one in a troubled dream. he could shape nothing clearly: his past, present, and future seemed shaken out of place like the vari-colored figures of a kaleidoscope. to give up all his hopes, to shut out the beautiful vista opening before him and settle down forever to--to--"hogs on the hoof!" and yet it was his only chance to cheer, to gladden, perhaps to save gentle aunt win's life,--to bring her home again. but would she be happy at such a sacrifice? would she not grieve even at the fireside she had regained over her broken dreams? and dan would come down from his dreams and visions (which, after all, are very vague and uncertain things for boys of thirteen) to tabby and the teapot, to the fluttering old hand in his clasp, the trembling old voice in his ear. the sun was close to its setting; supper was over, he knew; and jim norris was waiting impatiently for his promised game. but he could not think of tennis just now; still less was he disposed for a meeting with dud fielding, whose voice he could hear beyond the box hedge at his right. so, turning away from tennis court and playground, dan plunged into the quiet shelter of the walk that skirted the high, ivy-grown wall, and was already growing dim with evening shadows, though lances of sunlight glinting here and there through the arching pines broke the gloom. pacing the quiet way with feeble step was an old priest, saying his office. father mack's earthly work was done. he could no longer preach or teach; he was only lingering in the friendly shadows of saint andrew's, waiting his master's call home; his long, busy life ending in a sweet twilight peace. sometimes at retreats or on great feasts, when there was a crowd of juvenile penitents in the college chapel, father mack, gentle and indulgent, had his place in a quiet corner, where he was rather avoided by young sinners as a "dying saint." but dan, whatever might be his month's record of wrong-doing, had taken to father mack from the first. perhaps it was something in the irish voice that recalled aunt winnie; perhaps some deeper sympathy between souls akin. though they seldom met, for the old priest had his room in a building remote from the students' quarters, father mack and dan were fast friends. his presence here was most unlooked for; and dan was about to retire without further intrusion, when the old priest closed his book and turned to him with a kindly nod. "you needn't run off. i'm done, my boy. these long, hot days are a bit hard on me; but i like to stay out here in the evening to say my office and watch the sunset. did you ever watch the sunset, danny?" "yes, father," answered dan. "it's great." "what do you see in it, danny?" was the low question. "oh, all sorts of things, father,--domes and spires and banners of gold and red and purple, and pillars of cloud and fire--" "and gates," broke in father mack. "don't you see the gates, danny,--gates that seem to open in the shining way that leads to god's throne? ah, it's a wonderful sight, the sunset, when your day is near done and you are tired and old,--too old to be picturing and dreaming. i'll soon see--beyond the cloud and the dream, danny,--i'll soon see." the old man paused for a moment, his dim eye kindling, his withered face rapt. then suddenly, as if recalled from some cloudy height to earth, his look and voice changed into fatherly interest. "were you looking for me,--were you wanting to talk to me, my son?" "no--yes--no," faltered dan, who had not thought of such a thing. "well, yes, i believe i do. i'm all muddled up, and maybe you can set me right, father mack. for--for," dan blurted out without further hesitation, "i can't see things clear myself. aunt winnie is grieving and pining and homesick at the little sisters. she is trying to hide it, but she is grieving, i know. she broke down and cried to-day when i went to see her,--cried real sobs and tears. and--and" dan went on with breathless haste, "peter patterson, that keeps the meatshop at our old corner, has offered me five dollars a week to come and work for him. to give up saint andrew's--and--and--all it means, father mack, and work for him." vi.--father mack. "give up saint andrew's!" repeated father mack in a low, startled voice. "you, dan! give up! oh, no, my boy,--no!" "aunt winnie will die if i don't," blurted out dan, despairingly. "pete patterson says so. and i can take her home and give her back her little rooms over mulligans', and the blue teapot and tabby, and everything she loves. and pete says i can work up to be his partner." "his partner,--his partner! in what?" asked father mack, anxiously. "meat business," answered dan. "he's made money, and he's going in for it big,--corning, smoking, sausage, everything. i--i could take care of aunt winnie fine." "meat business, sausage? i don't think i understand," said father mack, in bewilderment. "sit down here, dan, and tell me all this over again." dan took his seat on a broken slab that had been a gravestone before the old college cemetery had been condemned and removed beyond the limits of the growing city. it was a very old slab, bearing the latin title of some brother or father who had died fifty years ago. the sunset fell through a gap in the pines that showed the western sky, with its open gates, their pillars of cloud and fire all aglow. "tell me slowly, calmly, dan. my ears are growing dull." and dan told his story again, more clearly and less impetuously; while father mack listened, his bent head haloed by the setting sun. "i can't let aunt winnie die," concluded dan. "you see, i have to think of aunt winnie, father." "yes, i see,--i see, my boy," was the low answer. "and it is only of aunt winnie you are thinking, dan?" "only of aunt winnie," replied dan, emphatically. "you don't suppose anything else would count against saint andrew's, father. i'd work, i'd starve, i'd die, i believe, rather than give up my chance here?" "yes, yes, it's hard lines sometimes," said father mack. "you may find it even harder as the years go by, dan. i heard about the trouble yesterday." "oh, did you, father?" said dan, somewhat abashed. "dud fielding did stir the old nick in me for sure." "yes," said father mack. "and that same fierce spirit will be stirred again and again, dan. despite all your teachers can do for you, there will be pricks and goads we can not help." "i know it," answered dan, sturdily. "i'm ready for them. saint andrew's is worth all the pricks and goads i'll get. but aunt winnie, father,--i can't forget aunt winnie. i've got to take aunt winnie back home." "would she--wish it, at such--such a cost, dan?" father mack questioned. "cost," repeated dan, simply. "it wouldn't cost much. the rooms are only a dollar a week, and aunt winnie can make stirabout and irish stews and potato cake to beat any cook i know. three dollars a week would feed us fine. and there would be a dollar to spare. and she could have her teapot on the stove again, and tabby on the hearth-rug, only--only" (the young face clouded a little) "i'm afraid great as it all would be, she'd be grieving about her dreams." "her dreams!" echoed father mack, a little puzzled. "yes," said dan. "you see, i am all she has in the world, and she is awful soft on me, and since i got into saint andrew's she's softer still. she thinks there's nothing too great or grand for me to do. my, it would make you laugh, father, to hear poor old aunt winnie's pipe dreams about a tough chap like me!" "what does she dream, dan?" asked the old priest softly. "i suppose she'd get out of them if she were home where things are natural like," said dan; "but now she sits up there in the little sisters' dreaming that i'm going to be a priest,--a rough-and-tumble fellow like me!" "stranger things than that have happened, dan," said father mack, quietly. "i was a rough-and-tumble fellow myself." "you, father!" exclaimed dan. "the 'roughest-and-tumblest' kind," said father mack, his worn face brightening into a smile that took away twenty years at least. "i ran away to sea, dan, leaving a gentle mother to break her heart for me. when i came back" (the old face shadowed again) "she was gone. ah, god's ways are full of mystery, dan! i think it was that made me a priest." father mack was silent for a moment. his dim eyes turned to the sunset, where the cloud curtains were swept asunder, the pillared gates a glory of crimson and gold. something in his old friend's face hushed dan's questioning until father mack spoke again. "that was a long time ago,--a long time ago. but the thought of it makes me understand about aunt winnie, dan, and how hard it is to give you up. still--still--even of old god asked the firstlings of the flock. sacrifice! sacrifice! it is the way to heaven, dan. heart, hopes, tears, blood,--always sacrifice." and again the old speaker paused as if in troubled thought. "how soon must you make your choice, dan?" he asked at length. "my choice? about leaving, you mean, father? oh, pete patterson doesn't want me until the fall. and i haven't any place to go this summer, if i give up now. father regan is going to send us off to-morrow with brother bart for a summer at the seashore." "a summer at the seashore! ah, good, good,--very good!" said father mack, his old face brightening. "that will give us time to think, to pray, dan. a summer! ah, god can work wonders for those who trust him in a summer, dan! think what he does with the seed, the grain, the fruit. it is not well to move or to choose hastily when we are in the dark as to god's will. so say nothing about all this to any one as yet, dan,--nothing this summer." "i won't, father," agreed dan. "and i promise that every day you will be remembered in my mass, dan." "thank you, father! that ought to keep me out of trouble sure." "and now where is this seashore place?" asked father mack, quite cheerfully. "an island called killykinick, father." "killykinick?" echoed father mack, startled. "you are going to killykinick? god bless me, how wonderful!" "you know the place, father?" asked dan, with interest. "i know it indeed," was the answer. "i was wrecked there in the wild days of which i told you, dan, sixty years ago. the 'maria teresa' (i was on a portuguese ship) went upon the rocks on a dark winter night, that i thought was likely to be my last. for the first time in my reckless youth i really prayed. my dear mother, no doubt, was praying for me, too; for i learned afterwards that it was on that night she died, offering with her last breath her life for her boy. well, we held together somehow until morning, and got off to the shore of killykinick before the 'maria teresa' went down, loaded with the golden profits of a two years' cruise." "and did they never get her up?" asked dan, quite breathless with interest at this glimpse of a "dying saint's" past. "never," answered father mack,--"at least never that i heard of. it was soon afterward that i turned into other ways and lost sight of my old mates. but i always have remembered the friendly haven of killykinick. it was a wild place,--only a few deserted fishermen's huts on the rocky shore, where we lived on fish and clams until taken off by a passing ship. but that same rocky shore meant safety, shelter, life. and so in the after years i have always blessed killykinick. and you are going there to-morrow! you will find it all changed,--all changed, i am sure," said father mack, as he slowly rose to his feet, for the sunset was fading now. "but i will think of you there, dan,--think of you frolicking over the rocks and sands where i wandered so long ago a shipwrecked boy. now it is time for me to go in, for my old blood chills in the twilight; so i must say good-bye,--good-bye and god bless you, my boy!" and, laying his hand for a moment on the boyish head, the old priest turned away into the deepening shadow of the pines, leaving dan, who was beginning to feel vividly conscious that he had missed his supper, to make a rapid foray into the refectory, where brother james could always be beguiled into furnishing bread and jam in and out of time,--having been, as he assured the belated ones, a boy himself. there was another belated one this evening. seated before a tempting spread of milk toast, demanded by his recent convalescence, was freddy neville, a little pale and peaked perhaps, but doing full justice to a third creamy slice, and ready for more. "why, hello, fred!" greeted dan, dropping into the chair beside him. "you down?" "yes," said fred, spooning his dish vigorously. "i'm well, all right now. temperature gone, brother tim says. can't i have a little more toast, brother james, please? i'm not half filled up yet. supper tastes twice as good down here. i've been out with brother bart buying shoes and things to go to killykinick, and i'm hungry as a bear." "wait a bit then, and i'll bring ye both in some strawberry jam and biscuits," said brother james, good-humoredly. "it's the black fast brother tim puts on sick boys, i know. when they came down after the measles i couldn't get them enough to eat for a month. there now!" and the good man set forth supplies liberally. "i know what it is. i've been a hungry boy myself." "jing, it's good to be up and out again!" said freddy, as both boys pitched into biscuits and jam. "i felt down and out this morning sure, dan, and now everything is working fine. we're going to have the time of our lives this summer, after all. even dud fielding is cooling off, jim norris says, now that his nose has gone down, and he has heard about killykinick." "who told him?" asked dan, who did not feel particularly cheered at these tidings; for dud's "cooling off" was by no means to be trusted, as he knew. "father regan, of course. he couldn't send the boys unless they wanted to go. but when they heard about the old house uncle made out of his ship, and the row-boats and the sailboat, and the bathing and fishing, they just jumped at the chance to go. and jim says there is a fine place not far off, where dud spent the season two years ago with some tip toppers, and he's counting on getting in with them again. so he is tickled all around. but i'm not caring about dud or what he likes, so long as i've got you, dan, i wouldn't want to go without you." "wouldn't you, kid?" asked dan, softly, for, after all the troubles and perplexities of the day, his little chum's trusting friendship seemed very sweet to him. "n-o-o-o!" answered freddy, most decidedly. "but i sort of wish brother bart was not going. he'll keep me such a baby!" "no, he won't. i'll see to that," said dan, with a twinkle in his eye. "if there's any way of giving you a good time, i'll do it. and i won't let you get hurt again either,--no sir! i've had my scare about that. i'm going to look out for you right. it may be for the last time, but--" "the last time," interrupted freddy quickly. "why will it be the last time?" "i mean i may never have a chance at such a jolly holiday again," answered dan, suddenly remembering his promise to father mack. "but we'll make this one a hummer. if killykinick is half what i think it is, we'll make this chance a hummer you'll never forget." vii.--a holiday start. and the holiday proved to be a "hummer" from the very start. everybody was in high spirits. even dud fielding, with his nose happily reduced to its normal color and size, had lost his "grouch," and was quite himself again, in a sporting suit of english tweed, ordered from his tailors for "roughing it." easy-going jim was in comfortable khaki; so was little fred; while dan had been privately presented by the brother wardrobian with two suits of the same,--"left by boys for the poor," good brother francis had whispered confidentially. "i fill the bill then, sure," said dan, with a cheerful grin. "you do, but many a fine man has done the same before you," answered brother francis, nodding. "i've put a few more things in your trunk, dan; take them and god bless you! i've cut off the marks so nobody'll be the wiser." brother bart's wrinkled face wore a glow of pleasurable excitement as, after seeing the baggage off, he marshalled his holiday force on the college porch for the last words of command from his reverend chief. "give your orders now, father; though god knows how i'll be able to keep this lot up to them. they are not to be killing and drowning themselves against my will and word." "certainly not," said father regan, with a smile. "brother bart is to be obeyed, boys, or you'll promptly be ordered home." "and there is to be no roving off wid pirates and smugglers that may be doing their devilment along the shore," continued brother bart, anxiously. "the government looks out for all that now," laughed father regan. "i'm not so sure," said brother bart, who had grown up in a wild stretch of the irish coast. "it's a wicked world, and we're going beyant the lord's light that shines on us here." "not at all," was the cheering assurance. "beach cliff is only six miles away, and it has a little church where there is a mass every sunday." "the lord be praised for that anyhow!" said the good man, with a sigh of relief. "it's a great burthen that ye've put on my body and soul, father. but i'll do me best, and, with god's help, i'll bring the four of them back safe and sound to ye. now give us your blessing and we'll be off." and very soon they were off indeed, speeding on to the busy wharf, scene of many a "lark" in dan's boyish past. here the great steamboat was awaiting them: for, although the route was longer and more circuitous, father regan had decided it best for his young travellers to make their journey by sea. to jim and dud such a trip was no novelty; even freddy had taken more than one holiday outing with uncle tom; but to dan--dan whose busy, workaday childhood had excluded even the delights of a cheap excursion--everything was wonderfully and deliciously new. he felt like one in a bewildering dream. as the great floating palace, all aglitter and aglow with splendors of paint and upholstery hitherto unknown, swung from her moorings out into the stream, dan quite forgot the gentility of his surroundings and the elegant dud fielding at his elbow, and waved his hat with a wild "hurrah" to half a dozen wharf rats who were fishing off the pier. "dan dolan!" rose the shrill-voiced chorus, and six pairs of bare legs dangling over the water scrambled up to a stand. "jing! if it ain't dan dolan,--dan dolan all diked up like a swell! hi-yi-yi-yi, dan! where are you going, dan?" "seashore, new england, killykinick!" dan shouted back, quite unconscious of the smiles and stares of the passengers. "off for the summer! hooray!" "hooray--hooray!" with a series of whoops and catcalls came back the wharf rat's farewells, echoing with such friendly memories of a rough past that dan was struck speechless by the fierce contrasting voice in his ear. "you darned dunderhead!" whispered dud fielding. "can't you keep quiet in a decent crowd?" "eh?" said dan in bewilderment. "don't you see everybody staring at us?" continued dud, wrathfully. "to be shouting at dirty little beggars like those and disgracing us all!" "disgracing you?" echoed dan. "yes," said dud, still hot with pride and rage. "and there are the fosters on the upper deck,--people i know. come, jim, let's cut off before they see us with this low-down chump." and dud led easy-going jim to the other side of the boat. "low-down chump!" unconscious as he was of any offense, dan felt the scornful sting of the words, and his hot blood began to boil; but he remembered the "pricks and goads" he had resolved to bear bravely, and shut his lips tight together as freddy stole a small hand into his own. with the last "hi-yi" the wharf rats had settled back to their occupation, and freddy eyed them from the growing distance most favorably. "did you ever fish like that, dan?" he asked with interest. "often," was the brief reply; for dan was still hot and sore. "golly, it must be fun! and did you catch anything, dan?" "my dinner," answered dan, grimly. "jing!" exclaimed freddy, breathlessly. "that was great! when we get to killykinick let us go out like those bare legged boys and catch our dinner, too." and dan laughed and forgot he was a "low-down chump" as he agreed they would catch dinners whenever possible. then he and freddy proceeded to explore the big boat high and low, decks, cabins, saloons, machinery wherever visible. freddy, who had made similar explorations with uncle tom as guide, was quite posted in steamboat workings; but it was all new and wonderful to dan, who had only dry book-knowledge of levers and cogs and wheels; and to watch them in action, to gaze down into the fiery depths of the furnace, to hear the mighty throb of the giant engine,--to see all these fierce forces mastered by rules and laws into the benignant power that was bearing him so gently over summer seas, held him breathless with interest and delight. even the clang of the first dinner gong could not distract him from his study of cylinder and piston and shaft and driving-rod, and all shining mechanism working without pause or jar at man's command. "just as if they had sense," said dan, thoughtfully,--"a heap more sense than lots of living folk i know." "that's what uncle tom says," replied freddy, to whom, in their brief holidays together, uncle tom, cheery and loving, was an authority beyond question. "he says they work by strict law and rule, and people won't. they shirk and kick. jing! if these here engines took to shirking and kicking where would we be? but they don't shirk and kick against law. uncle tom says they obey, and that's what boys ought to do--obey. gee! it's good we're not engines, isn't it, dan? we'd blow things sky high.--here's the second call for dinner," said freddy, roused from these serious reflections by the sound of the gong. "we'd better move quick, dan, or the ice-cream may give out." "can you have ice-cream,--all you want?" asked dan. "well, no," hesitated freddy, who knew what dan could do in that line,--"not like we have at college. they dish it out other places a little skimp, but they'll give you a good supply of other things to make up." which information dan soon found to be most pleasantly correct; and, though the glories of the long dining room, with its corps of low-voiced waiters, were at first a trifle embarrassing, and brother bart's grace, loudly defying all human respect, attracted some attention to his table, the boys did full justice to the good things set so deftly before them, and went through the bill of fare most successfully. the black waiters grinned as the young travellers proceeded to top off with apple pie and ice-cream, combined in such generous proportions that brother bart warned them that the sin of gluttony would be on their souls if they ate another mouthful. then freddy, sorely against his will, was borne off by his good old friend to rest, according to brother tim's last order; while dan was left to himself to watch the boat turning into the shore, where a wharf loaded with truck for shipping jutted out into the stream; and one passenger--a sturdy, grizzled man in rough, brown hunting corduroy--leaped aboard followed by two fine dogs. then the laboring engines, with puff and shriek, kept on their way; while dan continued his investigations, and made friendly overtures to a big deck hand who volunteered to show the eager young questioner "below." and "below" they went, down steep, crooked steps that led away from all the glitter and splendor above, into black depths, lit only by fierce glow of undying fires. brawny, half-naked figures fed and stirred the roaring flames; the huge boilers hissed, the engines panted; but through all the darkness and discord came the measured beat of the ship's pulse that told there was no shirk or kick,--that all this mighty mechanism was "obeying." and then, this dark sight-seeing over, dan came up again into the bright, sunlit deck crowded with gay passengers chatting and laughing. brother bart was making efforts at conversation with an old french priest returning to his mission in the canadian forests; dud had introduced jim to his fashionable friends, and both boys were enjoying a box of chocolates with pretty little minnie foster; freddy was still "resting" in his stateroom. all were unmindful of the dark, fiery depths below, where fierce powers were working so obediently to bear them on their happy, sunlit way, that was widening each moment now. the smiling shores, dotted with farms and villages, were stretching away into hazy distance; there was a new swell in the waves as they felt the heart-beat of the sea. it was all new and wonderful to dan; and he stood leaning on the deck rail of a secluded corner made by a projecting cabin, watching the sunset glory pale over the swift vanishing shore, when he was suddenly startled by a deep voice near him that questioned: "worth seeing, isn't it?" dan looked up and saw the big grizzled stranger in corduroy gazing at the splendor of the western sky. "yes, sir," answered dan. "it's great! are we out at sea now?" "almost," was the reply. "not in the full swell yet, but this is our last sight of land." he nodded to a promontory where the delicate lines of a lighthouse were faintly pencilled against the sunset. "jing!" said dan, drawing a long breath, "it feels queer to be leaving earth and sun and everything behind us." his companion laughed a little harshly. "i suppose it does at your age," he said. "afterwards" (he stopped to light a cigar and puff it into glow),--"afterwards we get used to it." "of course," assented dan, "because we know we are coming back." "coming back!" repeated the other slowly. "we are not always sure of that. sometimes we leave the land, the light, behind us forever." "oh, not forever!" said dan. "we would have to strike light and land somewhere unless we drowned." "we don't drown," continued the stranger. "we do worse: we drift,--drift in darkness and night." dan stared. his companion had taken his cigar from his lips and was letting its glow die into ashes. "folks do drown sometimes," said dan. "i tell you if you go round the bottom of this boat you'd see how we could drown mighty easily. just a wheel or crank or a valve a mite wrong,--whewy! we'd all be done for. but they don't go wrong; that's the wonder of it, isn't it?" said dan, cheerfully. "if everybody kept steady and straight as a steam-engine, this would be a mighty good world." "no doubt it would," was the reply. "are you not rather young to be facing it alone?" "oh, i'm not alone!" said dan, hastily. "i'm off with a lot of other fellows for the seashore. we are college boys from saint andrew's." "saint andrew's?" the stranger started so violently that the dying cigar dropped from his hold. "saint andrew's college, you say, boy! not saint andrew's in--" but a clear young voice broke in upon the excited question. "dan dolan! where are you, dan? oh, i've been looking everywhere for you!" and, fresh and rosy from his long rest, freddy neville bounded out gleefully to dan's side. a low cry burst from the stranger's lips, and he stood staring at the boys as if turned into stone. viii.--a new friend. "jing, you gave me a scare, dan!" said freddy, drawing a long breath of relief. "i thought you had dropped overboard." "overboard!" scoffed dan. "you must think i'm a ninny. and you have been sleeping sure! got to keep this sort of thing up all summer?" "oh, no, no!" said freddy; "only for a few days,--until i get real well and strong; though brother bart will keep fussing over me, i know. golly, i wish we had uncle tom along with us!" "all right, is he?" asked dan. "great!" replied freddy, emphatically. "doesn't baby you a bit; lets you row and swim and dive when you go off with him. most as good as a real father." "_just_ as good, i guess," amended dan. "no," said freddy, shaking his head. "you see, he has other work--preaching and saying mass and giving missions--where i don't come in. he has to leave me at saint andrew's because he hasn't any home. it must be just fine to have a home that isn't a school,--a sort of cosy little place, with cushioned chairs, and curtains, and a fire that you can see, and a kitchen where you can roast nuts and apples and smell gingerbread baking, and a big dog that would be your very own. but you can't have a home like that when you have a priest uncle like mine." "no, you can't," agreed dan, his thoughts turning to aunt winnie and her blue teapot, and the little rooms that, despite all the pinch and poverty, she had made home. "and christmas," went on freddy, both young speakers being quite oblivious of the big stranger who had seated himself on a camp stool in the shelter of the projecting cabin, and, with folded arms resting on the deck rail, was apparently studying the distant horizon,--"i'd like to have one real right christmas before i get too big for it." "seems to me you have a pretty good time as it is," remarked dan: "new skates and sled, and five dollars pocket money. there wasn't a fellow at the school of your age had any more." "that's so," said freddy; "but they went _home_. a fellow doesn't want pocket money when he goes home. dick fenton had only sixty cents; i lent him fifteen more to get a card-case for his mother. but he had christmas all right, you bet: a tree that went to the ceiling (he helped to cut it down himself); all the house 'woodsy' with wreaths and berries and fires,--real fires where you could pop corn and roast apples. he lives in the country, you see, where money doesn't count; for you can't buy a real christmas; it has to be homemade," said freddy, with a little sigh. "so i'll never have one, i know." then the great gong sounded again to announce supper; and both boys bounded away to find the rest of their crowd, leaving the big stranger still seated in the gathering darkness, looking out to sea. as the boyish footsteps died into silence, he bowed his head upon his hands, and his breast heaved with a long, shuddering breath as if some dull, slumbering pain had wakened into life again. then, in fierce self-mastery, he rose, stretched his tall form to its full height, and, ascending to the upper deck, began to pace its dimming length with the stern, swift tread of one whose life is a restless, joyless march through a desert land. meanwhile brother bart and his boys had begun to feel the roll of the sea, and to realize that supper had been a mistake. jim and dud had retired to their staterooms, with unpleasant memories of minnie foster's chocolates, and the firm conviction that they never wanted to see a candy box again. brother bart was ministering to a very white-faced "laddie," and thanking heaven he was in the state of grace and prepared for the worst. "the lord's will be done, but i don't think any of us will live to see the morning. there must have been some poison in the food, to take us all suddint like this." "oh, no, brother bart!" gasped freddy, faintly. "i've been this way before. we're all just--just seasick, brother bart--dead seasick." even dan had a few qualms,--just enough to send him, with the sturdy sense of his rough kind, out into the widest sweep of briny air within his reach. he made for a flight of stairs that led up into some swaying, starlit region where there were no other sufferers, and flung himself upon a pile of life-preservers that served as a pillow for his dizzy head. sickness of any sort was altogether new to dan, and he felt it would be some relief to groan out his present misery unheard. but the glow of a cigar, whose owner was pacing the deck, suddenly glimmered above his head, and the big man in corduroy nearly stumbled over him. "hello!" he said. "down and out, my boy? here, take a swig of this!" and he handed out a silver-mounted flask. "no," said dan, faintly, "--can't. i've taken the pledge." "pooh! don't be a fool, boy, when you're sick!" "wouldn't touch it if i were dying," said dan. "i'm getting better now, anyhow. my, but i felt queer for a while! it is so hot and stuffy below. no more packing in on a shelf for me. i'll stick it out here until morning." "and the others,--the little chap who was with you?" the stranger asked hastily. "is he--he sick, too?" "freddy neville? yes, dead sick; but brother bart is looking out for him. brother bart is a regular old softy about freddy. he took him when he was a little kid and keeps babying him yet." "he is good to him, you mean?" asked the other, eagerly. "good? well, i suppose you'd call it good. i couldn't stand any such fussing. why, when fred got a tumble in the gym the other day the old man almost had a fit!" "a tumble,--a fall; did it hurt him much?" there was a strange sharpness in the questioner's voice. "pooh, no!" said dan. "just knocked him out a little. but we were all getting into trouble at saint andrew's, for vacation there is pretty slow; so father regan has sent us off to the seashore for the summer?" "the seashore? where?" "some queer place called killykinick," answered dan, who was now able to sit up and be sociable. "killykinick?" repeated his companion, in a startled tone. "did you say you were going to killykinick?" "yes," answered dan. "freddy's uncle or cousin or somebody died a while ago and left him a place there. freddy has a lot of houses and money and things all his own. it's lucky he has. he isn't the kind to rough it and tough it for himself. not that he hasn't plenty of grit," went on freddy's chum, hastily. "he's as plucky a little chap as i ever saw. but he's been used to having life soft and easy. he is the 'big bug' sort. (i ain't.) so i'm glad he has money enough to make things smooth at the start, though his no-'count father did skip off and leave him when he was only five years old." "his father left him?" repeated dan's companion. "why?" "don't know," answered dan. "just naturally a 'quitter,' i guess. lots of menfolks are. want a free foot and no bother. but to shake a nice little chap like freddy i call a dirty, mean trick, don't you?" "there might be reasons," was the hesitating rejoinder. "what reason?" asked dan, gruffly. "there ain't any sort of reason why a father shouldn't stick to his job. i hate a 'quitter,' anyhow," concluded dan, decisively. "wait until you are twenty years older before you say that, my boy!" was the answer. "perhaps then you will know what quitting costs and means. but you're an old chum for that little boy. i saw him with you down below. how is it that you're such friends?" and then dan, being of a communicative nature, and seeing no cause for reserve, told his new acquaintance all about the scholarship that had introduced him into spheres of birth and breeding to which he frankly confessed he could make no claim. "i'm not freddy's sort, i know; but he took to me somehow,--i can't tell why." yet as dan went on with his simple, honest story, his listener, who, world-wise and world-weary as he was, knew something of the boyish nature that turns instinctively to what is strong and true and good, felt he could tell why freddy took to this rough diamond of a chum. dan, in his turn, learned that his new acquaintance was called john wirt; that he was off on a vacation trip, hunting and fishing wherever there was promise of good sport; that he had travelled abroad for several years,--had been to china, japan, india, egypt; had hunted lions and elephants, seen the midnight sun, crossed siberian steppes and african deserts. from a geographical standpoint, mr. wirt's story seemed an open and extensive map, but biographically it was a blank. of his personal history, past, present or future, he said nothing. altogether, dan and his new acquaintance had a pleasant hour on the open deck beneath the stars, and made friends rapidly. "i wish you were going our way," said dan, regretfully, as his companion announced that he was to get off at the first point they touched. "brother bart is going to granny us all, i know. if we had a real strong man like you around, he wouldn't scare so easily. and there is fine fishing about killykinick, they say." "so i have heard." the stranger had risen now, and stood, a tall shadow dimly outlined above dan. "i--i--perhaps i'll drop in upon you. isn't it time for you to turn in now?" "no," answered dan,--"not into that packing box below. i'm up here for the night." "and i'm off before morning, so it's good-bye and good luck to you!" and, with a friendly nod, mr. john wirt strode away down the darkened deck, leaving dan to fling himself back upon his life-preservers, and wonder how, when, or where he had seen their new acquaintance before,--not at saint andrew's; for mr. wirt had been abroad, as he had said, ever since dan entered the college; not at milligans' or pete patterson's, or anywhere about his old home. perhaps he had blacked his shoes or sold him a newspaper in some half-forgotten past; for surely there was something in his tone, his glance, his friendly smile that dan knew. he felt quite well now. all the dizziness and nausea had vanished, and he was his own strong, sturdy self again. the roll and swap of the boat were only the rock of a giant cradle; the surge of the sea, a deep-toned lullaby soothing him to pleasant dreams; and the sky! dan had never seen such a midnight sky. he lay, with his head pillowed in his clasped hands, looking up at the starry splendor above him with a wonder akin to awe. the great, blue vault arching above him blazed with light from a myriad stars, that his books had told him were worlds greater than this on whose wide waters he was tossing now,--worlds whose history the wisest of men could never know,--worlds, thousands and millions of them, moving in shining order by "rule and law." "rule and law,"--it was the lesson that seemed to face dan everywhere,--down in those black depths he had penetrated to-day, where valve and lever and gauge held roaring fire and hissing steam, with all their fierce force, to submission and service; in the polished mechanism whose steady throb he could feel pulsing beneath him like a giant heart; in the radiant sky where worlds beyond worlds swept on their mysterious way--obeying. with half-formed thoughts like these stirring vaguely in his mind, dan was dropping off into pleasant sleep, when he was roused by the sound of voices and the glimmering of a ship's lantern. "i think you will find your boy here, sir." it was mr. john wirt, who, with the aid of a friendly deck hand, was guiding a pale, tottering, very sick brother bart to dan's side. "who wants me?" asked the half-wakened dan, springing to his feet. "dan dolan! ye young rapscallion!" burst out brother bart, almost sobbing in his relief. "it's down at the bottom of the black sea i thought ye were. i've been tramping this boat, with this good man holding me up (for i'm too sick to stand), this half hour. down wid ye now below stairs with the rest, where i can keep an eye on ye. come down, i say!" ix.--obeying orders. "down below!" the words struck harshly on dan's ear for good old brother bart was more used to obedience than command, and he was sick and shaken and doing his guardian duty under sore stress and strain to-night. "go below! what for?" asked dan, shortly. "i'm all right up here, brother bart. i can't stand being packed in downstairs." "stand it or not, i'll not have ye up here," said brother bart, resolutely. "down with ye, dan dolan! ye were put under my orders, and ye'll have to mind my words." "not when it means being sick as a dog all night," answered dan, rebelliously. "i tell you i can't stand it down in that stuffy place below, and i won't, i am going to stay up here." "and is that the way ye talk?" said brother bart, who had a spirit of his own. "and it's only what i might look for, ye graceless young reprobate! god knows it was sore against my will that i brought ye with me, dan dolan; for i knew ye'd be a sore trial first to last. but i had to obey them that are above me. stay, then, if you will against my word; for it's all i have to hold ye, since ye are beyant any rule or law.--we'll go back, my man," continued brother bart to the burly deck hand who had been supporting his swaying form. "help me to get down to my bed, in god's name; for i am that sick i can scarcely see." and brother bart tottered away, leaving dan standing hot and defiant by his new friend, mr. wirt. "sorry to have made trouble for you," said that gentleman; "but when i found that good old man wandering sick and distracted over the boat, stirring up everyone in search of a lost boy, there was nothing to do but give him the tip." "freddy may stand it," said dan, fiercely; "but i won't be grannied. what harm is there in staying up here?" "none at all from our standpoint," was the reply; "but the good old gentleman looks at things in another light. you're under his orders," he said; and there was a faint, mocking note in the words, that dan was keen enough to hear. he was hearing other things too,--the pant of the engines, the throb of the pulsing mechanism that was bearing him on through darkness lit only by the radiance of those sweeping worlds above; but that mocking note in his new friend's voice rose over all. "orders!" he repeated angrily. "i bet _you_ wouldn't take any such orders if you were a boy." "no, i wouldn't, and i didn't" (there was a slight change in the speaker's voice as he paused to light a cigar), "and you see where it left me." "where?" asked dan, curiously. "adrift," was the answer,--"like this big boat would be if there was no one to command: beyond rule and law, as that good old friend of yours said just now,--beyond rule and law." "beyond rule and law,--rule and law." the words began to hammer somehow on dan's head and heart as he recalled with waking remorse poor brother bart tottering away in the darkness,--brother bart, who, as dan knew, was only doing his duty faithfully, to the boy under his care,--brother bart, who, like the steamboat, like the stars, was _obeying_. for a moment or two mr. wirt puffed at his cigar silently, while the fierce fire that had blazed up in dan's breast sank into bounds, mastered by the boy's better self, even as he had seen nature's fierce forces of flame and steam mastered by higher powers to-day. "in short," said mr. wirt at last, as if he had been having thoughts of his own, "i am a derelict, my boy." "what's that?" asked dan, who had never heard the word before. "a ship adrift, abandoned by captain and crew,--a wreck that tosses on the sea, a peril to all that come near it. there is nothing a good sailor dreads more than a derelict, and he makes it his business to sink it promptly whenever he can." "couldn't he tow it into port?" asked dan, with interest. "not worth the trouble," was the grim answer. "jing!" said dan. "i'd try it, sure." "would you?" asked mr. wirt. "yes," replied dan, decidedly. "if a ship can float, it must be worth something. i'd try to fling a hawser about it somewhere, and haul it in and dry-dock it to find out what was wrong. i've seen an oyster boat, that was leaking at every seam, calked and patched and painted to be good as new." "perhaps," said mr. wirt, with a short laugh; "but the oyster boats don't go very far a-sea, and derelicts drift beyond hope or help. i am that kind, and if--if" (the speaker hesitated for a moment),--"if i had a boy like you, i wouldn't take any chances with him: i'd keep him off my deck; i'd put him on a sound ship with a wise captain and a steady crew, and he should be under orders until--well, until he had learned to sail midnight seas like this by the light of the stars." and, tossing his half-smoked cigar into the water, mr. wirt turned abruptly away without any further "goodnight." "he's a queer one," said dan to himself, as he stared after the tall figure disappearing in the darkness. "i don't know what he means by his drifting and derelicts, but i guess it's a sort of talk about breaking laws and rules like i am doing here to-night. gee! but brother bart is an old granny; stirring up all this fuss about nothing; and i'll be dead sick, i know. but i'm under orders" (dan stretched his arms over his head, and, drawing a long, reluctant sigh, took a last look at the stars), "and i guess i'll have to go." and he went, making his way with some difficulty over the swaying decks and down deep stairs where the footing was more perilous than the heights of old top; through long stretches of gorgeous saloons whence all the life and gayety had departed; for, despite the stars, the sea was rough to-night, and old neptune under a friendly smile was doing his worst. jim and dud, sturdy fellows that they were, had somewhat recovered their equilibrium and were dozing fitfully; but little freddy was still white and wretched; and poor brother bart, all the ruddy glow gone from his face, lay with his hands clasping his rosary, very sick indeed. "say your prayers as well as ye can, laddie," he moaned to that small sufferer. "the lord be merciful to us both if we're not to see the morning light!--ah, are ye back, dan dolan?" as his eyes fell upon the wandering sheep of his flock standing beside him. "may god forgive ye for this night's work! it was the looking for ye that killed me entirely." "o brother bart, no, you're not as bad as that!" said dan, remorsefully; "but i'm down here now to take care of you and freddy, and you see if i don't do it right." and dan, who in the old days of tabby and the blue teapot had watched with and waited on aunt winnie through many a night of pain, proved as good as his word. it was as close and hot and stuffy as he had foreseen; the big boat plunged and rolled so that it was hard to keep his footing; at times he himself grew so sick that he could scarcely steady his helping hand, but he never gave up his job. he bathed poor brother bart's aching head with all a woman's tenderness; bandaged freddy's throbbing temples with the cold compress that sent him off to sleep; made dizzy forays into unknown domestic departments for cracked ice and soda water; shocked brother bart out of what he believed his last agony by reporting everyone on the boat in "the same fix." "we'll be in smooth water, the men say, by morning; and then you'll be all right, brother bart. let me bathe your head some more, and try to go to sleep." and when at last brother bart did fall asleep in the grey glimmer of the early dawn, it was a very pale, shaking, dizzy dan that crept out on the open deck beyond the staterooms for a breath of fresh air. he could not have climbed to forbidden heights now even if he would. but they were in smooth waters, and the boat was pushing onto a sandy point, where a branch railroad came down to the shore. a dozen or more passengers were preparing to land; among them was mr. wirt, with a gun slung to his shoulder, a knapsack on his back, and his two great tawny dogs pulling in their leashes impatiently,--all evidently ready for a summer in the wilds. dan felt too weak and sick for conversation until mr. wirt's eye fell upon the pale, trembling boy, who, with head bared to the morning breeze, was clinging weakly to an awning post. "why, hello, my lad!" said the gentleman. "what's the matter. i thought you were all right when i saw you last up above." "i was," answered dan, grimly. "but i came down, and, jing! i've had a night of it, with brother bart and freddy both dead sick on my hands." "and you nursed them all night?" (there was an odd tremor in the speaker's voice.) "are they better this morning?" "yes," answered dan. "they are all right now, sleeping like tops; but they had a tough time. it was lucky i gave up and came down to look after them." "so you obeyed orders, after all. and now you're all broken up yourself?" said the gentleman, compassionately. "pooh, no!" was the sturdy answer. "i don't break up so easily. i'll be all right, too, in a little while,--after i've had more of this fresh air. going to get off here?--" as the boat pushed up to the wharf. "yes," said mr. wirt. "i'm off to the woods for a few weeks; but--but maybe you will see me again later. meanwhile what did the little fellow call you?" "dan,--my name is dan dolan," was the answer. "then good-bye, dan!" mr. wirt's shapely hand closed over the boy's in a strong pressure. "you've given me a lesson, dan,--i won't forget you." and he was off with his dogs across the gangway to the shore just flushing with the morning light. the worst was over; and dan, worn out with his night of watching, was glad to creep into his "packing box" of a stateroom, and, flinging himself in his berth, dropped off to sleep,--a sleep full of strange dreams. they were wild and troubled dreams at first. he was down in black depths where, stripped to the waist, he was working amid roaring fires and hissing steam; he was out on a dark wide ocean, striving to fling a rope to a wreck drifting helplessly amid thundering breakers; he was up on a wind-swept deck, with brother bart's shaking grasp dragging him down below. then suddenly the picture changed: it was not brother bart but old father mack whose trembling hand was upon his arm, guiding him through the leafy shadows of the college walk where they had last talked together. beyond and above them was the dazzling glory of the stars, those sweeping worlds on which the young dreamer had looked last night. but as he walked on now, the leafy shadows seemed to grow into arched and pillared aisles rising far, far above him, and the stars were but the countless tapers on a mighty altar reaching to heights he could not see; and aunt winnie, was kneeling on the steps,--old aunt winnie, with clasped hands and uplifted eyes. then the guiding hand seemed to tighten on his arm, and it was brother bart again beside him,--brother bart, his sturdy, ruddy self again, shaking him awake. "i hate to rouse ye, danny lad" (there was a new friendliness in the old man's tone), "for it was the long, hard night ye had with us; but we're to get off here. praise be to god, our killing journey is nearly done!" and dan stumbled out hurriedly to the deck, to find the boat pushing into the harbor of a quaint old town, whose roofs and spires were glittering in the noonday sunshine. pretty sailboats were flitting hither and thither on sunny wings; the white stretch of beach was gay with bathers; the full notes of an orchestra came from the band stand on the jutting pier. "jing!" exclaimed dan, in amazement at such a festive scene. "is this killykinick?" "no," was dud fielding's surly answer. "i wish it was. but i mean to cut over here to the fosters whenever i can. this is beach cliff, where we have to take a sailboat to killykinick. and," dud went on, with deepening disgust, "i bet it's that old tub that is signalling to us now." dan's eyes, following dud's sullen gaze, saw, among the gaily painted pleasure craft moored at the wharfs, a clumsy little boat with rusty sides and dingy sail. an old man stood in the stern waving a tattered flag that, caught out by the breeze, showed in large faded letters--killykinick. x.--on the "sary ann." "it's the sign," said brother bart gratefully, as he caught sight of the fluttering pennant. "he was to wave the flag to us so we would know the boat. keep together now, boys," continued their anxious guardian, who was a little bewildered by a rush and struggle to which he was not accustomed. "ah, god help them that have to push their way in a world like this! hold to my hand, laddie, or ye'll be tramped down. straight behind me now, the rest of ye, so ye won't be lost." and, marshalling his boyish force, brother bart pressed on through the hurrying throngs that surged over gangway (for it was the height of the holiday season) until he reached the shabby little boat whose occupant was a very old man with a face brown and wrinkled as tanned leather. a long scar across his cheek had twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. he spat a large quid of tobacco into the water, and greeted his passengers with an old sea dog's growl: "been waitin' more than an hour for ye, but that consarned boat ain't never on time! hit some pretty rough weather, i reckon, out at sea?" "we did," answered brother bart, with feeling. "it's the mercy of god we're alive to tell the tale. in with ye, boys, and sit steady. take the middle of the boat, laddie, and hold to dan. give me a hand to help me in; for i'm weak and shaking yet. the lord's will be done, but i never thought to be sailing the seas in a cockleshell like this," added the good man, as the boat rocked under his sturdy weight when he sank heavily into his place. "i say so, too. let's hire something better," replied dud fielding, eagerly. "thar ain't nothing better or safer than this here 'sary ann' along the shore," said the boat's master, grimly. "i sot every timber in her myself. she ain't got a crack or a creak in her. i keeled her and calked her, and i'll lay her agin any of them painted and gilded play-toys to weather the toughest gale on this here coast. you're as safe in the 'sary ann,' padre, as if you were in church saying your prayers." "i'm no padre," disclaimed brother bart, hastily. "i'm only an humble lay-brother, my good man, that has come to take care of these boys." "brother or father, it's all the same to me," was the gruff answer. "i'm a hardshell baptist myself, but i've only good feelings to your kind. my old captain was one of you, and never a better man walked the deck. now, duck, my lads, while i swing out the sail and we'll be off." the passengers ducked their heads hurriedly while the 'sary ann's' boom swung around. her tawny sail caught the wind, and she was off with a light, swift grace that her looks belied. "golly, she can clip it!" exclaimed jim norris, who had a home on the chesapeake and knew all about a boat. "what sort of a rig is she, anyhow?" "mixed like good terbacker," briefly answered the owner, as he leaned back comfortably at the helm and bit off another chew. "sloop, skiff, outrigger, lugger,--she's got the good points of all and none of their kicks. not that she ain't got a spirit of her own. every boat worth anything hez. thar's days when she takes the wind and thar's no holdin' her. you jest have to let her spread her wings to it and go. but, lord, let that same wind begin to growl and mutter, let them waves begin to cap and swell, and the 'sary ann' is ready for them, you bet. she will drop all her fun and frolic, and scud along brave and bare agin the wildest gale that ever leashed a coast. and them young bloods over yon laugh at her," continued the 'sary ann's' owner, glowering at the gay buildings of the fashionable "boat club" they were just now passing. "they call her the corsair,' which is no christian name to give an honest boat." "you're right," said brother bart: "and, though you haven't the true faith, you seem to be a christian yourself. what is your name, my good man?" "jeroboam jimson," was the answer. "leastways that was what i was christened, my mother going in heavy for scripture names. i had a twin brother nebuchanezzar. sort of mouth-filling for general use, so we was naturally shortened down to neb and jeb. most folks call me jeb yet." "it comes easier," said brother bart; "though i'd never think of giving it to a man of your years. it seems a pity, with the litany of the saints convenient, to have to go back so far for a name. but that is no fault of yours, as god knows. have you been living long in this place we are going to?" "more than five and forty years," was the answer,--"since the 'lady jane' struck the rocks off killykinick, november , . i was second mate to old captain kane; and i stood by him until last may, when he took the cruise that every man has to make by himself. and i'm standing by his ship 'cording to orders yet. 'blood is thicker than water, mate,' he says to me; 'i've got to leave all that i have to little polly raynor's boy, but you're to stick to the ship as long as you live. i've hed that put down in the log with my name to it, and priest and lawyer and doctor as witness. you're captain jeroboam jimson of the "lady jane," in my place, and thar ain't no land sharks nor water sharks can bother ye.' i lay that's the chap he called polly's boy," said captain jeb, turning his eyes on freddy, who, seated at brother bart's side, had been listening, with flattering interest, to the old sailor's conversation. "yes," he spoke up eagerly, "my mother was polly. did you know her?" "i did," said captain jeb, nodding. "she came down here once as a bit of a girl, dancing over the sands like a water kelpie. the old captain didn't care much for women folks, but he was sot on her sure. then she come down agin as a bride, purty and shy and sweet; but the old man warn't so pleased then,--growled he didn't know what girls wanted to get married for, nohow. so you're her boy!" the old man's eyes softened as they rested on freddy. "you've got a sort of look of her, though you ain't as pretty,--not nigh." meanwhile the "sary ann," her tawny sail swelling in the wind, had left the gay beach and bathers and boat club of beach cliff, and was making the swell of the waves like a sea bird on the wing. "easy now, lass!" cautioned captain jeb, as they neared a white line of breakers, and he stood up firm and strong at the helm. "steady, all of you younkers; for we're crossing the bar. many a good ship has left her bones on this same reef. easy, 'sary ann'! it's no place for fooling round here." and, as if to emphasize his words, the black shadows of a wrecked ship rose gaunt and grim before them. "struck the reef two months ago," explained the captain, with eye and hand still steady on his helm. "can't get her off. captain fool enough to try beach cliff harbor without a native pilot! why, thar ain't no books nor charts can tell you nothing 'bout navigating round these here islands: you have to larn it yourself. it's the deceivingest stretch along the whole atlantic coast. thar's times when this here bar, that is biling deep with water now, is bare enough for one of you chaps to walk across without wetting your knees. easy now, 'sary ann'! ketch hold of that rope, younker, and steady the sail a bit. so thar, we're over the shoals. now clip it, my lass" (and the old man swung the sail free),--"clip it fast as you like for killykinick." and, almost as if she could hear the "sary ann" leaped forward with the bulging sail, and was off at the word; while captain jeb, the harbor reef safely passed, leaned back in his boat and pointed out to his young passengers (for even the elegant dud was roused into eager curiosity) the various things of interest on their way: the light ship, the lighthouses, the fishing fleet stretching dim and hazy on the far horizon, the great ocean liner only a faint shadow trailing a cloud of smoke in the blue distance. "them big fellows give us the go by now, though time was when they used to come from far and near; all kinds--spanish, portugee, east indian. them was the whaling days, when beach cliff was one of the greatest places on the coast. she stands out so far she hed the first bite at things. all the sailing ships made for snug harbor here. but, betwixt the steamboats and the railroads gobbling up everything, and the earth itself taking to spouting oil, things are pretty dead and gone here now." "but lots of fine folks come in the summer time," said dud. "and there's a church!" exclaimed brother bart, who had caught a passing glimpse of a cross-crowned spire. "thank god we'll not be beyond the light and truth entirely! you're to take us to mass every sunday, my good man; and we are to give you a dollar for the trouble of it, to say nothing of the blessing upon your own soul. were you ever at mass?" "never," answered captain jeb. "ah, god help you, poor man!" said brother bart. "sure we never know our own blessings till we talk with them that's left in the darkness. but it's not too late for the grace of heaven to reach you yet. never been to mass! well, well, well!" brother bart shook his head, and, as if unable to cope with such hopeless religious dearth, relapsed into silence. "is it much further to killykinick?" asked dan, who, with shining eyes had been taking in all this novel experience. "looks like we're heading out to nowhere." the "sary ann," with the wind full in her sail, seemed bearing off into sunlit distance, where sky and sea met. there was a faint, shadowy line to the left; and just beyond, a dim pencil point pierced the cloudless blue. "that's a lighthouse, isn't it?" asked jim, who had a sailor's eye. "yes," growled captain jeb, his leathery face darkening. "why they wanted to set up that consarned thing just across from killykinick, i don't know. hedn't we been showing a light thar for nigh onto fifty years? but some of these know-alls come along and said it wasn't the right kind; it oughter blink. and they made the old captain pull down the light that he had been burning steady and true, and the government sot up that thar newfangled thing a flashing by clockwork on numbskull nob. it did make the old man hot, sure. 'shet the window, mate,' he said to me when he was dying and wanted air badly. 'i can't go off in peace with that devilish thing of numbskull nob a winking at me.' duck agin, all hands! 'sary ann' swings around here. thar's killykinick to starboard!" and all hands "ducked" as rope and canvas rattled under captain jeb's guiding hand; and the "sary ann" swept from her dancing course to the boundless blue towards the shadowy line and dim pencil point now growing into graceful lighthouse and rocky shore. numbskull nob, jutting up from a hidden reef, over which a line of white-capped breakers was booming thunderously, seemed to justify the presence of the modern light that warned off closer approach to the island; for the stretch of water that lay between was a treacherous shoal where many a good ship had stranded in years gone by, when killykinick was only a jagged ledge of rock where the sea birds nested and man had no place. but things had changed now. a rude but sturdy breakwater made a miniature harbor in which several small boats floated at their moorings; a whitewashed wharf jutted out into the waves; the stretch of rocky shore beyond had been roughly terraced into easy approach. "easy now, boys,--easy!" warned brother bart anxiously, as the "sary ann" grated against her home pier, and captain jeroboam proceeded to make fast. "don't be leaping off till you know the way." but brother bart might have called to the dashing waves. this killykinick was very different from the desert they had expected; and, with shouts of delight from jim, dud and dan, even little freddy sprang ashore. shrubs and trees of strange growth nodded and waved amid the rocks; here and there in sheltered crannies were beds of blooming flowers; and in the lee of a towering rock that kept off the fury of storm and wind stood the very queerest house the young explorers had ever seen. xi.--at killykinick. it was a ship,--a ship with its keel settled deep in the sand, and held immovable against wind and storm by a rudely built foundation wall of broken rock. the sunlight blinked cheerfully from the dozen portholes; the jutting prow bore the weather-worn figurehead of the "lady jane,"--minus a nose and arm, it is true, but holding her post bravely still. stout canvas, that could be pegged down or lifted into breezy shelter, roofed the deck, from which arose the "lookout," a sort of light tower built around a mast that upheld a big ship lantern; while the stars and stripes floated in glory over all. for a moment the four young travellers stared breathless at this remarkable edifice, while freddy eagerly explained: "it's my great-uncle joe's ship that was wrecked here on killykinick. he had sailed in her for years and loved her, and he didn't want to leave her to fall to pieces on the rocks; and so he got a lot of men, with chains and ropes and things, and moved her up here and made her into a house." and a first-class house the "lady jane" made, as all the boys agreed when they proceeded to investigate great-uncle joe's legacy. true, there was a lack of modern conveniences. the sea lapping the sands to the right was the only bath-room, but what finer one could a boy ask? there was neither dining room nor kitchen; only the "galley," as captain jeb, who came up shortly to do the honors of this establishment, explained to his guests. the "galley" was a queer little narrow place in the stern, lined with pots and pans and dishes scoured to a shine, and presided over by another old man more crooked and leathery-visaged than captain jeb, and who seemed too deep in the concoction of some savory mixture simmering on his charcoal stove to give look or word to the newcomers who crowded around him. "that is neb," said his brother, in brief introduction. "he don't hev much to say, but you mustn't mind that. it ain't been altogether clear weather in his upper deck since he shipped with a durned pirate of a captain that laid his head open with a marline spike; but for a cook, he can't be beat by any steward afloat or ashore. jest you wait till he doses out that clam-chowder he's making now!" then there was the long, low cabin that stretched the full length of the "lady jane," and that--with its four cosy bunks made up shipshape, its big table, its swinging lamp, its soft bulging chairs (for great-uncle joe had been a man of solid weight as well as worth)--was just the place for boys to disport themselves in without fear of doing damage. all about were most interesting things for curious young eyes to see and busy fingers to handle: telescope, compass, speaking trumpet, log and lead and line that had done duty in many a distant sea; spears, bows and arrowheads traded for on savage islands; chinese ivories and lacquered boxes from japan. a white bearskin and walrus tusk told of an early venture into the frozen north, when bold men were first drawn to its darkness and mystery; while the buddha from an eastern temple, squatting shut-eyed on a shelf, roused good old brother bart into holy horror. "i never thought to be under the same roof with a haythen idol. put it away, my man,--put it out of sight while i'm in yer house; for i can't stand the looks of it. i'll be after smashing it into bits if ye lave it under me eyes." and his indignation was appeased only by the sight of the captain's room, which had been respectfully assigned to the "padre," as captain jeb persisted in calling his older guest. here great-uncle joe had treasures rare indeed in the good brother's eye: a wonderful crucifix of ivory and ebony; the silver altar lamp of an old spanish monastery; a madonna in dull tints that still bore traces of a master hand; a rosary, whose well-worn beads made brother bart's pious heart warm. "indeed he was a god-fearing man, i'm sure, this uncle of laddie's." "he was," agreed captain jeb; "a little rough-talking sometimes, but all sailors are." "well, it's a rough life," said brother bart, recalling his own late experience. "it's little chance it gives you to think or pray. but the old man ye talk of prayed; i am sure of that. the beads here bear token of it." "aye," answered captain jeb. "he held to them to the last as tight as if they was an anchor chain,--why i don't know." "that's yer ignorance, poor man!" said brother bart, compassionately. "ye should pray morning and evening for light, and perhaps ye'll be given the grace to know what the hould of blessed beads is to a dying hand. now, if ye don't mind, i'll rest a bit in this quiet place, and try to say me own prayers that i missed last night; for it was a sore trying time to me, both body and soul. there's no harm can come to the boys, now that they are safe here." "i wouldn't swear to four younkers like them anywhere," was the grim answer. "but ye can rest easy, padre: i'll keep an eye on them, never fear." and, closing the old captain's door on his anxious guest, captain jeb proceeded to "keep an eye" on the boys who were exploring killykinick in every direction. as it had little more than half a mile of visible surface, the exploration was naturally limited; but there was a "deal more below," as captain jeb assured them,--reefs and shoals stretching out in every direction, and widening every year with the silt carried down from the shore. there were one or two wide hollows between the rocks, where that same silt, top-dressed with richer earth imported from more favored spots by captain jeb, served as kitchen garden, in which beans, cabbages and potatoes made a promising show. on another sheltered slope, green with coarse grass, brown betty was pasturing peacefully; while in a henhouse beyond there was clucking and cackling, cheerfully suggestive of chickens and eggs. "we used to hev mostly ship rations," said captain jeb. "but the old man got sort of picky and choosy these last years, and turned agin the hard-tack and old hoss meat that had been good enough for him before. so i got a few boat-loads of good earth and took to growing things. and things do grow here for sure, if you only give them a chance. all they want is root hold; the sun and the air and the soft mists do the rest." then there was the pump house; for even the toughest of old "salts" must have fresh water. and it had cost many a dollar to strike it in these rocks; but strike it at last the well-borers did, and the pump was roofed and walled in as killykinick's greatest treasure. "stick round here, younkers, along by the 'lady jane' and the wharf and the garden beds, and down by the 'sary ann' and the boats to the south beach, and you'll be pretty safe. but i'm going to show you a place whar you can't do no monkey shining, for it ain't safe at all." and as captain jeb spoke he turned to the high wall of rock that had backed and sheltered the "lady jane" for nearly fifty years; and, bending his thin form, he pushed through a low, narrow opening, with, it is needless to say, four wide-eyed boys scrambling breathlessly behind him,--dan, as usual, in the lead, pulling freddy on. for a moment they stumbled in darkness, through which came a thunderous sound like the swell of some mighty organ under a master hand; and then they were out in light and space again, with the ocean cliff of killykinick arching above and around them in a great cave hollowed by the beating waves out of solid rock. wall and roof were rough and jagged, broken into points and ledges; but the floor was smoothed by the tide into a shining, glittering surface, that widened out to meet the line of breakers thundering white-foamed beyond, their sprays scattering in light showers far and near. "jing! golly! hooray!" burst from the young explorers; and they would have dashed off into bolder investigation of this new discovery, but captain jeb's sudden trumpet tone withheld them. "stop,--stop thar, younkers! didn't i tell you this warn't no play-place? how far and how deep these caves stretch only the lord knows; for the sea is knawing them deeper and wider every year. and thar's holes and quicksands that would suck you down quicker than that whale in the good book swallowed jonah. and more than that: in three hours from now these here rocks whar we are standing will be biling with high tide. this ain't no play-place! i'm showing it to you so you'll know; for thar ain't no reefs and shoals to easy things here. it's deep sea soundings that no line can reach, this nor'east shore. them waves hev a clean sweep of three thousand miles before they break here. and thar ain't to be no ducking nor swimming nor monkey shining around here unless me or neb is on watch. neb ain't much good for navigating since he got that hit with the marline spike, but for a watch on ship or shore he is all right. so them 'orders' is all i hev to give: the padre, being a bit nervous, may hev some of his own; but thar ain't nothing to hurt four strapping younkers round killykinick except right _here_. and now, i reckon, it's about time for dinner. i'm ready for some of neb's clam-chowder, i know; and i guess you are, too." "jing! but this is a great place of yours, freddy!" said dan, as they turned back to the ship house. "we could not have found a better." "that's all you know," scoffed the lordly dud. "i mean to keep on the right side of the old duffer," he added _sotto voce_, "and get over to beach cliff in that tub of his whenever i can. minnie foster asked me to come; they've taken a fine house down on the shore, and have all sorts of fun--dances, picnics, boat races. i'll get sick of things here pretty soon; won't you, jim?" "i don't know about that," was the lazy answer. "about as good a place to loaf as you'll find." "loaf?" put in dan. "there isn't going to be any loafing at killykinick for me. i'm for boating and fishing and clamming and digging up those garden beds. i don't know what those others are paying," said dan, who had fallen behind with captain jeb; "but i've got no money, and am ready to earn my board and keep." "you are?" said the captain, in surprise. "as i took it, the padre bunched you all together for as fair a figure as i could ask." "not me," replied dan. "these other chaps are plutes, and can pay their own way; so cut me out of your figures and let me work for myself." "well, that's sort of curious talk for a younker with a high-class schooling," said captain jeb, dubiously. "you mean you want to hire out?" "yes," said dan, remembering aunt winnie and how doubtful his claim was upon st. andrew's. "thar will be considerable stirring round, i'll allow," was the reflective answer. "i was thinking of getting billy benson to lend a hand, but if you'd like the job of sort of second mate--" "i would," said dan. "what is a second mate's work?" "obeying orders," answered captain jeb, briefly. "that's dead easy," said dan, with a grin. "oh, is it?" was the grim rejoinder. "jest you wait, younker, till you've stood on a toppling deck in the teeth of a nor'easter, with some dunderhead of a captain roaring cuss words at you to cut away the mast that you know is all that's keeping you out of davy jones' locker, and then you'll find what obeying orders means. but if you want the job here, it's yours. what will you take?" "my board and keep," answered dan. "that ain't no sort of pay," said the other, gruffly. "wait till you see me eat," laughed dan; "besides, i was never a second mate before. maybe i won't make good at it." "mebbe you won't," said captain jeb, his mouth stretching into its crooked smile. "you're ruther young for it, i must admit. still, i like your grit and pluck, younker. most chaps like you are ready to suck at anything in reach. what's your name?" "dan--dan dolan," was the answer. "good!" said captain jeb. "it's a square, honest name. you're shipped, dan dolan. i guess thar ain't no need for signing papers. this little chap will bear witness. you're shipped as second mate in the 'lady jane' now and here." xii.--the second mate.--a confab. then neb's bell clanged out for dinner, that was served on the long table in the cabin, shipshape, but without any of the frills used on land. there was a deep earthen dish brimming with chowder, a wonderful concoction that only old salts like neb can make. it had a bit of everything within killykinick reach--clams and fish and pork and potatoes, onions and peppers and hard-tack,--all simmering together, piping hot, in a most appetizing way, even though it had to be "doused" out with a tin ladle into yellow bowls. there was plenty of good bread, thick and "filling"; a platter of bacon and greens, and a dish of rice curried after a fashion neb had learned cruising in the china sea. last of all, and borne in triumphantly by the cook himself, was a big smoking "plum duff" with cream sauce. there is a base imitation of "duff" known to landsmen as batter pudding; but the real plum duff of shining golden yellow, stuffed full of plums like jack horner's pie, is all the sailor's own. dan plunged at once into his new duties of second mate. both jeb and neb were well past seventy, and, while still hale and hearty, were not so nimble as they had been forty years ago; so a second mate, with light feet and deft hands, proved most helpful, now that the "lady jane" had taken in a double crew. dan cleared the table and washed the dishes with a celerity bewildering to the slow brain dulled by the marline spike. he swabbed up the galley under neb's gruff direction; he fed the chickens and milked the cow. for a brief space in two summers of his early life, dan had been borne off by an angel guardian society to its fresh air home, a plain, old-fashioned farmhouse some miles from his native city; and, being a keen-eyed youngster even then, he had left swings and seesaws to less interested observers, and trudged around the fields, the henhouse, the dairies, the barns, watching the digging and the planting, the feeding and the milking; so that the ways of cows and chickens were not altogether beyond his ken. "sure and yer board and keep was to be paid for with the rest, lad," said brother bart, kindly. "i don't want it paid, brother," replied dan. "st. andrew's does enough for me. i'd a heap rather work for myself out here." "whether that is decent spirit or sinful pride i'm not scholar enough to tell," said the good brother in perplexity. "it takes a wise man sometimes to know the differ; but i'm thinking" (and there was a friendly gleam in the old man's eyes) "if i was a strapping lad like you, i would feel the same. so work your own way if you will, danny lad, and god bless you at it!" even heartier was the well-wishing of captain jeb after his first day's experience with his second officer. "you're all right, matie!" he said, slapping dan-on the shoulder. "there will be no loafing on your watch, i kin see. you're the clipper build i like. them others ain't made to stand rough weather; but as i take it, you're a sort of mother carey chicken that's been nested in the storm. and i don't think you'll care to be boxed up below with them fair-weather chaps. suppose, being second mate, you swing a hammock up on the deck with jeb and me?" "jing! i'd like that first rate," was the delighted answer. and, as brother bart had no fear of danger on the "lady jane," dan entered on all the privileges of his position. while freddy and dud and jim took possession of the sheltered cabin, and the dignity of the padre (so it seemed to captain jeb) demanded the state and privacy of the captain's room, dan swung his hammock up on deck, where it swayed delightfully in the wind, while the stout awnings close-reefed in fair weather gave full view of the sea and the stars. he slept like a child cradled in its mother's arms, and was up betimes to plunge into a stretch of sheltered waves, still rosy with the sunrise, for a morning bath such as no porcelain tub could offer; and then to start off with old neb, who, like other wise householders, began the day's work early. neb might be deaf and dull, and, in boyish parlance, a trifle "dippy"; but he knew the ways of fish, from whales to minnows. he had a boat of his own, with its nets and seines and lines, that not even the sturdy old captain in the days of his command dared touch. that dan was allowed to handle the oars this first morning proved that the second mate had already established himself firmly in neb's favor. but, as wharf rat, dan had gained some knowledge of boats and oars; and he was able to do his part under the old salt's gruff direction. they went far out beyond shoal and reef; beyond numskull nob (whose light was still blinking faintly in the glow of the sunrise), into deep waters, where the fishing fleet could be seen already at work in the blue distance hauling up big catches of cod, halibut, and other game. "that ain't fishing!" growled old neb. "it's durned mean killing." "and isn't all fishing killing?" asked dan, as they flung out their own lines. "no," said neb. "when you cast a line, or a harpoon even, you give critters a chance; but them durned pirates thar don't give a fish no chance at all." "did you ever cast a harpoon?" asked dan, with interest. for a moment the dull eyes kindled, the dull face brightened, as some deadened memory seemed to stir and waken into life; then the shadow fell heavy and hopeless again. "mebbe i did, sonny; i don't know. it's so far back i've most forgot." but old neb's wits worked in their own way still. it took less than an hour to catch dinners for the whole killykinick crew; and the fishermen came home to find that captain jeb had been doing duty during their absence, and breakfast was ready on the long table in the cabin,--a breakfast such as none of the white-coated waiters in their late journey could beat. captain jeb knew nothing of cereals, but he had a big bowl of mush and a pitcher of golden cream; he had bacon and eggs frizzled to a charm; he had corndodgers and coffee that filled the air with fragrance,--such coffee as old sailors look for about break of day after a middle watch. altogether, the crew of the "lady jane" found things very pleasant, and the first week at killykinick had all the interest of life in a newly discovered land. even brother bart was argued by the two old salts out of his "nervousness," and laddie was allowed to boat and fish and swim in safe waters under dan's care; while jim and dud looked out for themselves, as such big fellows should. "thar's nothing to hurt them off thar," said captain jeb, as brother bart watched his navigators with anxious eyes pushing out over a stretch of dancing waves. "'twixt here and numskull nob you could 'most walk ashore. jest keep them out of the devil's jaw, that's all." "the lord between us and harm!" ejaculated brother bart, in pious horror. "where is that at all?" "the stretch of rock yonder," replied captain jeb, nodding to the northeast. "and isn't that an awful name to give to a christian shore?" asked brother bart. "no worse than them ar suck-holes of waves deserves," was the grim answer. "when the high tide sweeps in thar, it kerries everything with it, and them caves guzzle it all down, nobody knows whar." "ah, god save us!" said brother bart. "it's the quare place to choose aither for life or death. i wonder at the laddie's uncle, and ye too, for staying all these years. wouldn't it be better now, at yer time of life, for ye to be saving yer soul in quiet and peace, away from the winds and the storms and the roaring seas that are beating around ye here?" "no," was the gruff answer,--"no, padre. i couldn't live away from the winds and the storms and the waves. i couldn't die away from them either. i'd be like a deep sea-fish washed clean ashore. how them landlubbers live with everything dead and dull around them, i don't see. i ain't been out of sight of deep water since i shipped as cabin boy in the 'lady jane' nigh onto sixty years ago. i've been aloft in her rigging with the sea beating over the deck and the wind whistling so loud ye couldn't hear the cuss words the old man was a-roaring through his trumpet below. i've held her wheel through many a black night when no mortal man could tell shore from sea. i stood by her when she struck on this here reef, ripped open from stem to stern; and i'm standing by her now, 'cording to the old captain's orders, yet." "ye may be right," said brother bart, reflectively. "it's not for me to judge ye, jeroboam." (brother bart never shortened that scriptural title.) "but i bless the lord day and night that i was not called to the sea.--what is it the boys are after now!" he added, with an anxious glance at the boat in which laddie and dan had ventured out beyond his call. "lobsters," replied captain jeb. "them's neb's lobster pots bobbing up thar, and they've got a catch that will give us a dinner fit for a king." "it's all to your taste," said brother bart. "barrin' fast days, of which i say nothing, i wouldn't give a good irish stew for all the fish that ever swam the seas. but laddie is thrivin' on the food here, i must say. there's a red in his cheeks i haven't seen for months; but what with the rocks and the seas and the devil's jaw foreninst them, it will be the mercy of god if i get the four boys safe home." "you needn't fear," was the cheering assurance. "they are fine, strapping fellows, and a touch of sailor life won't harm them; though it's plain them two big chaps and little polly's boys are used to softer quarters. but for a long voyage i'd ship mate danny before any of them." "ye would?" asked brother bart. "aye," answered captain jeb, decisively. "don't fly no false colors, sticks to his job, ready to take hold of anything from a lobster pot to a sheet anchor,--honest grit straight through. lord, what a ship captain he would make! but they don't teach navigation at your school." "i don't know," answered brother bart. "i'm not book-learned, as i've told ye; but there's little that isn't taught at st. andrew's that christian lads ought to know; to say nothing of god's holy law, which is best of all; but of navigation i never hear tell. i'm thinking it can't be much good." "no good!" repeated the captain, staring. "navigation no good! lord! you're off your reckoning thar sure, padre. do you know what navigation means? it means standing on your quarter-deck and making your ship take its way over three thousand miles of ocean straight as a bird flies to its nest; it means holding her in that ar way with the waves a-swelling mountain high and the wind a-bellowing in your rigging, and a rocky shore with all its teeth set to grind her in your lee; it means knowing how to look to the sun and the stars when they're shining, and how to steer without, them when the night is too black to see. where would you and i be now, padre, if a navigator that no landlubbers could down had not struck out without map or chart to find this here america of ours hundreds of years ago?" "i'm sure i don't know," answered brother bart. "but there seems to be sense and truth in what you say. it's a pity you haven't the light of faith." "what would it do for me!" asked captain jeb, briefly. "what would it do for you?" repeated brother bart. "sure it's in the black darkness you are, my man, or ye wouldn't ask. it's sailing on the sea of life ye are without sun or stars, and how ye are to find the way to heaven i don't know. do ye ever say a prayer, jeroboam?" "no," was the gruff answer. "that's your business, padre. the lord don't expect no praying from rough old salts like me." "sure and he does,--he does," said brother bart, roused into simple earnestness. "what is high or low to him? isn't he the lord and maker of the land and sea? doesn't he give ye life and breath and strength and health and all that ye have? and to stand up like a dumb brute under his eye and never give him a word of praise or thanks! i wonder at ye, jeroboam,--i do indeed! sure ye'd be more dacent to any mortal man that gave ye a bit and sup; but what ye're not taught, poor man, ye can't know. listen now: ye're to take us to church to-morrow according to your bargain." "yes," said the captain, gruffly; "but thar warn't no bargain about preaching and praying and singing." "sure i don't ask it,", said brother bart, sadly. "you're in haythen darkness, jeroboam, and i haven't the wisdom or the knowledge or the holiness to lade ye out; but there's one prayer can be said in darkness as well as in light. all i ask ye to do is to stand for a moment within the church and turn your eyes to the lamp that swings like a beacon light before the altar and whisper the words of that honest man in the bible that didn't dare to go beyant the holy door, 'o god, be merciful to me a sinner!' will ye do that?" "wal, since that's all ye ask of me, padre," said captain jeb, reflectively, "i can't say no. i've thought them words many a time when the winds was a-howling and the seas a-raging, and it looked as if i was bound for davy jones' locker before day; but i never knew that was a fair-weather prayer. but i'll say it as you ask; and i'll avow, padre, that, for talking and praying straight to the point, you beat any preacher or parson i ever heard yet." "preach, is it!" exclaimed brother bart. "sure i never preached in my life, and never will. but i'll hold ye to your word, jeroboam; and, with god's blessing, we'll be off betimes to-morrow morning.--here come the boys: and, holy mother, look at the boatful of clawing craythurs they have with them!" "lobsters, brother bart!" shouted freddy, triumphantly. "lobsters, captain jeb! fine big fellows. i'm hungry as three bears." xiii.--at beach cliff. brother bart and his boys were up betimes for their sunday journey. breakfast was soon dispatched, and four sunburned youngsters were ready for their trip to town. dud and jim, who had been lounging around killykinick in sweaters and middies, were spruced up into young gentlemen again. freddy's rosy cheeks were set off by a natty little sailor suit and cap; while dan scarcely recognized himself in one of the rigs presented by brother francis, that bore the stamp of a stylish tailor, and that had been sponged and pressed and mended by the kind old wardrobian until it was quite as good as new. the day was bright and beautiful, sky and sea seemed smiling on each other most amicably. the "sary ann" was in the best of spirits, and the wind in the friendliest of moods. "sit steady, boys, and don't be philandering!" warned brother bart, anxiously. "it looks fair and aisy enough, but you can drown in sun as well as storm. keep still there, laddie, or ye'll be over the edge of the boat. sure it's an awful thing to think that there's only a board between ye and the judgment-seat of god." and brother bart shook his head, and relapsed into meditation befitting the peril of his way; while the "sary ann" swept on, past rock and reef and shoal, out into the wide blue open, where the sunlit waves were swelling in joyous freedom, until the rocks and spires of beech cliff rose dimly on the horizon; white-winged sails began to flutter into sight; wharves and boat-houses came into view, and the travellers were back in the busy world of men again. "it feels good to be on god's own earth again," said brother bart, as he set foot on the solid pier, gay just now with a holiday crowd; for the morning boat was in, and the "cliff dwellers," as the residents of the old town were called at livelier seaside resorts, were out in force to welcome the new arrivals. "this is something fine!" said dud to jim, as they made their way through the chatting, laughing throng, and caught the lilt of the music on the beach beyond, where bathers, reckless of the church bells' call, were disporting themselves in the sunlit waves. "it's tough, with a place like this so near, to be shut up on a desert island for a whole vacation. i say, jim, let's look up the fosters after mass, and see if we can't get a bid to their house for a day or two. we'll have some fun there." "i don't know," answered easy jim. "killykinick is good enough for me. you have to do so much fussing and fixing when you are with girls. still, now we are here, we might as well look around us." so when mass in the pretty little church was over, and brother bart, glad to be back under his well-loved altar light, lingered at his prayers, the boys, who had learned from captain jeb that they had a couple of hours still on their hands, proceeded to explore the quaint old town, with its steep, narrow streets, where no traffic policemen were needed; for neither street cars nor automobiles were allowed to intrude. in the far long ago, beach cliff had been a busy and prosperous seaport town. the great sailing vessels of those days, after long and perilous voyage, made harbor there; the old shipmasters built solid homes on the island shores; its merchants grew rich on the whaling vessels, that went forth to hunt for these monsters of the great deep, and came back laden with oil and blubber and whalebone and ambergris. but all this was changed now. steam had come to supplant the white wings that had borne the old ships on their wide ocean ways. as captain jeb said, "the airth had taken to spouting up ile," and made the long whale hunts needless and unprofitable. but, though it had died to the busy world of commerce and trade, the quaint old island town had kept a charm all its own, that drew summer guests from far and near. dud and jim made for the resident streets, where old colonial mansions stood amid velvety lawns, and queer little low-roofed houses were buried in vines and flowers. but dan and freddy kept to the shore and the cliff, where the old fishermen had their homes, and things were rough and interesting. they stopped at an old weather-beaten house that had in its low windows all sorts of curious things--models of ships and boats, odd bits of pottery, rude carvings, old brasses and mirrors,--the flotsam and jetsam from broken homes and broken lives that had drifted into this little eddy. the proprietor, a bent and grizzled old man, who stood smoking at the door, noticed the young strangers. "don't do business on sundays; but you can step in, young gentlemen, and look about you. 'twon't cost you a cent: and i've things you won't see any-whar else on this atlantic coast,--brass, pottery, old silver, old books, old papers, prints of rare value and interest. a harvard professor spent two hours the other day looking over my collection." "is it a museum?" asked freddy politely, as he and dan peered doubtful over the dusky threshold. "wal, no, not exactly; though it's equal to that, sonny. folks call this here jonah's junk-shop,--jonah being my christian name. (i ain't never had much use for any other.) i've been here forty years, and my father was here before me,--buying and selling whatever comes to us. and things do come to us sure, from copper kettles that would serve a mess of sixty men, down to babies' bonnets." "babies' bonnets!" laughed dan, who, with freddy close behind him, had pushed curiously but cautiously into the low, dark room, from which opened another and another, crowded with strangely assorted merchandise. "you may laugh," said the proprietor, "but we've had more than a dozen trunks and boxes filled with such like folderols. some of 'em been here twenty years or more,--shawls and bonnets and ball dresses, all frills and laces and ribbons; baby bonnets, too, all held for duty and storage or wreckage and land knows what. flung the whole lot out for auction last year, and the women swarmed like bees from the big hotels and the cottages. got bits of yellow lace, they said, for ten cents that was worth many dollars. the men folks tried to 'kick' about fever and small-pox in the old stuff, but not a woman would listen. look at that now!" and the speaker paused under a chandelier that, even in the dusky dimness, glittered with crystal pendants. "set that ablaze with the fifty candles it was made to hold, and i bet a hundred dollars wouldn't have touched it forty years ago. ye can buy it to-morrow for three and a quarter. that's the way things go in jonah's junk-shop." "and do you ever really sell anything?" asked dan, whose keen business eye, being trained by early bargaining for the sharp needs of life, could see nothing in jonah's collection worth a hard-earned dollar. mirrors with dingy and broken frames loomed ghost-like up in the dusky corners; tarnished epaulets and sword hilts told pathetically of forgotten honors; there were clocks, tall and stately, without works or pendulum. "sell?" echoed the proprietor. "of course, sonny, we sell considerable, specially this time of year when the rich folks come around,--folks that ain't looking for stuff that's whole or shiny. and they do bite curious, sure. why, there was some sort of a big man come up here in his yacht a couple of years ago that gave me twenty-five dollars for a furrin medal,--twenty-five dollars cash down. and it wasn't gold or silver neither. said he knew what it was worth, and i didn't." "twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed the astonished freddy,--"twenty-five dollars for a medal! o dan, then maybe yours is worth something, too." "pooh, no!" said dan, "what would poor old nutty be doing with a twenty-five dollar medal?" the dull eyes of the old junk dealer kindled with quick interest. "hev you got a medal?" he asked. "where did you get it?" "from a batty old sailor man who thought i had done him some good turns," answered dan. "where he got it he didn't say. i don't think he could remember." and dan, whose only safe deposit for boyish treasures was his jacket pocket, pulled out the gift that freddy had refused, and showed it to this new acquaintance, who, holding it off in his horny hand, blinked at it with practised eye. "portugee or spanish, i don't know which it says on that thar rim. thar ain't much of it silver. i'd have to rub it up to be sure of the rest. date, well as i can make out, it's ." "it is," said dan. "i made that much out myself." old jonah shook his head. "ain't far enough back. takes a good hundred years to make an antique. still, you can't tell. the ways of these great folks are queer. last week i sold for five dollars a bureau that i was thinking of splitting up into firewood; and the woman was as tickled as if she had found a purse of money. said it was louey kans. who or what she was i don't know; mebbe some kin of hers. i showed her the break plain, for i ain't no robber; but she said that didn't count a mite,--that she could have a new glass put in for ten dollars. ten dollars! wal, thar ain't no telling about rich folks' freaks and foolishness; so i can't say nothing about that thar medal. it ain't the kind of thing i'd want to gamble on. but if you'd like to leave it here on show. i'll take care of it, i promise you; and mebbe some one may come along and take a notion to it." "oh, what's the good?" said dan, hesitating. "dan, do--do!" pleaded freddy, who saw a chance for the vacation pocket money his chum so sorely lacked. "you might get twenty-five dollars for it, dan." "he might," said old jonah; "and then again he mightn't, sonny. i ain't promising any more big deals like them i told you about. but you can't ever tell in this here junk business whar or when luck will strike you. it goes hard agin my old woman to hev all this here dust and cobwebs. she has got as tidy a house as you'd ask to see just around the corner,--flower garden in front, and everything shiny. but if i'd let her in here with a bucket and broom she'd ruin my business forever. it's the dust and the rust and the cobwebs that runs jonah's junk-shop. but it's fair and square. i put down in writing all folks give me to sell, and sign my name to it. if you don't gain nothing, you don't lose nothing." dan was thinking fast. twenty-five dollars,--twenty-five dollars! there was only a chance, it is true; and a very slim chance at that. but what would twenty-five dollars mean to him, to aunt winnie? for surely and steadily, in the long, pleasant summer days, in the starlit watches of the night, his resolution was growing: he must live and work for aunt winnie; he could not leave her gentle heart to break in its loneliness, while he climbed to heights beyond her reach; he could not let her die, while he dreamed of a future she would never see. being only a boy, dan did not put the case in just such words. he only felt with a fierce determination that, in spite of the dull pain in his heart at the thought, he must give up st. andrew's when this brief seaside holiday was past, and work for aunt winnie. and a little ready cash to make a new start in mulligan's upper rooms would help matters immensely. just now he had not money enough for a fire in the rusty little stove, or to move aunt winnie and her old horsehair trunk from the little sisters. "all right!" he said, with sudden resolve. "take the medal and try it." and old jonah, who was not half so dull as, for commercial purposes, he looked, turned to an old mahogany desk propped up on three legs, and gave the young owner a duly signed receipt for one silver-rimmed bronze medal, date , and the business was concluded. "suppose you really get twenty-five dollars, dan," said freddy, as they bade old jonah good-bye and kept on their way. "what will you do with it?" "i'm not saying," replied dan, mindful of his promise to father mack. "but i'll start something, you can bet, freddy!" and then they went on down to the wharf, where the "sary ann" lay at her moorings, and brother bart was seated on a bench in pleasant converse with the irish sexton of the little church, who had been showing the friendly old brother some of the sights of the town. "here come my boys now. this is dan dolan, and this is my own laddie that i've been telling ye about, mr. mcnally. and where--where are the others?" questioned brother bart, anxiously. "i don't know," answered dan, after he had reciprocated mr. mcnally's hearty hand-shake. "dud said something about going to the fosters." "sure and that isn't hard to find," said mr. mcnally. "it's one of the biggest places on main street, with hydrangeas growing like posies all around the door. any one will show ye." "go back for them, danny lad. ye can leave laddie here with me while ye bring the others back; for the day is passing, and we must be sailing home." xiv.--polly. main street was not hard to find, neither seemed the fosters. a corner druggist directed dan without hesitation to a wide, old-fashioned house, surrounded by lawns and gardens, in which the hydrangeas--blue, pink, purple--were in gorgeous summer bloom. but, though the broad porch was gay with cushions and hammocks, no boys were in sight; and, lifting the latch of the iron gate, dan was proceeding up the flower-girdled path to the house, when the hall door burst open and a pretty little girl came flying down the steps in wild alarm. "bobby!" she cried. "my bobby is out! bobby is gone! oh, somebody catch bobby, please,--somebody catch my bobby!" a gush of song answered the wail. perched upon the biggest and pinkest of the hydrangeas was a naughty little canary, its head on one side warbling defiantly in the first thrill of joyous freedom. its deserted mistress paused breathlessly. a touch, a movement, she knew would send him off into sunlit space beyond her reach forever. quick-witted dan caught on to the situation. a well-aimed toss of his cap, and the hydrangea blooms were quivering under the beat of the captive's fluttering wings. dan sprang forward and with a gentle, cautious hand grasped his prisoner. "oh, oh, oh!" was all the little lady could cry, clasping her hands rapturously. "don't--don't hurt him, please!" "i won't," was the answer. "but get his cage quick; for he's scared to death at my holding him." bobby's mistress darted into the house at the word, and reappeared again in a moment with a gilded palace that was surely all a bird could ask for. "o bobby, bobby!" she murmured reproachfully, as dan deposited his subdued and trembling captive behind the glittering bars. "when you had this lovely new cage and everything you wanted!" "no, he hadn't," said dan, conscious of a sudden sympathy with his feathered prisoner. "he has wings and wants to use them." "but he couldn't find seed or chickweed for himself, and the cats and hawks would have had him before morning. oh, i'm so glad to get him back safe i don't know how to thank you for catching him for me!" and the little lady lifted a pair of violet eyes, that were still sparkling with tears, to her benefactor's face. "pooh! it wasn't anything," said dan, shyly. "yes, it was. you threw your cap fine. my brothers couldn't have done it, i know. they would have just laughed and teased, and let bobby fly away forever. you are the nicest boy i ever saw," continued bobby's mistress, who was at the age when young ladies speak their mind frankly. "what is your name?" "dan dolan," was the reply, with the smile that showed aunt winnie's boy at his best. "let me carry your bird cage to the house for you. it is too heavy for a little girl." "oh, thank you! but i'm not such a little girl as you think: i am nearly ten years old," said the young lady, as dan took up bobby and his cage, and they proceeded up the broad gravelled path to the house; "and my name is polly forester, and--" "forester!" blurted out dan. "then i'm on the wrong track. they told me this was the foster house." "oh, no!" miss polly shook her head, that, with its golden brown ringlets, looked very much like a flower itself. "this has been our house for more than a hundred years. my grandfather lived here, and my great-grandfather and all my grandfathers. one of them fought with george washington; we've got his sword. would you like to see it?" asked miss polly, becoming graciously hospitable as they approached the porch. "i'm afraid i haven't time," answered dan. "you see, i'm looking for two of our fellows. we're a lot of st. andrew's boys off for the summer, and the boat is waiting to take us back to killykinick." "oh, are you staying there?" asked the young lady, with wide-eyed interest. "i've passed it often in dad's yacht." "polly dear!" called a sweet voice, and a grown-up image of that young person came hurriedly out on the porch,--a lovely lady, all in soft trailing white and blue ribbons. "what is the matter? your cry woke me out of a sound sleep and put me all in a flutter." "o mamma dear, i'm sorry! but it was bobby. he flew out of his cage when i was trying to teach him to perch on my hand, and got away. he would have gone forever if this nice boy had not caught him for me! his name is dan dolan, mamma, and he is staying at killykinick with a lot of college boys. dan is looking for the other boys, who are at the fosters; and some one told him this was the house, and he came just in time to catch my bobby under his cap, and--" "the fosters?" interrupted mamma, who was used to clearing up things for polly. "probably you are looking for colonel foster, who came down last week," she continued, turning a smiling face to dan. "they have rented the pelham cottage for the summer. you know where that is, polly?" "oh, yes!" answered the little lady, cheerfully. "you take care of bobby, mamma, and i'll show dan the short cut through our garden." and she darted ahead through an old-fashioned maze, where tall box hedges were clipped into queer shapes around beds of gay blooming flowers. then, swinging open a vine-wreathed gate, dan's little guide led into a steep narrow way paved with cobblestones. "pelham cottage is just up there," she said, "at the top of larboard lane." "and here the boys come now!" exclaimed dan, as the sound of familiar voices reached his ear, and down the lane came a laughing, chattering group,--minna foster, and her sister madge and brother jack gleefully escorting jim and dud back to the boat, and claiming the promises of speedy return to beach cliff. dan hailed his schoolmates, explained his search and his mistake, and they were all taking their way down the stony path together,--polly being of the sort to make friends at once with every nice boy or girl within reach. "isn't she the cutest thing?" said minna foster, who had fallen behind with dud. "we have just been dying to know them; but her mother is an invalid, and doesn't go out much, though they are the finest people in beach cliff, mamma says. they have lots of money, and the loveliest old home filled with all sorts of beautiful things, and horses and carriages and a big yacht." "and dan dolan has struck it with them," said dud, watching miss polly's dancing along loyally by her nice boy's side. "dan dolan! can't you give them a tip about him." "a tip?" echoed minna, puzzled. "yes," said dud, his brow darkening. "people like that don't want to know such low-down chumps as dan dolan. why, he's in st. andrew's on charity; hasn't got a decent rag to his back except what we give him there; used to shine shoes and sell papers on the streets. his aunt is in the poorhouse or something next to it; he's just a common tough, without a cent to call his own." "goodness!" gasped miss minna. "then what is he doing up here with boys like you?" "pushed in," answered dud, hotly. "he has enough nerve to push anywhere. st. andrew's gives a scholarship at the parochial school, and he won it; and, as he hadn't any place to go this summer, they bunched him in with us. but you can see what he is at one look." "oh, i did,--i did!" murmured miss minna. "i saw at the very first that he was not our sort; but, being with nice boys like you, i thought he must be all right. he isn't bad-looking, and such nerve for a bootblack! just look how he is making up to little polly forester!" to an impartial observer it would have really seemed the other way. polly herself was "making up" most openly to this nicest boy she ever saw. tripping along by dan's side, she was extending a general invitation, in which dan was specialized above all others. "i am going to have a birthday party next week, and i want you to come, and bring all the other boys from killykinick. it's the first party i've ever had; but mamma is feeling better this year, and i'll be ten years old, and she's going to have things just lovely for me,--music and dancing, and ice-cream made into flowers and birds, and a jack horner pie with fine presents in it. wouldn't you like to come, dan?" "you bet!" was the ready answer; for a party of young persons like miss polly was, from his outlook, a very simple affair. "when is it coming off?" "thursday," said polly,--"thursday evening at six, in our garden. and you needn't dress up. boys hate to dress up, i know; tom and jack won't go any place where they have to wear stiff collars." "i'm with them there," rejoined dan. "had to get into one on commencement day, and never want to try another." "you see, i don't care for some boys," said the expectant hostess, confidentially. "all tom's and jack's friends are in long trousers. some girls like that, but i don't: they look too grown up, and they stand around and tease, and won't play games, and are just horrid. you would play games, i'm sure." "just try me at them," answered dan, grinning. "oh, i know you would! so i want you all to come," said miss polly, who, having reached her own gateway, paused for a general good-bye. "i don't know your names, but i want you all to come with dan to my party." "if we can get here," replied dan. "captain jeb wouldn't trust us to sail his boat, and i don't know that he could come with us." "oh, he will,--he must!" persisted polly. "he ain't the will-and-must kind," said dan, nodding. "then maybe i can send for you," the little lady went on eagerly. "my cousins are coming over from rock-haven on dad's yacht, and i'll make them stop at killykinick and bring you all with them to my party." and, with a gay little nod that included all her nice boys, little miss polly disappeared among the hydrangeas; while the others kept on down to the wharf, where the "sary ann" was already swinging out her dingy sail, and brother bart was growing anxious and nervous. merry good-byes were spoken, and very soon the boys were on their homeward way, with beach cliff vanishing in the distance. there had been no bids to the fosters' cottage, which was already filled with grown-up guests. dud was sullen and disappointed; lazy jim a little tired; while freddy, seated in the bottom of the boat, dropped his curly head on brother bart's knee and went off to sleep. but to dan the day had been a most pleasant experience, a glimpse of a friendly, beautiful world whose gates he had never thought to pass; and aunt winnie's dan was very happy as he steered the "sary ann" over a smiling summer sea without a clouding shadow. "how did you push in so quick to the foresters?" sneered dud. "looking for two lost donkeys," retorted dan, who was learning to give dud as good as he sent. "maybe you think you'll get there again," said dud. "well you won't, i can tell you that. it was all very well to make up so strong to a little fool girl; but they are the tiptoppers of beach cliff, and you won't hear any more of miss polly's yacht or her party." "i'm not worrying over that, are you?" said dan, philosophically. "you look as if you had a grouch on about something." "i have," blurted out dud fiercely. "i hate this horrid killykinick and everything on it; and i'm not going to be mixed up before decent people with roughs and toughs that are fit only to black my boots--like you, dan dolan!" xv.--a rescue. for a moment dan's blue eyes flashed, his strong arm quivered. every hardy nerve was tingling to strike out at the insolent speaker who lost no opportunity to fling a scornful word. but this beautiful day had left holy as well as happy memories. dan had knelt at brother bart's side before the altar light, that through all his hard rough young life had been aunt winnie's boy's beacon,--a beacon that had grown clearer and brighter with his advancing years, until it seemed to rise above earth into the dazzling radiance of the stars. its steady light fell upon his rising passion now, and his fury broke as the swelling surf breaks upon the beacon rock--into foam and spray. "it _is_ a sort of mix up, i must say," he answered. "but i'm out of the bootblack business for good and all; so what are you going to do about it?" "cut the whole lot," said dud, "just as soon as i can get money enough to do it." "well, i won't cry after you, i'm sure," retorted dan, good-humoredly; though there was a spark in his eye that told the fire was smoldering still, as even under the beacon light such fires sometimes do. but a stentorian shout from captain jeb put an end to the altercation. "wind's a-veering! swing round that ar boom, matey dan! duck, the rest of you boys,--duck--quick!" freddy was asleep, with his head pillowed safely on brother bart's knee. jim was dozing in the stern, out of harm's reach; but on dud, seated at the edge of the boat and fuming with rage and pride, the warning fell unheeded. as the sail swung round there was s splash, a shriek. "he's overboard! god have mercy on us!" cried brother bart, roused from his third glorious mystery of the rosary. "didn't i tell you to duck, ye rascal?" roared captain jeb, to whom a tumble like this seemed only a boy's fool trick. "back aboard with ye, ye young fool! back--aboard! don't ye know there's sharks about in these waters? lord, ef he ain't gone down!" "he can't--can't swim!" and jim, who had started up half awake and who could swim like a duck, was just about to plunge after dud, when he caught the word that chilled even his young blood to ice--_sharks_! jim knew what sharks meant. he had seen a big colored man in his own southern waters do battle with one, and had sickened at the memory ever since. "a rope,--a rope!" thundered captain jeb, whose right leg had been stiffened for all swimming in deep waters ten years ago. "if he goes down again, it's forever." "o god have mercy! god have mercy!" prayed brother bart, helplessly; while freddy shrieked in shrill alarm. in that first wild moment of outcry dan had stood breathless while a tide of feeling swept over him that held him mute, motionless. dud! it was dud who had been swept over into those foaming, seething depths. dud, whose stinging words were still rankling in his thoughts and heart; dud, who hated, scorned, despised him; dud who could not swim, and--and there were sharks,--sharks! dan was trembling now in every strong limb,--trembling, it seemed to him, in body and soul. sharks! sharks! and it was dud.--dud who had said dan was fit only to black his boots! "o god have mercy! mother mary--mother mary save him!" prayed brother bart. at the words dan steadied,--steadied to the beacon light,--steadied into aunt winnie's boy again. "don't scare, brother bart!" rang out his clear young voice. "i'll get him." "dan! dan!" shrieked freddy, as, with the practised dive of the wharf rats, the lithe young form plunged into the water. "o dan,--my dan, the sharks will get you, too! come back! come back, dan!" dan caught the words as he struck out blindly, desperately, almost hopelessly, through depths such as he had never braved before. for this was not the safe land-bound harbor; this was not the calm lap of the river around the sheltering wharf; this was a world of waters, seething, surging roaring around him, peopled with hunting creatures hungry for prey. "dan, dan!" came his little chum's piercing cry as he rose for breath. "come back, ye fool!" thundered captain jeb. "he's gone, i tell ye,--the boy is gone down!" but even at the shout something dark swept within touch of dan's outstretched arm; he made a clutch at it and grasped dud,--dud choking, gasping, struggling,--dud, who sinking for the last time, caught dan in a grip that meant death for both of them. "let go!" spluttered dan, fiercely,--"let go! let go or we'll drown together!" and then, as the deadly clutch only tightened, dan did what all wharf rats knew they must do in such cases--struck out with the full strength of his hardy young fist, and, knocking the clinging dud's fast-failing wits completely out of him, swam back with his helpless burden to the "sary ann." "the lord, matey, but you are a game un!" said captain jeb, as he and jim dragged dud aboard. "ah, god have mercy upon the poor lad's soul! it's dead entirely he is!" sobbed brother bart. "not a bit of it!" said dan, scrambling up the side of the "sary ann." "he's just knocked out. i had to knock him out, or he would have pulled me down with him. roll him over a little, so he can spit out the water, and he'll be all right." "sure he is,--he is!" murmured brother bart, as dud began to cough and splutter encouragingly. "it's gone forever i thought he was, poor lad! oh, god bless you for this day's work, dan dolan,--bless you and keep you his forever!" "it was a close shave for all hands," said captain jeb, permitting himself a long-drawn sigh of relief, as dan, after shaking himself like a water-dog, sank down, a little pale and breathless, at his side. "and you were what most folk would call a consarned fool, matey. didn't you hear me say these 'ere waters had sharks in 'em?" "yes," said dan, whose eyes were fixed upon a drift of sunlit cloud in the distance. "then what the deuce did you do it for?" said captain jeb, severely. "couldn't let a fellow drown," was the brief answer. "warn't nothing special to you, was he?" growled the old sailor, who was still fiercely resentful of his "scare." "ain't ever been perticular nice or soft spoken as i ever heard to you. and you jumping in to be gobbled by sharks, for him, like he was your own twin brother! you're a fool, matey,--a durn young fool!" and dan, who understood his old sailor friend, only laughed,--laughed while his eyes still followed the drift of swinging cloud fringing the deep blue of the sky. they were like the robe of the only mother he had ever known,--the sweet mother on whom brother bart had called to save dud. and dan had heard and obeyed and he felt with a happy heart his mother was smiling on him now. but to dud this thrilling adventure left no pleasant memories. he was sick for several days from his overdose of salt water, weak and nervous from fright and shock: there was a bruise over his eye from the saving impact of dan's sturdy fist, which he resented unreasonably. more than all, he resented the chorus that went up from all at killykinick in praise of dan's heroism. jim testified openly and honestly that the cry of "sharks" got him, and he couldn't have dared a plunge in those waters to save his own brother. "i saw a nigger cut in half by one of those man-eaters once, and it makes my flesh creep to think of it." even dull-witted old neb rose to show appreciation of dan's bold plunge, and said he "reckoned all boys wuth anything did sech fool tricks some times." good old brother bart felt it was a time for warning and exhortation, which dud found altogether exasperating. "sure it's on your knees you ought to go morning and evening to thank god for bold, brave dan dolan. if it hadn't been for him, it's food for the fishes ye'd be now. the lord was merciful to ye, lad; for i'm misdoubting if ye were fit for heaven. though it's not for me to judge, ye have a black look betimes, as if god's grace wasn't in yer heart. this ought to be a lesson to ye, a lesson that ye should never forget." "i'm not likely to forget it," was the grim answer. "i couldn't if i tried." "and i'm glad to hear ye say so," said the simple-minded old brother. "i'm thinking sometimes ye're not over friendly with dan. it was a rough bating he gave ye before we left the college." (dud's black looks grew blacker at the memory.) "but he has more than made it up to ye now, for he has given ye back yer life." "and what are you going to give him for it, dud?" questioned freddy confidentially, as the good brother moved away. "give who?" growled dud, who was sick and sore and savage over the whole experience, and, strange to say--but such are the peculiarities of some natures,--felt as if he hated his preserver more than ever. "why, dud!" continued freddy. "you always give a person something when he saves your life. dick walton told me that a man saved him when he was carried out in the surf last summer, and his father gave the man a gold watch." "so dan dolan wants a gold watch, does he?" said dud. "oh, no!" answered freddy, quite unconscious of the sneer in the question. "i don't think dan wants a gold watch at all. he would not know what to do with one. but if i were you," continued dan's little chum, his eyes kindling with loyal interest, "i'd make it a pocket-book,--a nice leather pocket-book, with a place for stamps and car tickets and money, and i'd just fill it _chock_ full. you see, dan hasn't much pocket money. he pulled out his purse the other day at beach cliff to get a medal that was in it, and he had only a nickel and two stamps to write to his aunt." "so your brave dan is striking for ready cash, is he?" said dud, in a tone that even innocent freddy could not mistake, and that dan coming up the beach with a net full of kicking lobsters, caught in all its sting. "ready cash," he asked, looking from one to the other. "for what?" "pulling me out of the water the other day," answered dud. "freddy says you're expecting pay for it." "well, i'm _not_," said dan, the spark flashing into his blue eyes. "you're 'way off there, freddy, sure." "oh, i didn't mean,--i didn't say," began poor little freddy, desperately. "i only thought people always got medals or watches or something when they saved other people, and i told dud--" "never mind what you told him, kid" (dan laid a kind hand on his little chum's shoulder); "you mean it all right, i know. but dud" (the spark in the speaker's eye flashed brighter,)--"dud didn't." "i did," said dud. "my father will pay you all you want." then dan blazed up indeed into irish fire. "i don't want his pay: i wouldn't touch it. you ain't worth it, dud fielding." "ain't worth what? my father is worth a million," said dud quickly. "_that_ for his million!" and dan snapped his two fishy fingers under dud's grecian nose. "you ain't worth a buffalo nickel, dud fielding; and i wouldn't ask one for saving your measly little life." and dan went off with his lobsters, in a wrath almost fiery enough to boil them alive. pay!--pay for that wild plunge into watery depths--the doubt, the fear, the icy terror of hungry monsters around him! dud fielding was offering him pay for this, very much as he might fling pay to him for blacking his boots. ah, it was a fierce, bad moment for dan! his beacon light vanished; murky clouds of passion were blackening dream and vision; he felt he could cheerfully pitch dud back to the sharks again. and then, as still hot and furious, he strode back with his lobsters to old ned, freddy, who was remorsefully following him--remorseful at having stirred up a row,--piped up in sudden excitement: "o dan, look--look what's coming here to killykinick! dan, just look!" dan turned at the cry. past numskull nob, making her cautious, graceful way through rocks and shoals, was a beautiful white-winged yacht, her mast gay with pennants. one, fluttering wide to the breeze, showed her name, "the polly." xvi.--a new experience dan stood staring in blank amazement, while freddy's voice rose into shriller triumph: "jim, dud, brother bart, look,--look what is coming here!" she was coming indeed, this white-winged stranger, swaying to the right and left under skilful guidance as she made her way to the killykinick wharf; for her rugged old captain knew the perils of the shore. and under the gay awnings that shaded the deck was a merry group of young people, waving their handkerchiefs to the rocky island they were approaching; while polly's big handsome "dad," in white linen yachting togs, pointed out the ship house and the wharf, the tower and garden patch,--all the improvements that queer old great-uncle joe had made on these once barren rocks. polly's dad had known about the old captain and his oddities all his life. indeed, once in his very early years as he now told his young listeners, he had made a boyish foray in great-uncle joe's domain, and had been repelled by the old sailor with a vigor never to be forgotten. "i never had such a scientific thrashing in my life," laughed dad, as if he rather enjoyed the remembrance. "we were playing pirate that summer. i had a new boat that we christened the 'red rover,' after cooper's story; and we rigged her up with a pirate flag, and proceeded to harry the coast and do all the mischief that naughty twelve-year-olds can do. finally, i proposed, as a crowning adventure, a descent upon killykinick, pulling down old joey kane's masthead and smashing his lantern. well, we caught a tartar there, i can tell you! the old captain never had any use for boys. and to think of the place being full of them now!" "oh, no, dad! there are only four," said polly,--"four real nice boys from st. andrew's college, and just the right size to come to my party. o nell, gracie, look! there they come!" and the handkerchiefs fluttered again gleefully as "the polly" made up to the wharf, and the whole population of killykinick turned out to greet her,--even to brother bart, who had been reading his well-worn "imitation" on the beach; and neb, who, with the bag of potatoes he had just dug up, stood staring dumbly in the distance. "killykinick ahoy!" shouted dad, making a speaking trumpet of his hands. "_aye, aye_!" answered captain jeb, with his crooked smile. "you're 'the polly' of beach cliff. what's wanted, mr. forester? clams or lobsters?"--for in these latter days killykinick did something of a trade in both with the pleasure boats and cottages along the coast. "well, we don't like to call them either; do we, polly?" laughed dad, as he stepped ashore, while the little girls crowded to the deck rail. "'the polly' is sailing under petticoat orders to-day and is scouring the waters in search of four boys that, we understand, you have here at killykinick." "we have," answered captain jeb,--"or at least the padre here has. they're none of mine." "i am no padre, as i've told ye again and again, jeroboam," interposed brother bart. "i am only brother bartholomew from st. andrew's college. and i have four boys here, but they've been under my eye day and night," he continued anxiously; "so, in god's name, what are ye after them for, sir? they have done ye nor yours no harm, i am sure." "none in the world," said mr. forester quickly, as he saw his light speech was not understood. "i was only joking with captain jeb. my mission here, i assure you, is most friendly. permit me to introduce myself, brother bar--bar--bartholomew--" "ye can make it bart, sir, for short; 'most everyone does," said the good brother, nodding. "then, brother bart, i am mr. pemberton forester, of beach cliff. i am also known by the briefer and pleasanter name of this little lady's 'dad,' and it is in that official capacity i am here to-day. it seems this little girl of mine met your boys a few days ago at beach cliff, where they rendered her most valuable service." "one--it was only one of them, dad!" corrected miss polly's silvery voice. "it was only dan dolan who caught my bird and--and--" "well, at all events, the acquaintance progressed most pleasantly and rapidly, as my daughter's acquaintance is apt to progress; and it resulted in an equally pleasant understanding that the four young gentlemen were to come to a little festivity we are giving in honor of polly's birthday,--a garden party in our grounds, between the hours of six and nine. this is the occasion of our present visit, brother bart. fearing that travelling facilities might not be at the young gentlemen's disposal, we have come to take them to beach cliff. if you would like to accompany them--" "to a party, is it?" exclaimed brother bart, in dismay. "me at a party! sure i'd look and feel queer indeed in such a place." brother bart's glance turned from the fine boat to the gentleman before him; he felt the responsibilities of his position were growing perplexing. "it will be great sport for the boys, i am sure," he added; "and i don't like to say 'no,' after all yer kindness in coming for them. but how are they to get back?" "oh, we'll see to that!" answered mr. forester, cheerfully. "they will be home and safe in your care, by half-past ten,--i promise you that." "hooray!--hooray!" rose the shout, that the boys who had been listening breathlessly to this discussion could no longer repress. there was a wild rush to the shining decks of "the polly," and soon all her pretty passengers were helped ashore, to scramble and climb as well as their dainty little feet could over the rocks and steeps of killykinick, to wonder at the gardens and flowers blooming in its nooks and crannies, to peep into cow house and chicken house, and even old neb's galley,--to explore the "lady jane" from stem to stern in delighted amazement. nell and gracie, who were a little older than their cousin, took possession of jim and dud; their small brother tad attached himself to freddy, who was about his own age; while polly claimed her own especial find, dan, for escort and guide. "oh, what a queer, queer place!" she prattled, as, after peering cautiously into the depths of the devil's jaw, they wended their way to safer slopes, where the rocks were wreathed with hardy vines, and the sea stretched smiling into the sunlit distance. "do you like it here, dan?" "yes: i'm having a fine time," was the cheery answer, for the moment all the pricks and goads forgotten. "are you going to stay long?" asked miss polly. "until september," answered dan. "oh, that's fine!" said his small companion, happily. "then i'll get dad to bring me down here to see you again, dan; and you can come up in your boat to see me, and we'll be friends,--real true friends. i haven't had a real true friend," said miss polly, perching herself on a ledge of rock, where, in her pink dress and flower-trimmed hat, she looked like a bright winged butterfly,--"not since i lost meg murray." "lost her? did she die?" "no," was the soft sighing answer. "it was much worse than that. you see" (miss polly's tone became confidential), "it was last summer, when i had the whooping cough. did you ever have the whooping cough?" "i believe i did," replied dan, whose memory of such minor ills was by no means clear. "then you know how awful it is. you can't go to school or out to play, or anywhere. i had to stay in our own garden and grounds by myself, because all the girls' mothers were afraid of me. the doctor said i must be out of doors, so i had a play house away down by the high box hedge in the maze; and took my dolls and things out there, and made the best of it. and then meg found me. she was coming down the lane one day, and heard me talking to my dolls. i had to talk to them because there was no one else. and she peeped through the hedge and asked if she could come in and see them. i told her about the whooping cough, but she said she wasn't afraid: that she had had it three times already, and her mother was dead and wouldn't mind if she took it again. so she came in, and we played all the morning; and she came the next day and the next for weeks and weeks. oh, we did have the grandest times together! you see, dad was away, and mamma was sick, and there was no one to bother us. i used to bring out apples and cookies and chocolate drops, and we had parties under the trees, and we promised to be real true friends forever. i gave her my pearl ring so she would always remember. it was that pearl ring that made all the trouble." and miss polly's voice trembled. "how?" asked dan very gently. he never had a sister or a girl cousin or any one to soften his ways or speech; and little polly's friendly trust was something altogether new and strangely sweet to him. "oh, it broke up everything!" faltered miss polly. "that evening an old woman came to the house and asked to see mamma,--oh, such a dreadful old woman! she hadn't any bonnet or coat or gloves,--just a red shawl on her head, and an old patched dress, and a gingham apron. and when james and elise and everybody told her mamma was sick, she said she would see her anyhow. and she did. she pushed her way upstairs to mamma, and talked awfully,--said she was a poor honest woman, if she did sell apples on the corner; and she was raising her grandchild honest; and she asked how her meg came by that ring, and where she got it. and then mamma, who had turned pale and fluttery, sent for me; and i had to tell her all, and she nearly fainted." "why?" asked dan. "oh, because--because--i had meg in the garden and played with her, and took her for a real true friend. you see, she wasn't a nice little girl at all," said miss polly, impressively. "her grandmother had an apple stand at the street corner, and her brother cleaned fish on the wharf, and they lived in an awful place over a butcher's shop; and mamma said she must not come into our garden again, and i mustn't play with her or talk to her ever, ever again." there was no answer for a moment. dan was thinking--thinking fast. it seemed time for him to say something,--to speak up in his own blunt way,--to put himself in his own honest place. but, with the new charm of this little lady's flattering fancy on him, dan's courage failed. he felt that to acknowledge a bootblack past and a sausage shop future would be a shock to miss polly that would break off friendly relations forever. "so you gave up your real true friend?" he said a little reproachfully, and miss polly hopped down from her rock perch and proceeded to make her way back to the yacht. "yes, i had to, you see. even dad, who lets me do anything i please, said i must remember i was a forester, and make friends that fitted my name. and so--so" (miss polly looked up, smiling into dan's face) "i am going to make friends with you. dad says he knows all about st. andrew's college, and you must be first-class boys if you belong there; and he is glad of a chance to give you a little fun. there he is calling us now!"--as a deep voice shouted: "all aboard, boys and girls! we're off in an hour! all aboard!" "dan--dan," piped freddy's small voice. "jim and dud are dressing for the party, dan. come, we must dress, too." and dan, feeling like one venturing into unknown waters, proceeded to make the best of the things good brother francis had packed in his small shabby trunk. there was the suit that bore the stamp of the english tailor; there was a pair of low shoes, that pinched a little in the toes; there was a spotless shirt and collar outgrown by some mother's darling, and a blue necktie that was all a necktie should be when, with freddy's assistance, it was put properly in place. really, it was not a bad-looking boy at all that faced dan in the "lady jane's" swinging mirror when this party toilette was complete. "you look fine, dan!" said his little chum, as they took their way down to the wharf where "the polly" was awaiting them,--"so big and strong--and--and--" "tough," said dan, concluding the sentence with a forced laugh. "well, that's what i am, kid,--big and strong and tough." "oh, no,--dan, no!" said freddy. "you're not tough at all, and you mustn't say so when you go to a girl's party, dan." "well, i won't," said dan, as he thought of the violet eyes that would open in dismay at such a confession. "i'll play the highflier to-night if i can, kid; though it's a new game with dan dolan, i must say." and, with a queer sense of shamming that he had never felt before, aunt winnie's boy started off for miss polly's party. xvii.--polly's party. to all miss polly's guests, that evening was a wonderful experience; but to dan it was an entrance into a fairy realm that his fancy had never pictured; for in the hard, rough ways his childish feet had walked neither fairies nor fancies had place. he had found sailing over sunlit seas in killykinick's dingy boats a very pleasant pastime; but the "sary ann" seemed to sink into a drifting tub when he stood on the spotless deck of "the polly" as she spread her snowy wings for her homeward flight. dad, who, though very rich and great now, still remembered those "pirate days" when he was young himself, proved the most charming of hosts. he took the boys over his beautiful boat, where every bit of shining brass and chain and rope and bit of rigging was in perfect shipshape; and an artful little motor was hidden away for emergencies of wind and tide. there was a lovely little cabin, all in white and gold, with pale blue draperies; and two tiny staterooms dainty enough for the slumbers of a fairy queen. there were books and games, and a victrola that sang full-toned boating songs as they glided onward. even dud was properly impressed by the charms of "the polly"; and jim was outspoken in his admiration. freddy was wide-eyed with delight; and dan was swept quite away from his usual moorings into another world,--a world where aunt winnie's boy seemed altogether lost. for, with miss polly slipping her little hand in his and guiding him over her namesake, and freddy telling tad the story of dan's dive among the sharks, to which even the man at "the polly's" wheel listened with interest, with dad so jolly and friendly, and everything so gay and beautiful around him, it was no wonder that dan's head, accustomed to sober prosy ways, began to turn. "dolan,--dolan? i ought to know that name," said dad, as, with polly and her "nice" boy at his side, he stood watching the roofs and spires of beach cliff come into view. "there was a phil dolan in my class at harvard,--one of the finest fellows i ever knew; rolling in money, but it didn't hurt him. he is a judge now, and i think he had a brother at west point. are you related to them?" "no, sir," answered dan, who at another time would have blurted out that he was not of the harvard or west point kind. "i--i am from maryland." "oh, maryland!" said dad, approvingly. "i see,--i see! the dolans of maryland. i've heard of them,--one of the old catholic families, i think." "yes, we're--we're catholics all right," said dan, catching to this saving spar of truth, in his doubt and uncertainty. "we--we wouldn't be anything else if we were killed for it." "of course you wouldn't. that is your heritage, my boy! hold fast to it," said dad, heartily. then he turned about to see that "the polly" made the way safely to her private wharf, feeling that he left his little girl with the scion of a family quite equal to the foresters. with the strange sense of treading in an unreal world, dan passed on with the rest of the chattering, laughing crowd to the pretty, rustic wharf jutting out into the waters, and up to the steep, narrow street where carriages were waiting to take them to the forester home. the wide grounds and gardens were already gay with the gathering guests. pretty, flower-decked tables were set in the maze. the trees were hung with japanese lanterns, that a little later would glow into jewelled lights. there was a group of "grown-ups" on the porch,--mamma, beautiful in cloudy white; sisters and cousins and aunts,--for the forester family was a large one. there were two grandmothers--one fat and one thin,--very elegant old ladies, with white hair rolled high upon their heads. they looked upon the youthful guests, through gold lorgnettes, and were really most awe-inspiring. the st. andrew's boys were brought up and "presented" in due form. it was an ordeal. how dan got through with it he didn't know. he had never before been "presented" to any one but polly. but dad managed it somehow, and on the porch friendly shadows were gathering that concealed any social discrepancies. then polly flitted off to don her party dress, and dan found himself stranded on the danger reefs of this strange world, with dad giving the fat grandmother his family history. "dolan?" repeated the old lady, who was a little deaf. "one of the dolans of maryland, you say, pemberton? dear me! i used to visit dolan hall when i was a girl. such a beautiful old colonial home! is it still standing?" she said, turning to dan. "i--i don't know, ma'am," stammered dan, who found the gleam of the gold lorgnettes most confusing. "what does he say?" asked the old lady sharply. "that he does not know, mother dear!" answered dad. "he should know," said the old lady, severely. "the young people are growing up in these careless days without any proper sentiment to the past. a home like dolan hall, with its memories and traditions, should be a pride to all of the dolan blood. the name is really french--d'olane,--but most unfortunately, as i consider, was anglicized. the family was originally from touraine, and dates back to the crusaders, and is most aristocratic." "he looks it," murmured the thin grandmother, fixing her lorgnettes on dan's broad shoulders as he moved away to join tad and freddy, who were making friends with polly's poodle. "i have never seen a boy carry himself better. blood will tell, as i have always insisted, stella." the lady at her side laughed. she, too, had been regarding dan with curious interest. "what does it tell, aunt lena?" she asked. "the lady and the gentleman," answered polly's grandmother. "oh, does it?" said the other, softly. "i suppose i am not very wise in such matters, but one of the nicest ladies i ever knew was a little irish sewing woman who made buttonholes. it was one summer when i went south, more years ago than i care to count; and winnie--her name was winnie--came to the house to renovate my riding habit for me." the speaker paused as if she did not care to say more. she was a slender little person, not awe-inspiring at all. she had just driven up in a pretty, light carriage, and was still muffled in a soft fleecy wrap that fell around her like a cloud. the face that looked out from it was sweet and pale as a star. it brightened into radiance as polly, a veritable fairy now in her party fluffs and ruffs and ribbons, sprang out on the porch and flung herself into miss stella's arms. "marraine! marraine!" she cried rapturously,--"my own darling marraine!" "why will you let the child give you that ridiculous name, my dear?" protested grandmamma, disapprovingly. "because--because i have the right to it," laughed the lady, as polly nestled close to her side. "i am her godmother real and true,--am i not, polykins? and we like the pretty french name for it better." "oh, much better!" assented polly. "'godmother' is too old and solemn to suit marraine. oh!" (with another rapturous hug) "it was so good of you to come all the way from newport just for my party, dear, dear marraine!" "all the way from newport!" answered the lady. "why, that dear letter you sent would have brought me from the moon. you will be ten years old to-night, it said,--ten years old! o pollykins! pollykins!" (there was a little tremor in the voice.) "and you asked if i could come and help you with your party. i could and i would, so here i am! and here is your birthday present." marraine flung a slender golden chain around polly's neck. "oh, you darling,--you darling!" murmured polly. "but _you_ are the best of all birthday presents, marraine,--the very best of all!" "now, really we must stop all this 'spooning,' pollykins, and start things," said marraine, dropping her, and emerging in a shining silvery robe, with a big bunch of starry jessamine pinned on her breast. "you are not going to bother with the children, surely, stella?" said dad, who had drawn near the speaker. "i am," said the lady, flashing him a laughing look. "that's what i came for. i am going to forget the years (don't be cruel enough to count them, cousin pen), and for two hours (is it only two hours we have, pollykins?) be a little girl again to-night." and, taking polly's hand, she tripped away from the grown-ups on the porch, and things were started indeed. grove and garden, maze and lawn, suddenly sparkled with jewelled lights; the stringed band in the pagoda burst into gay music. led by a silvery vision, polly's guests formed a great ring-around-a-rosy for an opening measure, and the party began. and, with a fairy godmother like miss stella leading the fun, it was a party to be remembered. there were marches and games, there was blind man's buff through the jewel-lit maze, there was a virginia reel to music gay enough to make a hundred-year-old tortoise dance. there was the jack horner pie, fully six feet round, and fringed with gay ribbons to pull out the plums. wonderful plums they were. minna foster drew a silver belt buckle; her little sister, a blue locket; dud, a scarf-pin; jim, a pocketknife with enough blades and "fixings" to fill a miniature tool chest; and freddy, a paint box quite as complete; while dan pulled out the biggest plum of all--a round white box with a silver cord. as it came out at the end of his red ribbon, there was a moment's breathless hush, broken by polly's glad cry: "the prize,--the prize, marraine! dan has drawn my birthday prize!" and, under a battery of curious and envious eyes, dan opened the box to find within a pretty gold watch, ticking a most cheering greeting to its new owner. "dan,--dan!" polly's jubilant voice rose over all the chorus around him. "oh, i'm so glad you got it, dan!" and marraine's eyes followed polly's delighted glance with the same look of curious interest that she had bent upon dan a while ago on the porch. "do you mean that this is for me?" he blurted out, in bewilderment. "yes, for you,--for _you_," repeated polly in high glee. "it's real gold and keeps real time, and it's yours forever!" "it's too--too much--i mean it's--it's too fine for a fellow like me," stammered dan. "what will i do with it?" "wear it," chirped miss polly, throwing the silken guard around his neck, "so you will never forget my birthday, dan." and then a big japanese gong sounded the call to the flower-decked tables, where busy waiters were soon serving a veritable fairy feast. there were cakes of table-size and shape and color; little baskets and boxes full of wonderful bonbons; nuts sugared and glazed until they did not seem nuts at all; ice-cream birds in nests of spun sugar; "kisses" that snapped into hats and wreaths and caps. and all the while the band played, and the jewelled lights twinkled, and the stars shone far away above the arching trees. and dan, with his watch around his neck, held his place as the winner of the prize at miss polly's side, feeling as if he were in some dizzy dream. then there were more games, and a grand hide-and-seek, in which dad and some of the grown-ups joined. dan had found an especially fine place under the gnarled boughs of an old cedar tree, that would have held its head high in the starlight if some of dad's gardeners had not twisted it out of growth and shape. hiding under the crooked shadows, dan was listening to the merry shouts through maze and garden, when he became suddenly conscious of a change in their tone. the voices grew sharp, shrill, excited, and then little polly burst impetuously into his hiding place,--a sobbing, trembling, indignant little polly, followed by a score of breathless young guests. "i don't believe it!" she was crying tempestuously. "i _won't_ believe it! you're just telling horrid stories on dan, because i like him and he got the prize." "o pollykins! pollykins!" came miss stella's low, chiding voice. "halloo! halloo! what's the trouble?" rose dad's deep tones above the clamor. "my little girl crying,--crying?" "yes, i am!" was the sobbing answer. "i can't help it, dad. the girls are all whispering mean, horrid stories about dan, and i made them tell me all they said they had heard. i don't believe them, and i _won't_ believe them! i told them i wouldn't believe them,--that i would come right to dan and let him speak for himself.--were you ever a newsboy and a beggar boy, dan? did--did you ever black boots? have you an aunt in the poorhouse, as minna foster says?" xviii.--back into line. there was a moment's pause. dan was really too bewildered to speak. he felt he was reeling down from the rainbow heights to which miss polly had led him, and the shock took away his breath. "it's all--all a horrid story; i'm sure it is,--isn't it, dan?" pleaded his little friend, tremulously. "why, no!" said dan, rallying to his simple, honest self again. "it isn't a story at all. i _was_ a newsboy, i _did_ shine boots at the street corner, and aunt winnie _is_ with the little sisters of the poor now." "bravo!--bravo!" came a low silvery voice from the shadows, and miss stella clapped her slender hands. "o dan, dan!" cried poor little miss polly, sobbing outright. "a newsboy and bootblack! oh, how could you fool me so, dan?" "with your infernal lies about your home and family!" burst forth dad, in sudden wrath at polly's tears. "i didn't fool,--i didn't lie, sir!" blurted out dan, fiercely. "i did nothing of the kind!" "if you will kindly do the boy justice to remember, he did _not_, cousin pem!" and miss stella's clear, sweet voice rose in witness. "you gave his family history yourself. he did not know what you were talking about, with your crusading ancestors and the d'olanes. i could see it in his face. you are all blood-blind up here, cousin pem. i was laughing to myself all the time, for i guessed who dan dolan was. i knew he was at st. andrew's. his dear old aunt winnie is one of my truest friends." "o marraine, marraine!" murmured polly, eagerly. "and--and you don't mind it if--" "if she is with the little sisters of the poor, pollykins? not a bit! some day i may be there myself. now that this tempest in a teapot is over, you can all go off and finish your games. i am going to sit under this nice old tree and talk to miss winnie's boy." and while dad, still a little hot at the trouble that had marred polly's party, started the fun in another direction, miss stella gathered her silvery gown around her and sat down on the rustic bench beneath the old cedar, and talked to dan. he learned how aunt winnie had sewed patiently and skilfully for this lovely lady a dozen years ago, when she was spending a gay season in his own town; and how the gentle old seamstress, with her simple faith and tender sympathy, her wise warnings to the gay, motherless girl, had won a place in her heart. "i tried to coax her home with me," said miss stella, "to make it 'home,' as i felt she could; but baby danny was in the way,--the little danny that she could not leave." then dan, in his turn, told about killykinick, and how he had been sent there for the summer and had met little polly. "i should have told," he said, lifting aunt winnie's own blue irish eyes to miss stella's face,--"i should have said right out straight and square that i wasn't polly's kind, and had no right to push in here with grand folks like hers. but it was all so fine it sort of turned my head." "it will do that," replied miss stella, softly. "it has turned mine often, danny. but now we both see straight and clear again, and i am going to make things straight and clear with all the others." "you can't," said dan,--"not with those grand ladies in gold spectacles; not with polly's dad; maybe not with polly herself. i'm all mixed up, and out of line with them. and--and--" (dan took the silken guard from his neck) "i want you to give them back this gold watch, and tell them so." (he slipped the jack horner prize into miss stella's hand.) "i'm not asking anything and i'm not taking anything that comes to me like this. and--and--" (he rose and stood under the crooked tree in all his straight, sturdy strength) "neb is down at the wharf with a load of clams. we passed him as we came up. i'm not pushing in among the silk cushions any more. i'm going home with him." which, with miss stella's sympathetic approval, he did at once. when a little later the guests had all gone, and "the polly" was taking her white-winged way back to killykinick with dud, jim, and freddy; when the jewelled lights had gone out, and the party was over, and all was quiet on the starlit porch, miss stella returned dan's watch and gave his message. even the two grandmammas, being really grandmammas at heart, softened to it, and dad declared gruffly it had been a fool business altogether, while polly flung herself sobbing into her godmother's arms. "o dan,--poor dan! he is the nicest boy i ever saw,--the nicest and the kindest, marraine! and now--now he will never come back here any more!" "i don't think he will, pollykins," was the low answer. "you see" (marraine dropped a light kiss on the nestling curls), "he was a newsboy and a bootblack, and he does not deny it; while you--you, pollykins--" "oh, i don't care, what he was!" interrupted miss polly, tempestuously,--"i don't care what he was. i took him for my real true friend, and i am not going to give up dan as i gave up meg murray, marraine." polly tightened her clasp around miss stella's neck so she could whisper softly in her ear: "if he won't come back, you and i will go after him; won't we, marraine?" meanwhile, with his head pillowed on a pile of fish nets--very different, we must confess, from the silken cushions of dad's pretty yacht,--and with old neb drowsily watching her ragged sail, dan was back again in his own line, beneath the guiding stars. it was a calm, beautiful night, and those stars were at their brightest. even neb's dull wits seemed to kindle under their radiance. "you can steer 'most anywhere when they shine like that. don't want none of these 'ere winking, blinking lights to show you the way," he said. "but the trouble is they don't always shine," answered dan. "no," said neb, slowly, "they don't; that's a fact. but they ain't ever really out, like menfolk's lights. the stars is always thar." "always there,"--yes, dan realized, as, with his head on the dank, fishy pillow, he looked up in the glory above him, the stars were always there. blurred sometimes by earthly mists and vapors, lost in the dazzling gleam of jewelled lights, darkened by the shadows of crooked trees, they shone with pure, steadfast, guiding rays,--the stars that were always there. a witching little will-o'-the-wisp had bewildered dan into strange ways this evening; but he was back again in his own straight honest line beneath the stars. on "the polly," making her way over the starlit water to killykinick, things were not so pleasant. "it was a mean, dirty trick to give dan away. i don't care who did it!" said big-hearted jim, roused into spirit and speech. "it wasn't i,--oh, indeed it wasn't i!" declared freddy. "i told tad dan was the biggest, strongest, finest fellow in the whole bunch. i never said a word about his being a newsboy or a bootblack, though i don't think it hurts him a bit." "and it doesn't," said jim, whose blood had been a "true blue" stream before the stars and stripes began to wave. "but there are some folks that think so." "calling me fool, are you?" said dud, fiercely. "no, i didn't," retorted jim. "but if the name fits you, take it. i don't object." and he turned away, with a flash in his eyes most unusual for sunny jim,--a flash that dud did not venture to kindle into angry fire. but, though the storm blew over, as such springtime storms will, dan had learned a lesson, and felt that he never again wished to venture on the dizzy heights where wise heads turn and strong feet falter. though dud and jim, who both had pocket money in plenty, made arrangements at the boat club for the use of a little motor boat several times a week, dan held his own line as second mate at killykinick, and was contented to share old neb's voyaging. they went out often now; for, under the old sailor's guidance, dan was becoming an expert fisherman. and soon the dingy boat, loaded with its silvery spoil, became known to camps and cottages along the other shores. poor old neb was too dull-witted for business; but customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who brought fish, "still kicking," for their early breakfast,--clams, chaps, and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. neb's old leather wallet began to fill up as it had never been filled before. and the dinners that were served on the "lady jane," the broiled, the baked, the fried fish dished up in rich plenty every day, shook brother bart's allegiance to irish stews, and, as he declared, "would make it aisy for a heretic to keep the friday fast forever." then, dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to feed,--altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath the stars, while old jeb and neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside him. three letters had come from aunt winnie,--a government boat brought weekly mail to the lighthouse on numskull nob. they were prim little letters, carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good sisters had taught her in early youth. she took her pen in hand--so letters had always begun in aunt winnie's schooldays--to write him a few lines. she was in good health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the home, and mrs. mcgraw (whom dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died very sudden on tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a requiem mass in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most beautiful. poor miss flannery's cough was bad, and she wouldn't be long here, either; but, as the good mother says, we are blessed in having a holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. and aunt winnie's own leg was bad still, but she thanked god she could get around a bit and help the others. and, though she might never see him again--for she would be turned on seventy next thursday,--she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed of him constant. and, begging god to bless him and keep him from harm, she was his affectionate aunt, winnie curley.' the other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, aunt winnie was in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer that whistling, laughing dan brought into mulligans' attic could not shine. "i've got to get her home," resolved dan, who was keen enough to read this loss and longing between the old-fashioned neatly-written lines. "it's pete patterson and the meat shop for me in the fall and good-bye to st. andrew's and 'pipe dreams' forever! aunt winnie has to come back, with her blue teapot on her own stove and tabby purring at her feet again or--or" (dan choked at the thought) "they'll be having a funeral mass at the little sisters for her." and dan lay awake a long time that night looking at the stars, and stifling a dull pang in his young heart that the heights of which he had dreamed were not for him. but he was up betimes next morning, his own sturdy self again. old neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that made his usual early trip impossible. "they will be looking for us," said dan. "i promised those college girls camping at shelter cove to bring them fresh fish for breakfast." "let them catch for themselves!" growled old neb, who was rubbing his stiffened arm with whale oil. "girls," said dan in boyish scorn. "what do girls know about fishing? they squeal every time they get a bite. i'll take freddy to watch the lines (brother bart isn't so scary about him now), and go myself." xix.--a morning venture. after some persuasion from captain jeb, who declared he could trust matey dan's navigation now against any wind and tide, brother bart consented to freddy's morning sail with his sturdy chum. "sure i know dan loves laddie better than his own life," said the good old man anxiously, as he watched neb's ragged sail flitting off with the two young fishermen. "but it's only a boy he is, after all." "mebby," said captain jeb, briefly. "but thar's boys wuth half a dozen good-sized men, and matey is that kind. you needn't scare about any little chap that ships with him. and what's to hurt him, anyhow, padre? you've got to let all young critters try their legs and wings." and freddy was trying his triumphantly this morning. it was one of dan's lucky days, and the lines were drawn in again and again, until the college girls' breakfast and many more silvery shiners were fluttering and gasping in old neb's fish basket. then dan proceeded to deliver his wares at neighborly island shores, where summer campers were taking brief holidays. some of these islands, more sheltered than killykinick, were fringed with a thick growth of hardy evergreens, hollowed into coves and inlets, where the waves, broken in their wild, free sweep, lapped low-shelving shores and invited gentle adventure. on one of these pleasant outposts was the college camp; and half a dozen pretty girl graduates, in "middies" and khaki skirts, came down to meet dan. one of them led a big, tawny dog, who made a sudden break for the boat, nearly overturning freddy in his leap, and crouching by dan's side, whining and shivering. "oh, he's yours! we said he was yours!" went up the girlish chorus. "then take him away, please. and don't let him come back; for he howled all night, and nearly set us crazy. nellie morris says dogs never howl that way unless somebody is dead or dying; and she left her mother sick, and is almost frantic. please take him away, and don't ever bring him near us again!" "but--but he isn't mine at all," replied dan, staring at the big dog, who, shivering and wretched as he seemed, awoke some vague memory. "then whose is he?" asked a pretty spokesman, severely. "he could not have dropped from the clouds, and yours was the only boat that came here yesterday." "oh, i know,--i know, dan!" broke in freddy, eagerly. "he belongs to that big man who came with us on the steamboat. he had two dogs in leashes, and this is one of them, i know, because i saw his brown spot on his head when i gave him a cracker." "mr. wirt?" dan's vague memory leaped into vivid light: mr. john wirt's big, tawny dog indeed, who perhaps, with some dim dog-sense, remembered freddy. "i do know him now," said dan. "he belongs to a gentleman named wirt--" "well, take him where he belongs," interrupted the young lady. "we don't care where it is. we simply can't have him howling here." "oh, take him, dan!" said freddy. "let us take him home with us." "mr. wirt must be around somewhere," reflected dan. "he said perhaps he would come to killykinick. we'll take him," he agreed cheerfully, as he handed out his basket of fish to the pretty, young campers. "and i think his master will come along to look him up." and the boys started on their homeward way, with rex (which was the name on their new companion's collar) seated between them, still restless and quivering, in spite of all freddy's efforts to make friends. "he wasn't this way on the boat," said freddy as, after all his stroking and soothing, rex only lifted his head and emitted a long, mournful howl. "i went down on the lower deck where the big man had left his dogs, and they played with me fine,--shook paws and wagged their tails and were real nice." "i guess he knows he is lost and wants to get back to his master," said dan. "dogs have a lot of sense generally, so what took him over to that girls' camp puzzles me." "he didn't like the girls,--did you, rex?" asked freddy, as he patted his new friend's nose. "my, he is a beauty,--isn't he, dan? just the kind of a dog i'd like to have; and, if nobody comes for him, he will be ours for keeps. do you think brother andrew will let us have him out in the stable at st. andrew's? dick walton kept his rabbits there--" "until a weasel came and gobbled them up," laughed dan, as he steered away from a line of rocks that jutted out like sharp teeth from a low-lying, heavily wooded shore. "they couldn't gobble rex,--could they, old fellow!" said freddy, with another friendly pat. but, regardless of all these kindly overtures, rex sprang to his feet, barked in wild excitement for a moment, made a plunge from the boat and struck out for shore. "oh, he's gone,--he's gone!" cried freddy, desperately. "rex! rex!" called dan. "there's nothing or nobody there. come back,--come back! well, he must be a durned fool of a dog to be jumping off at every island he sees.--rex! rex!--he'll starve to death if we leave him here." "oh, he will,--he will!" said freddy, wofully. "come back, rex, old fellow, nice dog,--come back!" freddy whistled and called in vain: rex had vanished into the thick undergrowth. "oh, let's go for him,--let's go for him, dan!" pleaded freddy. "maybe he is after a wild duck or something. we ought not to let a fine dog like that get lost and starve to death. one of the deck hands on the steamboat told me those dogs were worth a hundred dollars a piece, and that they had more sense than some humans." "well, he isn't showing it this morning, sure; and he didn't yesterday either," said dan, gruffly. "he isn't the kind of dog to leave around here for any tramp to pick up, i'll agree; but how are we to haul him back, unless he chooses to come? and i know nothing about this shore, anyhow. neb told me they called it last island, and there was once a light here that the old whalers could see fifty miles out--why, halloo!" dan paused in his survey of the doubtful situation. "he's coming back!" "rex! rex!" shouted freddy, gleefully; for it was rex indeed,--rex coming through the dense low growth, in long leaps, with quick, sharp barks that were like calls; rex plunging into the water and swimming with swift strokes to the waiting boat; but rex refusing absolutely to be pulled aboard. he only splashed and shook himself, scattering a very geyser of salt water on the tugging boys, and barked louder and sharper still as if he were doing his best to talk. "jing!" exclaimed dan, giving up all efforts to manage him. "i never saw such a durned chump of a dog! i'm wet to the skin." "oh, he wants something!" said softer-hearted freddy. "he is trying to tell us something, dan." rex barked again, as if he had heard the words; and, leaping on the edge of the boat, he caught freddy's khaki sleeve. "lookout there, or he'll pull you overboard!" shouted dan in fierce alarm, as rex pulled still harder. "golly! i believe he wants us to come ashore with him." "oh, he does,--he does!" said freddy, eagerly. "he has hunted something down and wants us to get it, dan. let us see what it is." it was a temptation that two live boys could not resist. mooring neb's old fishing boat to a sharp projecting rock, they proceeded to wade where it would have been impossible to navigate; rex leaping before them, barking jubilantly now, as if he had won his point. "you stand back, kid!" (through all the excitement of a discoverer, dan did not lose sight of his responsibilities.) "let me go ahead, so if there is anything to hurt i'll strike it first. straight behind in my steps, and lookout for suck-holes!" and, with rex leading, they proceeded indian file over the narrow strip of sand that shelved to the sea, and then on through thicket and branches that hedged the shore in wild, luxuriant growth, until suddenly the ruins of the old lighthouse rose out of the tangle before them. the shaft that had upheld the beacon light was all gone save the iron framework, which rose bare and rusted above the little stone cabin that had sheltered the keeper of long ago, and that still stood amid crumbling stones and fallen timbers. "back, freddy,--back!" shouted dan, as something big and fierce bolted out of the ruins. "why, it's the other dog!" he added in relief. "mr. wirt _must_ be somewhere around." and, peering into the open door of the cabin, he stood dumb with dismay; for there indeed, stretched upon the rotten floor under the broken roof, was his friend of the steamboat. his gun was beside him, his head pillowed on his knapsack, his eyes closed, all his pride and strength and manly bearing gone; only the short, hard breathing showed that he was still alive. "golly!" gasped freddy, who had crept in behind his chum. "is--is he dead, dan?" "not--not--yet, but he looks mighty close to it. mr. wirt--" he faltered, bending over the prostrate form; "mr. wirt!" he repeated louder. there was no answer. "i'm afraid he's gone," said dan, in an awe-struck voice; and freddy burst into boyish tears. "what are you crying about?" asked dan, gruffly. "oh, i don't know,--i don't know!" was the trembling answer. "i--i never saw anybody dead before. what--what do you think killed him, dan?" "nothing. he isn't killed," replied dan, who had been taking close observations. "he is still breathing. i guess he came here to hunt and got sick, and that's what the dog was trying to tell people. gosh, it's a pity dogs like that can't talk!" "oh, it is,--it is!" murmured freddy, putting his arm around rex, who, his duty done, was seated on his hind legs, gravely surveying his master. the sick man moved a little, and groaned feebly: "water!" the word came faintly through parched lips. "water,--a little--water!" dan picked up a can that had evidently done duty before. "stay by him, freddy, so he'll know there is something here. i'll go to get some water. they must have had a pump or well around a place like this," and while dan discovered the broken, half-choked cistern at the back of the old light, freddy watched the sick man. he had never before seen any one very sick, and it took some pluck to keep his post especially when mr. wirt suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him. it was such a strange, wild, questioning look that freddy felt his heart nearly leap into his throat. then dan came back with the can full of water, and together they did their best for their patient,--bathing his head, wetting his parched lips, laving the helpless hands that were burning with fever, until the bright, sunken eyes closed and the sick man sank into a fitful sleep. "he is pretty badly off," said dan, who had seen pain and sickness and death, and knew. "he ought to have a doctor right away, and it's for us to get one quick as we can. but it will be a good three hour's job; and" (aunt winnie's boy's voice softened) "i hate to leave the poor fellow here without any one to give him a drop of water, when he's burning up like this. but you can't sail the boat alone, kid." "no, i can't," faltered freddy,--"i can't sail the boat, dan; but--but" (the young voice steadied bravely) "i can stay here with him." "you can!" echoed dan, staring at his little chum in amazement. "you'd scare to death, kid, here all alone with a dying man. he is likely to go off any minute." "maybe," faltered freddy. "but--but i'd stay by him all the same, dan. i can bathe his head and his hands, and give him water to drink, and say prayers like brother bart says we must when people are dying. o dan, we can't leave him here to die alone!" "no, we can't," said dan, heartily. "i'd never think of asking a kid like you to stay. but, with the two dogs on the watch, there's nothing to fear. and you are doing the real right and plucky thing, for sure. i'll sail over to killykinick and see if i can get jim or dud off for the nearest doctor, and be back here as quick as i can. and you, kid" (dan's tone softened tenderly to his little chum), "don't scare more than you can help. stick it out here as best you can." dan was off at the words, and for a moment freddy felt his heart sink within him. he looked at the broken walls, the gaping roof, the dying man, and his blood chilled at the thought of the long hours before any one could return to him. standing at the door of the old light, his eyes followed dan's sturdy figure leaping swiftly through the bramble bush, and now he had reached the boat and put off. freddy was left indeed. he gulped down a big lump that rose in his throat, and, with the can of water dan had freshly filled for him, took his seat at his patient's side. rex came up and put a cold nose on his knee, and freddy's watch began. xx.--little boy blue. mr. wirt lay very still. freddy never remembered seeing any one quite so still before. even his breathing had grown quiet, and the rise and fall of the broad breast was the only sign of life in the otherwise motionless figure. all around him was very still, too. freddy could hear the plash of the waves on the beach, the rustle of the wind through the dwarf trees, the whir of wings as some sea bird took its swift flight above the broken roof. but within there was a solemn hush, that to the small watcher seemed quite appalling. roy, as the other dog was named on his collar, dozed at his master's feet. rex kept his place at freddy's side, as if conscious of his responsibilities; and for a time that seemed quite interminable, all were silent. freddy found himself studying the big man's pale face with fearsome interest. how very pale it was! and the rough growth of beard that hid mouth and chin made it seem paler still. but the nose was straight and smooth as freddy's own. the silver-streaked hair fell in soft waves over a broad handsome brow. and there was a white scar on the left temple, that throbbed with the low breathing. somehow, that scar held freddy's eye. surely he had seen a v shaped scar like it before, where or when he could not think; perhaps on one of the big football players at st. andrew's. "ah, if good brother tim were only here now!" thought freddy hopelessly, as the picture of the spotless stretch of infirmary arose before him. the rows of white beds so safe and soft; the kind old face bending over the fevered pillows; old top waving his friendly shadow in the sunlit window; the angelus chiming from the great bell tower; the merry shouts of the ball players on the green below,--all these memories were in dire contrast indeed to the present scene. if dan would only come back! but he wouldn't--he couldn't--for hours. and maybe this big, strange man might die while he was gone,--die with only a little boy beside him,--a little boy to help him, to pray for him. freddy's thoughts grew more and more solemn and awesome. people always prayed by dying beds, he knew. oh, if dan would only come with a doctor and perhaps a priest! for freddy felt that big men who wandered around the world with dogs and guns were likely to need higher spiritual ministrations than a small boy could give. in the meanwhile he would do his best; and, drawing out his silver-mounted rosary, he began to say his beads. and perhaps, as the young watcher had been an early riser this morning, he was nodding a little over his decades when a sudden movement of his patient roused him. mr. wirt was awake, his eyes fixed steadily on freddy's face. "still here," he murmured,--"still here? boy,--little boy! are you real or a death dream?" it was a startling question; but freddy had learned something of fever vagaries during the measles, when even some of the seniors had lost their heads. "oh, i'm real!" he answered cheerfully. "i'm a real boy all right. i'm freddy neville, from st. andrew's college--" "my god!" burst in a low cry from the pale lips. "yes," said freddy. "it's time for you to say that,--to say your prayers, i mean; because--because--you're very sick, and when people are very sick, you know, they--sometimes they die." "die!" was the hoarse echo. "aye, die as i have lived,--in darkness, despair! lost--lost--lost!" "oh, no, no, no!" boy as he was, freddy felt his young heart thrill at the cry. "you're not lost yet. you're never lost while you live. you can always say an act of contrition, you know, and--and--" freddy's voice faltered, for the role of spiritual adviser was a new one; but he had not gone through the big catechism last year without learning a young catholic christian's obligations. "would--would you like me to say an act of contrition for you?" he asked. there was no answer save in the strange softening of the eyes fixed upon the boyish face. and, feeling that his patient was too far gone for speech, freddy dropped on his knees, and in a sweet, trembling tone repeated the brief, blessed words of sorrow for sin, the plea for pardon, the promise of amendment. it had been a long, long time since those familiar words had fallen on his listener's ears; a longer time since they had reached his heart. for years he had believed nothing, hoped nothing, feared nothing. life had been to him a dull blank, broken only by reckless adventure; death, the end of all. but for three days and nights he had lain helpless, fever-smitten, stricken down in all his proud strength in this wilderness, with no friends but his dogs, no home but the ruined hut into which he had crawled for shelter, no human aid within reach or call. the derelict, as he had called himself to dan, had drifted on the rocks beyond hope and help, as derelicts must. and in those three days and nights he had realized that for him there was no light in sea or sky,--that all was darkness forever. and then young voices had broken in upon the black silence; and, opening his eyes, closed on hideous fever dreams, he had seen freddy,--freddy, who was not a dream; freddy, who was kneeling by his side, whispering sweet, forgotten words of peace and hope and pardon; freddy--freddy--he could not speak, there was such a stirring in the depths of his heart and soul. he could only stretch out his weak, trembling hand, that freddy met with a warm, boyish grip. "oh, i'm here yet!" he said, thinking his patient needed the reassurance. "i'm staying here right by you, to say prayers, or get water or anything you want. dan left me here to take care of you. he has gone for the doctor; and if you just hold on till they get here, why, maybe--maybe--they'll pull you through all right. gee whilikins!" exclaimed freddy, as the sick man suddenly started up from his rude pillow. "you mustn't do that!" "i must--i must!" was the hoarse reply; and freddy was caught in a wild, passionate clasp to his patient's heart. "dying or living, i must claim you, hold you, my boy,--my own little son,--little boy blue!" the voice sank to a low, trembling whisper. "little boy blue, don't you know your own daddy?" and freddy, who had been struggling wildly in what he believed to be a delirious grasp, suddenly grew still. "little boy blue,"--it was the nursery name of long ago,--the name that only the dad of those days knew,--the name that even brother bart had never heard. it brought back blazing fire, and cushioned rocker, and the clasp of strong arms around his little white-robed form, and a deep, merry voice in his baby ear: "little boy blue." freddy lifted a frightened, bewildered little face. the eyes,--softened now with brimming tears; the straight nose like his own, the waving hair, the scar he had so often pressed with baby fingers,--ah, he remembered,--little boy blue remembered! it was as if a curtain were snatched from a far past that had been only dimly outlined until now. "my daddy,--my daddy,--my own dear daddy!" he cried, flinging his arms about the sick man's neck. "oh, don't die,--don't die!" for, weak and exhausted by his outburst of emotion, the father had fallen back upon his pillow, gasping for breath, the sweat standing out in great beads on his brow, his hand clutching freddy's own in what seemed a death clasp. and now freddy prayed indeed,--prayed as never in all his young life he had prayed before,--prayed from the depths of his tender, innocent heart, in words all his own. "o god, father in heaven, spare my dear daddy! he has been lost so long! oh, do not let me lose him again! save him for his little boy,--save him, spare him!" without, the sky had darkened, the wind moaned, the waves swelled white-capped against the low shore. the august storm was rising against last island in swift wrath; but, wrestling in passionate fervor for the life that had suddenly become so precious to him, freddy did not hear or heed. the dogs started out into the open. father and son were alone in the gathering gloom. through what he believed the throes of his death agony, the sick man caught the sweet, faltering words: "o dear lord, have mercy on my dear father! let him live, and we will bless and thank you all the rest of our lives. he has been lost so long, but now he has come back. oh, try to say it with me, daddy: you have come back to be good,--to live good and live right forever!" and then, even while freddy prayed, the storm burst upon last island. and such a storm! it seemed as if the derelict lying there had roused wind and wave into destructive fury against the friendly outpost that sheltered him. last island had been abandoned on account of its perilous exposure; and its beacon light, shattered again and again by fierce ocean gales, was transferred to a safer shore. "it's a-washing away fast," old neb had informed dan when they had drifted by the low-lying shore. "some of these days a big storm will gulp it down for good." and truly the roaring sea seemed to rush upon it in hungry rage to-day. the dogs came in crouching and whining to their master; while the wind shrieked and whistled, and the foaming breakers thundered higher and higher upon the unprotected shore. "o dan, dan!" thought freddy hopelessly, as the storm beat through the broken walls and roof. "dan will never get here now,--never!" but, though his heart was quailing within him, brother bart's laddie was no weakling: he stood bravely to his post, bathing his father's head and hands, wetting the dry, muttering lips, soothing him with tender words and soft caresses,--"daddy, my own dear daddy, it is your little boy that is with you,--your own little boy blue! you will be better soon, daddy." and then through the roar and rage of the storm would rise the boyish voice pleading to god for help and mercy. and the innocent prayer seemed to prevail. the sick man's labored breathing grew easier, the drawn features relaxed, the blood came into the livid lips; and, with the long-drawn sigh of one exhausted by his struggle for life, freddy's patient sank into a heavy sleep; while his little boy blue watched on, through terrors that would have tried stronger souls than brother bart's laddie. for all the powers of earth and air and sea seemed loosened for battle. the winds rose into madder fury; the rain swept down in blinding floods; forked tongues of fire leaped from the black clouds that thundered back to the rolling waves. the dogs crouched, whimpering and shivering, at freddy's side. whether daddy was alive or dead he could not tell. he could only keep close to him, trembling and praying, and feeling that all this horror of darkness could not be real: that he would waken in a moment,--waken as he had sometimes wakened in st. andrew's, with brother bart's kind voice in his ear telling him it was all a dream,--an awful dream. and then blaze and crash and roar would send poor little boy blue shivering to his knees, realizing that it was all true: that he was indeed here on this far-off ocean isle, beyond all help and reach of man, with daddy dying,--dead beside him. he had closed the door as best he could with its rusted bolt; but the wind kept tearing at it madly, shaking the rotten timbers until they suddenly gave way, with rattle and crash that were too much for the brave little watcher's nerves. he flung his arms about his father in horror he could no longer control. "daddy, daddy!" he cried desperately. "wake up,--wake up! daddy, speak to me and tell me you're not dead!" and daddy started into consciousness at the piteous cry, to find his little boy blue clinging to him in wild affright, while wind and wave burst into their wretched shelter,--wind and wave! surging, foaming, sweeping over beach and bramble and briar growth that guarded the low shore, rising higher and higher each moment before the furious goad of the gale, came the white-capped breakers! "oh, the water is coming in on us! poor daddy, poor daddy, you'll get wet!" and then daddy, wild wanderer that he had been over sea and land, roused to the peril, his dulled brain quickening into life. "the gun,--my gun!" he said hoarsely. "it is loaded, freddy. lift it up here within reach of my hand." "o daddy, daddy, what are you going to do?" cried freddy in new alarm. "shoot,--shoot! signal for help. there is a life-saving station not far away. there, hold the gun closer now,--closer!" and the trembling hand pulled the trigger, and its sharp call for help went out again and again into the storm. xxi.--a dark hour. meantime dan had set his dingy sail to what he felt was a changing wind, and started neb's fishing boat on the straightest line he could make for killykinick. but it had taken a great deal of tacking and beating to keep to his course. he was not yet sailor enough to know that the bank of clouds lying low in the far horizon meant a storm; but the breeze that now filled and now flapped his sail was as full of pranks as a naughty boy. in all his experience as second mate, dan had never before met so trying a breeze; and it was growing fresher and stronger and more trying every minute. to beat back to beach cliff against its vagaries, our young navigator felt would be beyond his skill. the only thing he could do was to take the shorter course of about three miles to killykinick, and send off jim and dud in their rented boat (which had a motor) for a doctor. then he could explain freddy's absence to brother bart, and hurry back to his little chum. wind and tide, however, were both against these well-laid plans to-day. the wind was bad enough, but now even the waves seemed to have a strange swell, different from the measured rise and fall he knew. it was as if their far-off depths were rising, stirring out of their usual calm. they no longer tossed their snowy crests in the summer sunlight, but surged and swayed in low, broken lines, white-capped with fitful foam. and the voice--the song of the sea--that had been a very lullaby to dan as he swung every night in his hammock beneath the stars, had a hoarse, fierce tone, like a sob of passion or pain. altogether, dan and his boat had a very hard pull over the three miles to killykinick. "thar they come!" said captain jeb, who, with brother bart, was watching from the beach. "i told you you could count on mate dan, padre. thar the lads come, safe and sound; though they hed a pull against the wind, i bet. but here they come all right." "god be thanked for that same!" said brother bart, reverently. "my heart has been nearly leaping out of my breast this last half hour. and you weren't over-easy about them yourself, as i could see, jeroboam." "wall, i'm glad to see the younkers safe back, i must say," agreed captain jeb, in frank relief. "thar was nothing to skeer about when they started this morning, but that bank of cloud wasn't in sight then. my but it come up sudden! it fairly took my breath when neb pointed it out to me. that ar marline spike didn't hurt his weather eye. 'hurricane,' he says to me; 'straight up from the west indies, and them boys is out!' i tell you it did give me a turn--aye, aye matey!" as dan came hurrying up the beach. "ye made it all right again wind an' tide--but where's the other?" "laddie,--my laddie!" cried brother bart, his ruddy face paling. "speak up, dan dolan! has harm come to him?" "no, no, no!" answered dan eagerly, "no harm at all, brother bart. he is safe and sound. don't scare, brother bart." and then as briefly as he could dan told the adventure of the morning. "and you left laddie, that lone innocent, with a dying man?" said brother bart. "sure it will frighten the life out of him!" "no, it won't," replied dan. "freddy isn't the baby you think, brother bart. he's got lots of sand. he was ready and willing to stay. we couldn't leave the poor man there alone with the dogs." "sure you couldn't,--you couldn't," said the good brother, his tone softening. "but laddie--little laddie,--that never saw sickness or death! send off the other boys for the doctor, jeroboam, and the priest as well, while dan and i go back for laddie." but captain jeroboam, who was watching the horizon with a wide-awake weather eye, shook his head. "you can't, padre,--you can't. not even the 'lady jane' could make it agin what's coming on now. if the boy is on dry land, you'll have to trust him to the lord." "oh, no, no!" answered the good brother, forgetting what he said, in his solicitude. "i'll go for him myself. give us your boat, man, and dan and i will go for laddie." "ye can't, i tell ye!" and the old sailor's voice took a sudden tone of command. "i'm captain of this here killykinick, padre; and no boat leaves this shore in the face of such a storm, for it would mean death to every man aboard her,--sure and certain death." "the lord have mercy,--the lord have mercy!" cried brother bart. "my laddie,--my poor little laddie! the fright of this will kill him entirely. oh, but you're the hard man, jeroboam! you have no heart!" "back!" shouted captain jeb, heedless of the good old man's reproaches, as a whistling sound came over the white-capped waves. "back, under cover, all of ye. the storm is on us now!" and, fairly dragging brother bart, while neb and dan hurried behind them, the captain made for shelter in the old ship under the cliffs, where dud and jim had already found refuge. "down with the hatches! brace everything!" came the trumpet tones of command of the old sailor over the roar of the wind. and doors and portholes shut, the heavy bolts of iron and timber fell into place, and everything was made tight and fast against the storm that now burst in all its fury on killykinick,--a storm that sent brother bart down on his knees in prayer, and held the boys speechless and almost breathless with terror. in the awful blackness that fell upon them they could scarcely see one another. the "lady jane" shook from stem to stern as if she were being torn from her fifty years' mooring. the stout awnings were ripped from the upper deck; their posts snapped like reeds in the gale; the great hollows of the devil's jaw thundered back the roar of the breakers that filled their cavernous depths with mad turmoil. on land, on sea, in sky, all was battle,--such battle as even captain jeb agreed he had never seen on killykinick before. "i've faced many a hurricane, but never nothing as bad as this. if it wasn't for them cliffs behind us and the stretch of reef before, durned if we wouldn't be washed clean off the face of the earth!" "laddie, laddie!" was the cry that blended with brother bart's prayers for mercy. "god in heaven, take care of my poor laddie through this! i ought not to have let him out of my sight." "but he's safe, brother bart," said dan, striving to comfort himself with the thought. "he is on land, you know, just as we are; and the old lighthouse is as strong as the 'lady jane'; and god can take care of him anywhere." "sure he can, lad,--he can. i'm the weak old sinner to doubt and fear," was the broken answer. "but he's only a bit of a boy, my own little laddie,--only a wee bit of a boy, that never saw trouble or danger in his life. to be facing this beside a dying man,--ah, god have mercy on him, poor laddie!" so, amid fears and doubts and prayers, the wild hours of the storm and darkness passed; the fierce hurricane, somewhat shorn of its first tropic strength, swept on its northward way; the shriek of the wind sank into moan and murmur; the sea fell back, like a passion-weary giant; the clouds broke and scattered, and a glorious rainbow arched the clearing sky. the bolts and bars that had done such good duty were lifted, and the crew of the "lady jane" went out to reconnoitre a very damaged domain. cow-house and chicken-house were roofless. brown betty lay crouching fearful in the ruins while her feathered neighbors fluttered homeless in the hollows of the rocks. the beans and peas and corn,--all things that had lifted their green growth too proudly, were crushed to the earth. but far worse than this was the havoc wrought on the beach. one half of the wharf was down. the small boats, torn from their moorings, had disappeared entirely. the motor boat jim and dud had hired for the season was stove in upon the rocks. the "sary ann," stranded upon the shoals of numskull nob, to which she had been swept by the gale, lay without mast or rudder, leaking at every joint. the two old salts surveyed the scene for a moment in stoic silence, realizing all it meant to them. but brother bart, with the sunlight dancing on the waves, the rainbow arching the sky, broke into eager, hopeful speech. "god be thanked it's over and we're all alive to tell it; for noah's deluge itself couldn't have been worse. and now, jeroboam, we'll be going over after laddie; and the lord grant that we may find him safe as the rest!" "we'll be going after him!" repeated captain jeb, grimly. "how and whar!" "sure--can't we right one of the boats?" asked the old man, anxiously. "which boat," was the gruff question. "that thar play toy" (surveying the motor boat) "is smashed in like an eggshell. whar the other has been swept to nobody knows. and the 'sary ann' has done her best, as we all can see; but no boat could hold her own agin that storm. do you think she will stand till morning, neb?" neb rolled his dull eyes over reef and shoal. "she moight," he replied briefly. "struck pretty bad thar in the bow; but the wind is down now and the tide is low." "and she is oak-keeled and copper-braced from stem to stern," continued captain jeb. "she may stick it out until we can get thar and tow her in. as for the boy, padre, we can't reach him no more'n we can reach the 'sary ann' without a boat; and thar's nothing left that will float around this killykinick." "ah, the lord have mercy! and are we to leave laddie in that wild place beyond all night?" cried brother bart. "scatter, boys,--scatter all over the place, and maybe you can find a boat caught in the rocks and sands; for we must get to the laddie afore the night comes on, cost what it may. scatter and strive to find a boat!" while the boys scattered eagerly enough captain jeb, making a spyglass of his hands, was scanning the horizon with a sailor's practised eye. "what is it you see?" asked brother bart, anxiously. "don't tell me it's another storm!" "no," answered captain jeb, slowly, "it ain't another storm. neb" (his tone grew suddenly sharper and quicker), "step up to the ship and get the old man's glass,--the glass we keep shut up in the case." neb, who never shirked an order, obeyed. in a moment he returned with one of the greatest treasures of the "lady jane"--great-uncle joe's ship-glass that was always kept safe from profaning touch; its clear lenses, that had looked out on sea and sky through many a long voyage, polished to a shine. captain jeb adjusted them to his own failing eyes, and gazed seaward for a few moments in silence. then he said: "'pears as if i couldn't see clarly after that tarnation blow. you look out, neb. and, padre, you'd better step back thar and keep a weather eye on them younkers. it doesn't do to turn them out too free, with things all broke up." "you're right, man,--you're right, jeroboam," said the good brother tremulously. "i'll keep an eye on them, as you say." "thar,--i've got him out of the way!" said captain neb, as brother bart hurried back to watch over his scattered flock. "now look, neb,--look steady and straight! three points to the south of numskull nob,--what d'ye see?" "nothing at all," answered neb. "look again!" his brother adjusted the old shipmaster's glass with a hand that trembled strangely. "another point to the south. look steady as ye can, neb. yer weather eye was always clarer than mine. what d'ye see now?" "nothing," came the answer again; and then the dull tone quickened: "aye i do,--i do! thar's suthing sticking out of the waves like a broken mast." "the old light," said captain jeb, hoarsely,--"all that's left of it. last island has gone under, as you said it would, neb,--clean swallowed up. and the boy--" (the speaker gulped down something like a sob). "looks as if the padre will never see his little lad agin." xxii.--the lost and found. there had been an extra mass at the little church at beach cliff on the morning of the storm. father tom rayburn, an old classmate of the pastor's, had arrived, and been welcomed most cordially. "i'm off to an old camping ground of mine--killykinick," he had explained to his host as they sat together at breakfast. "one of our brothers is there with some of st. andrew's boys, and my own little nephew is among them." "ah, yes, i know!" was the reply. "they come every sunday to the late mass. and, by the way, if you are going out into those ocean 'wilds,' you could save a busy man some trouble by stopping at the life-saving station (it's not far out of the way, as i suppose you'll take a sail or a motor boat); and i promised two of those sturdy fellows who are groping for the truth some reading matter. i thought a friendly talk at the same time would not be amiss. they have little chance for such things in their lonely lives. but my duties are quadrupled at this season, as you know." "and the 'wilderness' is in my line," said father tom. "of course i'll be glad to stop. i used to haunt the life-saving station when i was a boy; and i should like to see it again, especially when i can do a little missionary work on the side," he laughed cheerily. and so it had happened that while dan and freddy were hauling in their lines and delivering breakfasts along the shore, one of the trig motors from the boat club was bearing a tall, broad-shouldered passenger, bronzed by sun and storm, to the life-saving station, whose long, low buildings stood on a desolate spit of sand that jutted out into the sea beyond shelter cove. it was uncle sam's farthest outpost. the stars and stripes floating from its flagstaff told of his watchful care of this perilous stretch of shore that his sturdy sons paced by day and night, alert to any cry for help, any sign of danger. father tom, whose own life work lay in some such lines, met the life-savers with a warm, cordial sympathy that made his visit a most pleasant one. he was ready to listen as well as talk. but blake and ford, whom he had come especially to see, were on duty up the shore, and would not be back for more than two hours. "i'll wait for them," said father tom, who never let a wandering sheep, that hook or crook could hold, escape his shepherd's care; and he settled down for a longer chat of his own wild and woolly west, which his hearers watching with trained eyes the black line in the horizon, were too polite in their own simple way to interrupt. their guest was in the midst of a description of the mohave desert, where he had nearly left his bones to bleach two years ago, when his boatman came hurriedly up with a request of speedy shelter for his little craft. "there's a storm coming up i daren't face, sir," he said. "we can't make killykinick until it blows over. you'll have to stay another hour or two here." "all right, if our good friends will keep us," was the cheery response. "we are not travelling on schedule time." and then father tom looked on with keen interest as the sturdy life-savers made ready for the swift-coming tempest that was very soon upon them, bringing blake and ford back, breathless and drenched, to report their observations along the beach,--that there was nothing in sight: everything had scudded to shelter. so all gathered in the lookout, whose heavy leaded glass, set in a stone frame, defied the fury of the elements. and, thus sheltered, the group in uncle sam's outpost watched the sweep of the storm. "it's a ripper!" said blake, translating the more professional opinion of his mates to father tom. "but we ain't getting the worst of it here. these west indianers travel narrow gauge tracks, and we're out of line. killykinick is catching it bad. shouldn't wonder if that stranded tub of the old captain's would keel over altogether." "you think they are in danger there?" asked father tom, anxiously. "oh, no! thar's plenty of other shelter. killykinick is rock-ribbed to stand till the day of doom. george! i believe last island is going clean under!" "let her go!" came the keeper's bluff response. "been nothing but a bramble bed these twenty years." "bramble bed or not, some fools are camping there," said blake. "i've seen their dogs on the beach for the last three days; and there was a boat moored to the rocks this morning, and boys scrambling along the shore. the folks that are boxed up in town all winter run wild when they break loose here, and don't care where they go--" "hush!" broke in the keeper, suddenly. "push open the glass there, men, and listen! i think i heard a gun!" they flung open the window at his word. borne upon the wild sweep of the wind that rushed in upon them, there came again a sound they all knew,--the signal of distress, the sharp call for help. it was their business to hear and heed. "a gun sure, and from last island!" said the keeper, briefly. "there are fools there, as you say, blake. run out the lifeboat, my men! we must get them off. both boats, for we don't know how many we have to care for." "both boats, sir?" hesitated blake. "we're short-handed to-day, for ford has a crippled arm that would be no good in this surf." "i'll take his place," said father tom, eagerly. "i've shot the rapids with my indian guides many a time. i'll take ford's place." "think twice of it, sir," was blake's warning. "you are risking your life." "i know," was the brief answer. "that's my business as well as yours, my friends; so i'll take my chance." "there talks a man!" said the keeper, heartily. "give him a sou'wester, and let him take his chances, as he asks, in ford's place." and, in briefer time than we can picture, the two lifeboats were swung out of their shelter in the very teeth of the driving gale, and manned by their fearless crews, including father tom rayburn, who, muffled in a huge sou'wester, took his place with the rest; and all pushed into the storm. * * * * * at last island all hope seemed gone. "one last shot, my boy!" daddy had said, as the gun dropped from his shaking hand. "and no one has heard,--no one could hear in the roar of the storm." "oh, they could,--they could!" murmured freddy. "god could make them hear, daddy,--make them hear and come to help us. and i think he will. i have prayed so hard that we might not be drowned here all alone in the storm. you pray, too, daddy,--oh, please pray!" "i can not,--i _dare_ not," was the hoarse answer. "o daddy, yes you can,--you must! the waters are coming on us so fast, daddy,--so fast! please try to pray with me. our lord made the winds and waves go down when he lived here on earth; he walked on the waters and they did not hurt him. oh, they are coming higher and higher on us, daddy! what shall we do?" "die," was the hoarse, fierce answer; "die here together, my boy,--my little boy! for me it is justice, judgment; but, o my god, why should thy curse fall on my boy,--my innocent boy?" "o daddy, no! that isn't the way to pray. you mustn't say 'curse,' daddy. you must say: 'have mercy, dear lord; have mercy! save me and my little boy. send some one to help us.' oh, i am trying not to be afraid, but i can't help it, daddy!" "my boy,--my poor little boy! climb, freddy! try to climb up on the roof--the broken shaft! leave me here, and try to climb, my boy! you may be safe for a while." "o daddy, no, i can't climb and leave you," and freddy clung piteously to his father's breast. "i'd rather die here with you, and god will take us both to heaven together. i haven't been a very good boy, i know; and maybe you haven't either; but if we are sorry he will let us come to him in heaven--o dad, what is that?" freddy's low tone changed to one of wild alarm. "what is it now,--what is it now?" for the dogs, that had been crouching and cowering beside their master, suddenly started up, barking wildly, and dashed out into the rising waters; new sounds blended with the roar of the storm,--shouts, cries, voices. "here,--_here_!" daddy feebly essayed to answer. "call to them, freddy! it is help. god has heard your prayers. call--call--call--loud as you can, my boy!" but there was no need. rex and roy had already done the calling, the guiding. on they came, the sturdy rescuers, plunging waist-deep through the waters that were already breaking high on the beach and bramble growth, surging and swelling across the broken wall that had once guarded the old light, and lapping the low cabin floor. on the brave life-savers came, while rex and roy barked in mad welcome; and freddy's clear, boyish cry, "here,--here! daddy and i are here!" pierced through the darkness and turmoil of the storm. on they came, strong and fearless,--god's angels surely, thought freddy, though in strange mortal guise. and one, whose muffling sou'wester had been flung loose in his eager haste, led all the rest. "here, my men,--here!" he cried, bursting into the ruined hut, where a little figure stood, white-faced, breathless, bewildered with the joy of his answered prayer. "they are here! god have mercy!" broke in reverent awe from his lips. "freddy, freddy,--my own little freddy here!" "uncle tom,--uncle tom!" and freddy sobbed outright as he was clasped in those dear, strong arms, held tight to the loving heart. "how did god tell you where to come for me, dear uncle tom?--daddy, daddy look up,--look up! it's uncle tom!" and what daddy felt as he looked up into that old friend's face, what uncle tom felt as he looked down on the "derelict" that had drifted so far from him, no one can say; for there was no time for words or wonderment. life-savers can not stop to think, much less to talk. daddy was caught up by two or three big fellows, without any question, while uncle tom looked out for freddy. it was a fierce struggle, through surging waves and battering wind and beating rain, to the waiting lifeboats; but, held tight in those strong arms, pressed close to the true heart whose every pulse was a prayer, freddy felt no fear. even when the stout boat, fighting its way back to the other shore, tossed like a cork in the breakers, when the oar snapped in blake's hand, when all around was foam and spray, in which earth and heaven seemed lost, freddy, nestling in uncle tom's sou'wester, felt as if its rough, tarry folds were angel wings. and so safety and shelter were reached at last. father tom gave his little drenched, shivering, white-faced boy into ford's friendly care. "put him to bed somewhere, to get dry and warm." "but daddy,--my own dear, lost daddy?" "leave him to me, my boy," said uncle tom, softly. "i'll take care of daddy. leave him to me." and then ford, who, somewhere back of cape cod, had a small boy of his own, proceeded to do his rough best for the little stranger. freddy was dried, rubbed, and put into a flannel shirt some ten sizes too big for him, and given something hot and spicy to drink, and finally tumbled into a bunk with coarse but spotless sheets, and very rough but comfortable blankets, where in less than four minutes he was sound asleep, worn out, as even the pluckiest eleven-year-old boy would be, with the strain on his small body and brave young soul. how long he slept, freddy did not know; but it was long enough for the wind to lull, the skies to brighten, the black clouds to break and scatter before the golden glory of the summer sun. the wide lookout window had been thrown open, and showed a glorious rainbow spanning the western sky. and there, on a pallet thrown hastily on the floor, lay daddy, very still and pale, with uncle tom kneeling beside him, holding his hand. an icy fear now clutched freddy's heart at the sight. reckless of the ten-sizes-too-big shirt trailing around him, he was out of his bunk with a jump to his father's side. "daddy, daddy!--o uncle tom, is daddy dead?" and daddy's eyes opened at the words,--eyes that were no longer burning, but soft and dim with tears. "not dead, little boy blue! daddy is alive again,--alive as he has not been for long, long years.--tell him all, tom. i am too weak. tell him all. he'll be glad to hear it, i know." but father tom only put his arm around the boy and drew him close to his side. "why should i?" he said, smiling into the upturned face. "we know quite enough for a little boy; don't we, freddy,--that, like another wanderer from his father's house, daddy was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found. and now get into some short clothes, if you can find them, and we'll go over to killykinick in my little motor boat; for poor brother bart is in sad terror about you, i am sure." ah, in sad terror, indeed! it was a pale, shaken old man that stood on the beach at killykinick, looking over the sea, and listening to the captain, who was striving to find hope where he felt there was none. "looks as if the old cabin on last island might be holding together still. dan and neb are knocking a raft together, and if they can make it float they'll go over there and get the little lad off. and if they don't padre" (the rough old voice trembled),--"if they don't, wal, you are sky pilot enough to know that the little chap has reached a better shore than this." "aye, aye, i know, jeroboam!" was the hoarse, shaken answer. "god knows what is best for his little lamb. his holy will be done. but, o my laddie, my little laddie, why did i let you go from me into the darkness and storm, my little boy, my little boy?" "hooray! hooray!" wild shouts broke in upon the broken-hearted prayer, as jim and dud and dan burst round the bend of the rocks. "brother bart, brother bart! look what's coming, brother bart!" and, turning his dim eyes where the boys pointed, brother bart saw a little motor boat making its swift way over the still swelling waves. on it came, dancing in the sunlight arched by the rainbow, tossing and swaying to the pulse of the sea; and in the stern, enthusiastically waving the little signal flag that ford had put into his hand to remember the life-savers, sat-- "laddie!" burst from brother bart's lips, and he fell upon his knees in thanksgiving. "o god be praised and blessed for the sight! my laddie,--my own little laddie safe, safe,--my laddie coming back to me again!" xxiii.--dan's medal. it was the day after the big storm that had made havoc even in the sheltered harbor of beach cliff, and so damaged "the polly" in her safe moorings that six men were busy putting her into shipshape again. and dad's other polly was in an equally doleful mood. it was to have been a day of jollification with marraine. they were to have gone voyaging together over the summer seas, that were smiling as joyously to-day as if they had never known a storm. they were to have stopped at the college camp in shelter cove, where marraine had some girl friends; they were to have kept on their sunlit way to killykinick, for so dad had agreed; they were to have looked in on the life-saving station, which marraine had never seen; in fact, they were to have done more pleasant things than polly could count,--and now the storm had fallen on her namesake and spoiled all. "never mind, pollykins!" comforted marraine, who could find stars in the darkest sky. "we'll each take a dollar and go shopping." "only a dollar, marraine? that won't buy much," said polly, who had walked in ways where dollars seem very small indeed. "oh, yes, it will! there's no telling what it can buy in jonah's junk shop," laughed marraine. "i got a rusted tea tray that polished into silver plate, a blackened vase that rubbed into burnished copper. i should not wonder if he had an aladdin's lamp hidden somewhere in his dusty shelves." "let us go look for it," said polly, roused into gleeful interest. "oh, i'd love to have aladdin's lamp! wouldn't you, marraine?" "what would you wish for, pollykins?" asked marraine, softly. "oh, lots of things!" said polly, perching in her lap. "first--first of all, i wish that i could keep you here forever and forever, darling marraine!" "well, you have me for six weeks every summer," laughed marraine. "but that isn't forever and forever," sighed polly. "and mamma and dad and grandmamma and everybody else want you, too." "are you sure of that?" asked the lady, kissing the upturned face. "oh, very sure!" replied polly, positively. "they say it's all nonsense for you to go to the hospital and take care of sick people. it's--it's something--i don't remember what." "stubborn pride?" suggested marraine, with a merry sparkle in her eyes. "yes," said polly, "that's just what grandmamma said. and stubborn pride is something bad; isn't it, marraine?" "well, yes, it is," agreed marraine,--"when it _is_ stubborn pride, pollykins. but when one has empty hands and empty purse and--well, an empty life, too, pollykins, it is not stubborn pride to try to fill them with work and care and pity and help." "and that is what you do at the hospital, marraine?" "it is what i try to do, pollykins. when my dear father died, and i found all his money gone, this beautiful home of yours opened its doors wide for me; dad, mamma, grandma, everybody begged me to come here. but--but it wasn't my real home or my real place." "oh, wasn't it, marraine?" said polly, sadly. "no, dear. in our real home, our real place, god gives us work to do,--some work, even though it be only to bless and love. but there was no work for me here; and so i looked around, pollykins, for my work and my place. if i had been very, _very_ good, i might have folded my butterfly wings under a veil and habit, and been a nice little nun, like sister claudine." "oh, i wouldn't have liked that at all!" said polly, with a shiver. "i'm afraid i wouldn't either," was the laughing answer. "still, it's a lovely, useful, beautiful life, little girl. and the next--the very next--best place and best work seemed to me the hospital, with the white gown and cap i can put off when i please; with sickness and sorrow and suffering to soothe and help; with little children holding out their arms to me, and old people calling to me in their pain, and dying eyes turning to me for hope and help. so i am nurse in a hospital, and out of it, too, when there is need. and it's not for stubborn pride, as grandma says, and no doubt thinks; but because i believe it to be my real work and my real place. now get your dollar, and we'll be off to jonah's junk shop to look for aladdin's lamp." and polly danced off for her flower-wreathed hat, and the two were soon on their way down the narrow streets to the dull, dingy little shop near the water, where several customers were already looking over the curiously assorted stock, that on weekdays was spread far out on the sidewalk to attract passers-by. among these was a big, burly grey-haired man, whose bronzed face and easy-fitting clothes proclaimed the sailor. "why, captain carleton!" greeted miss stella, in some surprise. "god bless my heart and soul!" was the hearty response, and the captain held out both hands to the speaker. "this is sailor's luck, indeed! from what star of hope did you drop, miss stella?" "oh, i drop here for a holiday every summer!" she answered gaily. "i am glad to see you looking so well and strong again, captain." "thanks to you, my dear lady! under the great master of life and death, thanks to you! i was about as far on the rocks as an old craft could be without going to pieces entirely. how that soft little hand of yours steered me into safe water i'll never forget, dear lady,--never forget. and i was a tough patient, too; wasn't i?" "well, you did say things sometimes that were not--prayers," was the laughing answer. and, chatting on pleasantly of the captain's last winter in the hospital, they glanced over old jonah's stock until something of interest caught the sailor's eye. "by george! how in thunder did this get here?" "a find,--a real find, captain?" asked miss stella. "what is it?" "a medal," he answered,--"a medal awarded for 'brave and faithful service on the "reina maria" sixty years ago.'" (he was scanning the bronze disc as he spoke),--"'juan farley.' good lord! yes, poor old jack! i wonder how he lived and died? and what in heaven's name is his medal doing here?" "perhaps jonah can tell you," suggested miss stella; while polly, whose bright eyes were searching for aladdin's lamp, paused to listen. "that ar medal?" said jonah in answer to the captain's questioning. "let me think now! that ar medal--ticketed nineteen, isn't it?--was left here by a youngster. now, what in thunder was his name? i'll have to look in my books to see." and while he looked captain carleton explained his interest in his find. "you see, my father was master and half owner of the 'reina maria,' though she was spanish built and manned. but, luckily, jack farley, a first-class sailor, was second mate. there was a mutiny aboard, and it would have been all up with my father and his chief officer if brave jack had not smelled mischief in time, and put down the hatches on the scoundrels at the risk of his own life. ship and cargo (it was a pretty valuable ship) were saved; and this medal, that bears the stamp of her then spanish majesty, was jack's reward. my father always felt that he ought to have had something more; but the spanish owners were close-fisted, so my old man had to content himself with helping jack (who was a rather reckless sort of chap ashore) in his own way. he got him out of many a tight place on the strength of that medal; and he would have looked out for him until the last, but he shipped on an east indian, and drifted out of our reach. and this medal was left here by a boy, you say, my man?" "yes, sir" (jonah had found his entry now),--"by a boy who said it was his: that it had been given him by an old sailor man who was dead; and he'd like to sell the medal now, for he wanted some money bad." "good!" said the old captain, eagerly. "i'll give him his price. who and where is the boy?" "his name is dan dolan and he lives at killykinick." "dan dolan!" exclaimed miss stella. "oh, does he mean my--_my_ dan, marraine?" chirped polly, breathlessly. "what! you know the boy?" cried the old sailor, in amazement. "god bless me,--you!" "why, yes, we know him,--don't we, pollykins?" said miss stella. "but what he is doing with the medal we can't say. we're certain he has it rightfully and honestly; and as soon as 'the polly' (my cousin's yacht) can spread her broken wings, we are going to killykinick. suppose you come with us, and see the owner of the medal, and strike a bargain yourself?" "by george, i will,--i will! a sail with you, miss stella, is a temptation i can not resist. and i must have the medal. i must see the boy, and hear how he got it. i'll buy it from him at his own price; and you shall negotiate the sale, dear lady!" "take care," said miss stella, with a merry sparkle in her eyes,--"take care how you do business with me, captain! remember how i drew upon you for the babies' ward last winter! i can fleece without mercy, as you know." "fleece as you please," was the hearty answer. "i can stand it, for that soft little hand of yours did work for this old man that he can never repay." so the agreement was made; and miss stella, having invested in a queer, twisted candlestick, which she declared was quite equal to aladdin's lamp, and polly having decided to reserve her dollar for a neighboring candy store, the party at jonah's junk shop separated, with the promise of meeting as soon as "the polly" should be ready for a flight to killykinick. but that pleasant excursion was indefinitely postponed; for when miss stella reached polly's home it was to find two priestly visitors awaiting her. one was an old friend, the present pastor of st. mary's church, near the foresters' home; the other, tall, pale even through his bronze, anxious-eyed, she had never met. "father rayburn, miss allen," was the pastor's brief introduction. "we have come to throw ourselves on your mercy, my dear young lady. you are here for your summer holiday, i know; and i hesitate to interrupt it. but father rayburn is in sore need of experienced service that you alone can give." "you need a nurse?" asked miss stella. "yes." (it was father rayburn who answered.) "my brother--or perhaps i should say my brother-in-law, as that is really our relationship,--is lying very ill at killykinick. while still prostrated with fever, he was exposed to the storm of yesterday, in which he nearly lost his life. between the shock, the excitement of his rescue by the life-savers, he is very, very ill,--too ill to be removed to a hospital; and he is at killykinick with only boys and men to care for him," continued father rayburn. "the doctors tell me an experienced nurse is necessary, and we can find none willing to take so serious a case in such a rude, remote place. but my good friend father john seems to think that you would take pity on our great need." "oh, i will,--i will!" was the eager answer. "i already have friends at killykinick among those fine boys from st. andrew's. my little goddaughter and i were to make an excursion there to-day, but the storm disabled mr. forester's yacht. i am so glad to be of service to you, father! i will get ready at once." * * * * * in spite of the joyful return of laddie yesterday, there was gloom this morning at killykinick. daddy, who had been brought over at his own request from the life-saving station, lay in the old captain's room, which brother bart had resigned to him, very, very sick indeed. "sinking fast, i'm afraid," the doctor said. "the fever has broken, but the shock of yesterday's danger and rescue has been too much for a man in his weakened state. still there's a chance for him--a fighting chance. but it will take very careful and experienced nursing to pull him through." so father tom had gone in search of a nurse, leaving freddy and brother bart watching by the sick bed; while dan, who as second mate was assisting his chief officers to right and repair the "sary ann," listened with a heavy heart to the old salt's prognostications. "he won't last the day out," declared captain jeb. "blue about the gills already! but, lord, what could you expect, doused and drenched and shaken up like he was yesterday? it will be hard on the little chap, who was so glad to get his father back. it's sort of a pity, 'cording to my notion, that, being adrift so long, he didn't go down in deep-sea soundings, and not come ashore to break up like this." "o captain jeb, no, no!" dan looked up from his hammering on the "sary ann" in quick protest against such false doctrine. "a man isn't like a ship: he has a soul. and that's the main thing, after all. if you save your soul, it doesn't make much difference about your body. and drifting ashore right here has saved the soul of mr. wirt (or mr. neville, as we must call him now); for he was lying over on last island, feeling that there was no hope for him in heaven or on earth. and then freddy came to him, and father tom, and he turned to god for pardon and mercy; and now his dying is all right,--though i haven't given him up yet," concluded dan, more cheerfully. "poor little freddy has been praying so hard all night, i feel he is going to be heard somehow. and i've seen mick mulligan, that had typhoid last summer, looking a great deal worse than mr. neville, and before thanksgiving there wasn't a boy on the hill he couldn't throw. here comes father tom back with--with--" dan dropped his hammer entirely, and stood up to stare in amazement at the little motor boat making its way to the broken wharf. "jing! jerusalem! if--if it isn't that pretty lady from beach cliff that polly calls marraine!" xxiv.--a star in the darkness. marraine,--polly's marraine,--aunt winnie's old friend,--the lovely, silver-robed lady of the party who had stood by dan in his trouble!--it was she, indeed, all dressed in white, with a pretty little cap on her soft, wavy hair, and her hands full of flowers. miss stella always made a first appearance at a patient's bedside with flowers. she said they were a friendly introduction that never failed. "it's the nurse woman they went for," gasped captain jeb, as the new arrival proceeded to step from boat to wharf with a light grace that scarcely needed father tom's assisting hand. "well, i'll be tee-totally jiggered! who ever saw a nurse woman pretty as that?" but dan did not hear. he had dropped nails, hammer, and all present interest in the recuperation of the "sary ann," and was off down the beach to meet the fair visitor, whose coming he could not understand. "danny," she said, holding out her empty hand to him,--"miss winnie's danny!--i told you i had friends here, father rayburn; and this is one that i expect to find my right-hand man. what a queer, quaint, wonderful place this killykinick is! i am so glad you brought me here to help you!" help them! help them! dan caught the world in breathless amazement. then miss stella, polly's marraine, was the nurse! it seemed altogether astounding; for sick nurses, in dan's experience, had always been fat old ladies who had out-lived all other duties, and appeared only on important occasions, to gossip in solemn whispers, and to drink unlimited tea. and now polly's marraine was a _nurse_! it was impossible to doubt the fact; for father tom was leading her straight to mr. neville's side, dan following in dumb bewilderment. the sick man lay in the old captain's room, whither, at his own request, the life-savers had borne him the previous evening. his eyes, deep-sunken in their sockets, were closed, his features rigid. poor little freddy, tearful and trembling, knelt by brother bart, who paused in his murmured prayers to shake his head hopelessly at the newcomer's approach. "i'm glad ye're here before he goes entirely, father. it's time, i think, for the last blessing. i am afraid he can neither hear nor see." but miss stella had stepped forward, put her soft hand on the patient's pulse; and then, with a quick whisper to father tom, she had dropped her flowers, opened the little wrist-bag they had concealed, and proceeded to "do things,"--just what sort of things dan did not know. he could only see the soft hands moving swiftly, deftly; baring the patient's arm to the shoulder and flashing something sharp and shining into the pale flesh; holding the fluttering pulse until, with a long, deep sigh, the sick man opened his eyes and stared dully at the white-robed figure bending over him. "who--what are you?" he said faintly. miss stella smiled. it was the question that many a patient, struggling out of the dark valley, had asked before, when his waking eyes had fallen upon her fair, sweet face, her white-robed form. "only your nurse," she answered softly,--"your nurse who has come to help you, to take care of you. you feel better already?" "yes, better, better!" was the faint reply. "my boy,--where is my boy? freddy! freddy!" he stretched out his feeble hand. but it was met by a firm, gentle grasp that was not freddy's. "no boys now," said miss stella in the soft, steady voice of one used to such commands. "there must be no seeing, no talking, even no thinking, my patient. you must take this powder i am putting to your lips. close your eyes again and go to sleep.--now please everybody go away and leave him to me," was the whispered ukase, that even father tom obeyed without protest; and miss stella began her reign at killykinick. it was a triumphant reign from the very first. old and young fell at once under her gentle sway, and yielded to her command without dispute. the cabin of the "lady jane" was given to her entirely; even brother bart taking to the upper deck; while a big, disused awning was stretched into a shelter for the morning and the noontime mess. and, to say nothing of her patient--who lay, as brother bart expressed it, "like a shorn lamb" under her gentle bidding, gaining health and strength each day,--every creature in killykinick was subservient to miss stella's sweet will. freddy was her devoted slave; lazy jim, ready to move at her whisper; even dud, after learning her father's rank in the army, was ready to oblige her as a gentleman should. but it was dan, as she had foreseen from the first, who was her right-hand man, ready to fetch and carry, to lift any burden, however heavy, by day and night; dan who rowed or sailed or skimmed to any point in the motor boat father tom kept waiting at her demand; dan who, when the patient grew better, and she had an hour or two off, was her willing and delighted escort over rocks or sea. and as they sailed or rowed or loitered by beach and shore, miss stella drew from aunt winnie's boy the hopes and fears he could not altogether hide. she learned how aunt winnie was "pining" for her home and her boy; she read the letters, with their untold love and longing; she saw the look on the boyish face when dan, too mindful of his promise to father mack to speak plainly, said he 'reckoned she wouldn't be here long if he didn't get her somehow _home_.' she learned, too, all dan could tell about poor old nutty's medal. "get it for me the next time you go to town, danny," she said to him. and danny drew it from old jonah's junk shop and put it in miss stella's hand. and then, when at last her patient was able to sit up in great-uncle joe's big chair in the cabin doorway and look out at the sea, miss stella wrote to dad and polly to come and take her home. "lord, but we'll all miss her!" captain jeb voiced the general sentiment of killykinick when this decision was made public. "i ain't much sot on women folks when you're in deep water, but this one suttenly shone out like a star in the dark." "and kept a-shining," added neb,--"a-shining and a-smiling straight through." "she's a good girl," said brother bart. "and i'm thinking--well, it doesn't matter what i'm thinking. but it's a lonely time laddie's poor father will be having, after all his wild wanderings; and it will be hard for him to keep house and home. but the lord is good. maybe it was his hand that led miss stella here." "oh, what will we do when she is gone, daddy?" mourned freddy. "of course you are getting well now, and dan and i can wait on you and get you broth and jelly; but it won't be like having dear miss stella. oh, i just love her! don't you, daddy? she is almost as good as a real mother." and daddy's pale cheek had flushed as he answered: "almost, little boy blue!" "well, we're all going home in a week," said dan, as he stood out under the stars that night. "but i'll miss you sure, miss stella; for you don't mind being friends with a rough sort of a boy like me, and you know aunt winnie; and if i give up and--and go down you'll--you'll understand." "give up and go down!" repeated miss stella. "you give up and go down, danny? never,--never! you're the sort of boy to climb, however steep and rough and sharp the way,--to climb to the stars." "that's what aunt winnie dreams," was the answer. "that's what i dream, too, sometimes. miss stella. but it isn't for me to dream: i have to wake up and hustle. i can't stay dreaming and let aunt winnie die. so if i have to give up and go down, miss stella, you'll--you'll understand." and miss stella steadied her voice to answer: "yes, danny, i'll understand." but, in spite of this, miss stella's parting from killykinick was not altogether a sad one; for "the polly" came down next morning, with flying colors, to bear her away. dad was aboard; also polly, jubilant at recovering her dear marraine after three weeks of desertion; and captain carleton, and miss stella's girl friends who had been picked up from the camp at shelter cove. it was such a picnic party altogether that sighs and tears seemed quite out of place; for, after all, things had turned out most cheerfully, as everybody agreed. so, with "the polly" glittering in new paint and gilding necessitated by the storm, with all her pennants flying in the wind, with the victrola singing its merriest boat song, and snowy handkerchiefs fluttering gay farewells, miss stella was borne triumphantly away. it was to be an all-day cruise. great hampers, packed with everything good to eat and drink, were stored below; and "the polly" spread her wings and took a wide flight to sea, turning back only when the shadows began to deepen over the water, and the stars to peep from the violet sky. the young people were a trifle tired; polly had fallen asleep on a pile of cushions, while the girls from shelter cove sang college songs. in the stern, captain carleton had found his way to miss stella's side. she was leaning on the taffrail, listening to the singing, her white fleecy wrap falling around her like a cloud. "you look your name to-night," said the captain: "stella,--a star. by george, you were a star to me when the sky looked pretty black! i was thinking of that yesterday when some eastern chap came along with a lot of diamonds for sale. i don't know much about such folderols, but there was one piece--a star--that i'd like to give you, if you would take it and wear it in remembrance of a rough old fellow who can't speak all he feels." "ah, captain carleton,--captain carleton!" laughed the lady softly. "take care! that eastern chap was fooling you, i'm sure." "not at all,--not at all!" was the quick reply. "i got an expert's opinion. the star is worth the thousand dollars he asked." "a thousand dollars,--a thousand dollars!" repeated miss stella, in dismay. "and you would give me a thousand dollar star? why, you must have money to burn, indeed!" "well, i suppose i have," was the answer,--"much more than a lonely old fellow of sixty odd, without chick or child will ever need. will you take the star, dear lady nurse?" "no," said miss stella, gently; "though i thank you for your generous thought of me, my good friend. but i have a better and a wiser investment for you. have you forgotten this?" she took dan's medal from the bag on her wrist. "by george, i _did_ forget it!" said the old man. "somehow, it slipped my memory completely in our pleasant hurry. poor jack farley's medal! you've found the chap that owns it, you say?" "yes," was the answer--"a brave, sturdy, honest little chap, who stood by your poor old friend in his last lonely days, and helped him in his last lonely cruise, and took the medal from his dying hands as the last and only legacy he had to give. would you consider him jack farley's heir, captain carleton?" "most certainly i would," was the rejoinder. "then make him his heir," she said softly. "eh!--what? i don't understand," muttered the old gentleman. then miss stella explained. it was such an explanation as only gentle speakers like miss stella can make. she told about bright, brave, plucky dan and aunt winnie, of the scholarship at st. andrew's and of the little sisters of the poor. she told of the attic home over the mulligans' for which aunt winnie was "pining," and of the dreams that dan dreamed. "it would seem a pity," miss stella said, "for him to give up and go down." "by george, he must not,--he shall not!" said the old sailor. "you want me to do something for him? out with it, my lady!" "yes. i want you to invest, not in diamond stars, captain, but in jack farley's medal. i was to negotiate the sale, you know." "yes, yes! and you warned me you were going to fleece me; so go on,--go on! what is the boy's--what is your price?" asked the captain. "a pension," said miss stella, softly, "the pension you would give jack farley--if he were here to claim it,--just the little pension an old sailor would ask for his last watch below. it will hold the little nest under the eaves that danny calls home for the old aunt that he loves; it will steady the young wings for their flight to the stars; it will keep the young heart brave and pure and warm as only love and home can." "you're right,--you're right,--you're always right, dear lady! if old jack were here, i'd pension him, as you say, and fling in a little extra for his grog and his pipe. old jack could have counted on me for four or five hundred a year. but a sturdy, strapping young chap like yours is worth a dozen groggy old salts. so name your figure, my lady. i have money to burn, as you say. name your figure, dear lady, and i'll invest in your boy." "old jack's pension, then, captain carleton,--old jack's pension for aunt winnie and dan,--old jack's pension, and nothing more." "it's theirs," was the hearty answer,--"or, rather, it's yours, my dear lady!" "oh, no, no, no!" she disclaimed. "the generous gift is all your own, dear friend,--all your own. and it will be repaid. dan and his good old aunt may have no words to thank you, to bless you; but some day" (and the glad voice grew softer, sweeter),--"some day when life's long voyage is over for you, captain, and the log-book is open to the master's gaze--" "it will be a tough showing," interrupted the old man, gruffly,--"a tough showing through and through." "oh, no, no, no!" she said gently. "one entry, i am sure, will clear many a page, dear friend. one entry will give you safe anchorage--harbor rights; for has not the master himself said, 'as long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me'?" xxv.--going home. "we're to be off to-morrow," said brother bart, a little sadly. "and, though it will be a blessed thing to get back in the holy peace of st. andrew's, with the boys all safe and sound--which is a mercy i couldn't expect,--to say nothing of laddie's father being drawn out of his wanderings into the grace of god, i'm sore-hearted at leaving killykinick. you've been very good to us, jeroboam,--both you and your brother, who is a deal wiser than at first sight you'd think. you've been true friends both in light and darkness; and may god reward you and bring you to the true faith! that will be my prayer for you night and day.--and now you're to pack up, boys, and get all your things together; for it's father regan's orders that we are to come back home." "where is _our_ home, daddy?" asked freddy, with lively interest. "for we can have a real true home now, can't we?" "i hope so, my boy." they were out on the smooth stretch of beach, where daddy, growing strong and well fast, spent most of his time, stretched out in one of great-uncle joe's cushiony chairs; while roy and rex crouched contentedly at his feet, or broke into wild frolic with freddy on the rocks or in the sea. "i hope so; though i'm afraid i don't know much about making a home, my little boy blue!" "oh, don't you, daddy?" said freddy, ruefully. "i have always wanted a home so much,--a real true home, with curtains and carpets, and pictures on the walls, and a real fire that snaps and blazes." "yes, i heard you say that before," answered his father, softly. "i think it was that little talk on the boat that brought me down, where i could take a peep at my homeless little boy again; though i was afraid captain jeb would find me out if i ventured to killykinick. i was just making up my mind to risk it and go over, when this fever caught me." "but why--were you hiding, daddy? why did you stay away so long?" "life had grown very black for me; and i didn't want to make it black for you, freddy. i lost faith and hope and love when i lost your mother. i couldn't settle down to a bare, lonely life without her. i felt i must be free,--free to wander where i willed. it was all wrong,--all wrong, freddy. but daddy was in darkness, without any guiding star. so i left you to uncle tom, gave up my name, my home, and broke loose like a ship without rudder or sail. and where it led me, where you found me, you know." "ah, yes!" freddy laid his soft young cheek against his father's. "it was all wrong. but now you have come back; and everything is right again, uncle tom says; and we'll have a real home together. he said that, too, before he went away,--you and i would have a home, daddy." "we'll try," replied daddy, cheerfully. "with you and the dogs together, freddy, we'll try. we'll get the house and the cushions and the carpets, and do our best." going home! dan was thinking of it, too, a little sadly, as somewhat later he stood on the stretch of rocks, looking out at the fading west. he was going home to "give up." only yesterday morning a brief scrawl from pete patterson had informed him he would be ready for business next week, and dan must come back with an answer--"yes" or "no." so it was good-bye to st. andrew's for dan to-night; good-bye to all his hopes and dreams to-morrow. something seemed to rise in dan's throat at the thought. to-morrow he must go back, a college boy no longer, but to pete patterson's wagon and pete patterson's shop. and while he stood there alone, watching the deepening shadows gather over rock and reef and shoal where he had spent such happy days, there came a sudden burst of glad music over the waters, and around the bending shore of killykinick came a fairy vision: "the polly," fluttering with gay pennants, jewelled in colored light from stem to stern; "the polly," laden with a crowd of merrymakers in most hilarious mood, coming on a farewell feast in charge of three white-capped and white-coated waiters; "the polly," that swept triumphantly to the mended wharf (where the "sary ann" was slowly recuperating from her damages, in a fresh coat of paint and brand-new mainsail), and took undisputed possession of killykinick. "i just had to come and say good-bye," declared miss polly; "and dad said i could make a party of it, if marraine would take us in charge. and so we're to have a real, _real_ last good time." then all sat down on the moonlit sands; and the victrola played its gayest tunes, and the white-capped waiters served good things that quite equalled polly's last party. and when that was nearly over, and the guests were still snapping the french "kisses" and cracking sugar-shelled nuts, dan found miss stella, who had been chatting with her late patient most of the evening, standing at his side. perhaps it was the moonlight, but he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. her eyes were like stars, and there was a soft rose-flush on her cheek, and the smile on her sweet lips seemed to kindle her whole face into radiance. "come sit down on the rocks beside me, danny,--miss winnie's danny. i've got some news for you." "news for me?" danny lifted his eyes; and miss stella saw that, in spite of all the fun and frolic around him, they looked strangely sad and dull. "you're not having a good time to-night, are you?" she asked softly. "yes, i am--or at least i'm trying," said dan, stoutly. "it was surely nice of you all to give us this send off. but--but, you see, i can't help feeling a little bad, because--because--" and he had to stop to clear the lump from his throat. "it seems to sort of end things for me." "o danny, danny, no it doesn't!" and now miss stella's eyes were stars indeed. "it's the beginning of things bright and beautiful for you." and then, in sweet, trembling, joyful tones, she told him all,--told him of captain carleton and the medal; of the pension that was to be his and aunt winnie's; of the kind, strong hand that had been stretched out to help him, that he might keep on without hindrance,--keep on his upward way. "to the stars, danny," concluded the gentle speaker softly. "we must take the highest aim, even if we fail to reach it,--to the stars." "o miss stella,--dear, dear miss stella!" and the sob came surely now, in dan's bewildered joy, his gratitude, his relief. "how good you are,--how good you are! oh, i will try to deserve it all, miss stella! a home for aunt winnie, and st. andrew's,--_st. andrew's_ again!" and dan sprang to his feet, and the college cry went ringing over the moonlit rocks. "it's st. andrew's for dan dolan, now forever!" the rest of that evening seemed a bewildering dream to dan,--more bewildering even than miss polly's party. the story of his medal and his luck went flying around killykinick, with most dazzling additions. before the guests departed, dan was a hero indeed, adopted by a millionaire whose life his father or uncle or somebody had saved from sharks and whales fifty or seventy-five years ago. "oh, i'm so glad!" said polly, as she shook hands for good-bye. "i always did say you were the nicest boy in the world. and now you needn't ever be a newsboy or bootblack again, dan." "i'll see you again before very long," said miss stella, as he helped her on the boat, and she slipped a gold piece in his hand. "here is the price of jack farley's medal. you must take aunt winnie home right away." "oh, i will,--i will, indeed!" said dan joyfully. "she will be back in mulligan's as soon as i can get her there, you bet, miss stella!" "i'm durn sorry to see you go, matey!" said captain jeb next morning, as they pulled out the new sails of the "sary ann" for a start. "but whenever you want a whiff of salt air and a plunge in salt water, why, killykinick is here and your job of second mate open to you." "shake on that!" said dan, gripping his old friend's hand. "if i know myself, i'll be down every summer." "looks as if i owed you something for all that fishing," remarked old neb, pulling out his leather wallet. "not a cent!" said dan, briskly. "i'm a monied man now, neb,--a regular up-and-down plute. keep the cash for some new nets next summer when we go fishing again." and so, with friendly words and wishes from all, even from dud, whom recent events had quite knocked out of his usual grandeur, the whole party bade adieu to killykinick. freddy and his father were to remain a while at beach cliff with father tom, who was taking his holiday there. at brother bart's request, the home journey was to be made as much as possible by rail, so after the "sary ann," still a little stiff and creaky in the joints, had borne them to the steamboat, which in a few hours touched the mainland and made connections with the train, the travellers' route lay along scenes very different from the rugged rocks and sands they had left. as they swept by golden harvest fields and ripening orchards and vineyards whose rich yield was purpling in the autumn sun, good brother bart heaved a sigh of deepest content. "sure you may say what you please about water, danny lad, but god's blessing is on the good green land. if it be the lord's will, i'll never leave it again; though we might have found worse places than killykinick and those good old men there,--may god lead them to the light!" and as the limited express made its schedule time, pete patterson was just closing up as usual at sundown, when a sturdy, brown-cheeked boy burst into his store,--a boy that it took pete's keen eyes full half a minute to recognize. "dan dolan!" he cried at last,--"dan dolan, grown and fattened and slicked up like--like a yearling heifer! danny boy, i'm glad to see you,--i'm glad to see you, sure! you've come to take the job?" "no, i haven't,--thank you all the same, pete!" was the quick answer. "i've struck luck for sure,--luck with a fine old plute, who is ready to stake me for all i could earn here, and keep me at st. andrew's." "stake you for all you could earn here?" echoed pete, in amazement. "i'll tell you all about it later," said dan, breathlessly. "just now i'm dumb struck, pete. i came flying back to take up my old quarters at the mulligans' and find the house shut up and everybody gone. land! it did give me a turn, sure! i was counting on that little room upstairs, and all aunt winnie's things she left there, and tabby and the stove and the blue teapot. but they're all gone." and dan sank down on a big packer's box feeling that he was facing a dissolving world in which he had no place. "oh, they're not far!" said pete, a little gruffly; for dan's tidings had been somewhat of a blow. "the old woman's father died and left a little bit of money, and they bought a tidy little place out on cedar place, not far from st. mary's church. you'll find them there. you've made up your mind for good and all to stick to the highbrows? i'd make it worth your while to come here." dan rose from the packer's box and looked around at the hams and shoulders and lard buckets and answered out of the fulness of his grateful heart: "yes, i've made up my mind, pete. it's st. andrew's for me,--st. andrew's now and, i hope, forever. but--but if you want any help with writing or figuring, i'll come around saturday nights and give you a lift; for i won't be far. i'm sticking to old friends and the old camping ground still." and, with this cheery assurance, dan was off again to find the vanished roof tree that had been all he ever knew of home. he recalled the place. it was only a short walk from the college gate. indeed, the row of cedars that fronted the little whitewashed house had been once the boundary of the college grounds. there was a bit of a garden in front, and a porch with late roses climbing over it, and--and-- dan stood stock-still for a moment,--then he flung open the little gate, and with a regular sioux war-whoop dashed up the gravelled path; for there--there seated in mrs. mulligan's best rocker, with tabby curled up at her feet--was aunt winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea! xxvi.--rainbows. "danny!" cried aunt winnie, clutching her teacup with trembling hand. "god save us, it's danny himself!" "nobody else," said dan, as he caught her in a bearish hug and kissed the withered cheek again and again. it looked paler than when he had left her,--paler and thinner; and there were hollows under the patient eyes. "but what are you doing here, aunt win?" he asked in amazement. "just spending the day, danny. mrs. mulligan sent molly for me this morning. she wanted me to see her new place, and to tell her what was to be done with my bit of things. she is thinking of renting her rooms, and my things are in the way. they are fine rooms, with rosebud paper on the walls, and a porch looking out at the church beyant; and she could be getting seven dollars a month for them. but she's got the table and stove and beds, and all our old furniture that nobody would want; so i've told her to send them off to-morrow to sell for what they will bring. sure" (and the old voice trembled) "we'll never have any call for them again, danny lad,--never again." "oh, we won't?" said danny, with another hug that came near doing for teacup completely. "just take back your orders quick as you can, aunt winnie, i'm renting those rooms right now." "sure, danny,--danny boy, have ye come back with a fever on ye?" "yes," grinned dan,--"regular gold fever, aunt winnie! look at that!" he clapped the twenty dollar gold piece into aunt winnie's trembling hand. "that's for you, aunt winnie,--that's to rent those pink-flowered rooms." "sure it's mad the poor boy is entirely!" cried aunt winnie, as mrs. mulligan and molly came hurrying out on the porch. "do i look it?" asked dan, laughing into their startled faces. "ye don't," said mrs. mulligan. "but spake out plain, and don't be bewildering the poor woman, danny dolan." and then danny spoke out as plain as his breathless eagerness would permit, and told the story of the "pension." "it will be thirty-five dollars a month, captain carleton says; he'd have to throw in the five to poor old nutty for grog and tobacco." "ah, god save us,--god save us!" was all aunt winnie could murmur, tearfully. "and i guess thirty-five dollars will run those rosebud rooms of yours pretty safe and slick; won't they, mrs. mulligan? so put aunt winnie and me down as tenants right off." "i will,--i will!" answered mrs. mulligan, joyfully. "sure my heart was like lead in my breast at the thought of giving up yer bit of things, miss winnie. but now,--now come along, molly girl, and we'll be fixing the rooms, this minute. what's the good of yer going back to the sisters at all?" and mrs. mulligan put a motherly arm around aunt winnie's trembling form. "give her another cup of tea, molly; for she's all done up with joy at having her own home and her own boy again, thank god for that same!" and then, leaving dear aunt winnie to this good friend's tender ministrations, dan kept on his way to st. andrew's, taking a flying leap over the college wall to the sunset walk, where perhaps he would find father mack saying his office. he was not mistaken: his old friend was there, walking slowly under the arching trees. his face kindled into light as he stretched out a trembling hand. "i thought perhaps you would come here, my boy," he said. "i was just thanking god, danny. brother bart has told us the good news. it is all right, as i hoped and prayed,--all right, as i _knew_ it would be, danny. now tell me, yourself, all about this wonderful blessing." and again this father and son sat down upon the broken grave slab, and danny told father mack all. "ah, it is the good god's hand!" the old priest said softly. "but this is only the start, my son. the climb is still before you,--a climb that may lead over steeps sharp and rough as the rocks of killykinick." but the fading light seemed to aureole father mack's silvery head as he spoke. "you will keep on and up,--on and up; for god is calling you, my son,--calling you to heights where he leads his own--heights which as yet you can not see." the speaker laid his hand upon dan's head in benediction that thrilled the boy's heart to its deepest depths,--a benediction that he never forgot; for it was father mack's last. only a few days later the college bell's solemn note, sounding over the merry greetings of the gathering students, told that for the good old priest all the lessons of life were over. and dan, climbing sturdily up the heights at his saintly guide's bidding, has found the way, so far, smoothed and softened beyond his hopes by his summer at killykinick. even his stumbling-stone dud was removed to another college, his father having been ordered to a western post. with jim and freddy as his friends, all the "high-steppers," old and young, of st. andrew's were ready to welcome him into rank and line. and, with aunt winnie as administratrix of captain carleton's pension "there isn't a dacinter-looking boy in the college," as mrs. mulligan stoutly declares. how aunt winnie stretched out that pension only the irish fairies, or perhaps the irish angels, know. the little pink-flowered rooms have blossomed out into a very bower of comfort and cheer. there are frilly curtains at the windows, a rosy-hued lamp, and a stand of growing plants always in bloom. there are always bread and cheese and apple sauce, or something equally "filling," for hungry boys to eat. and when aunt winnie was fairly settled, who should appear but miss stella, who had come to nurse a dear old friend near by,--miss stella, who dropped in most naturally in her off hours to chat with dear old aunt winnie and take a cup of tea! and freddy's daddy, who had plunged into life and law business with zest, often brought his big automobile round to take freddy for a spin after study hours, and called on the way very frequently to take miss stella home. it was on one of those bright afternoons that they all went to look at the new house that was going up on a wooded hillside not very far from the college--the house that was to be freddy's long-wished-for home. it had been a lot of fun watching it grow. now it was nearly done,--the big pillared porch ready for its climbing roses; the pretty rooms waiting their rugs and curtains; the great stone chimney, that was to be the heart and life of things, rising in the center of all. "my! but this in fine!" said freddy, who had not seen this crowning touch before. "let's light it up, daddy,--let's light it up and see how it burns." and, dashing out for an armful of wood left by the builders, freddy soon had a glorious blaze on the new hearthstone,--a blaze that, blending with the sunset streaming through the west windows, made things bright indeed. "this is great!" said freddy. "and when we have the chairs and tables and cushions and curtains--who is going to pick out the cushions and curtains, dad?" "oh, i suppose we can have them sent up from the store!" answered dad, anticipating such matters by pushing up a big packing box to the fire, to serve as a seat for their smiling guest. "oh, can't you do it, daddy?" "george! no! i wouldn't know a curtain from a rug, my boy!" "and you don't know about dishes or cups, or pans to make gingerbread," continued freddy, the glow fading from his face as he realized all these masculine disabilities. "not a thing," was dad's reply. "gee!" said freddy, in a much troubled voice. "we'll be right bad off for a real home, after all, daddy." "perhaps we can find a nice old black mammy who will take care of us all," observed daddy, his eyes twinkling almost as they used to twinkle in the days of little boy blue. "yes, i suppose we can," said freddy, with a wistful little sigh, "i suppose that is what we will _have_ to do, daddy. but i wish--it's going to be such a pretty house every other way,--i wish we could have a pretty lady to sit at the head of the table and pour our tea." "would _i_ do, freddy?" asked miss stella, stealing a soft little hand into his. "you, miss stella,--_you_,--_you_?" gasped freddy. "oh, that would be rip-roaring, sure enough! but you couldn't,--you wouldn't!" "i might," was the low answer; and miss stella arose and drew little boy blue to her loving heart. "i might come if you want me very much, freddy,--so i promised daddy last night." "for there is no real right home without a mother, son," said daddy; and his arm went around to meet miss stella's until freddy was locked in their double clasp. and, looking from one glad face to the other, a thousand rainbows seemed to burst upon his troubled sky, and little boy blue understood. so there was a wedding in the little church at beach cliff when the hydrangeas were in bloom the next summer,--a wedding that drew the forester clan from far and near. even the two grandmothers, after they had inspected the neville family tree through their lorgnettes, declared their satisfaction that stella was going to do the proper thing at last. daddy was the daddy of old times, before the dark clouds of doubt and despair had gathered around him and he had drifted about, the derelict mr. wirt; while miss stella, veiled in soft mists of tulle, looked what she had been, to him, what she would ever be to him--his guiding star. polly, who was the only bridesmaid (for so marraine would have it), carried a basket of flowers as big as herself; father tom said the nuptial mass; and freddy stood at daddy's side, the very happiest of "best men." and dan who was off on his summer vacation at killykinick, came down in the "sary ann," with captain jeb slicked up for the occasion in real "store clothes." and there was a wonderful wedding feast at the forester home, with a cake three stories high, and three tables full of wedding presents; captain carleton's diamond star, that he _would_ send, shining with dazzling light among the rest. and, then, such a house-warming followed as surpassed freddy's wildest dreams with a real fire leaping on the hearth, with the rugs and curtains and cushions just right; for miss stella (or marraine as she chose that freddy should call her,--for, as she said, "your own dear mother is in heaven, my boy"),--miss stella had picked them all out herself. and father tom beamed happily on his reconstructed family; and the fathers and brothers and boys from st. andrew's dropped in without ceremony; for marraine had welcome for all, now that she was a fixed star in her real home and her real place. though dear aunt winnie has dropped at least ten years of her life, and old neb's whale oil has done more for her rheumatism than all the store medicines she ever tried; though more joy and comfort has come into these sunset years than she ever dared hope, she still sits on her little porch in the evening, with a look in her old eyes that tells she is dreaming. "what do you see, aunt win?" asked dan one evening as after a tough pull up the hill of knowledge, he bounded up the mulligan stairs to drop at her feet and lay his head in her lap. "sure it's not for an old woman to spake, danny dear!" she answered again as of old. "it's too great, too high. what was it that holy saint, father mack, said to you, alanna? sometimes i forget the words." "that it would be a hard climb for me against winds and storms," said dan. "and, golly, it will! i am finding that out myself, aunt win." "go on, lad! there was more,--there was more," said the old woman, eagerly. after a moment's pause, dan added, in a voice that had grown low and reverent: "that god was calling me to his own. and, aunt win,--aunt win" (there was a new light in the blue eyes uplifted to her face), "i am finding that out, too." but it is a long way to the starlit heights of aunt winnie's dream,--a long, hard way, as danny knows. we leave him climbing sturdily on over its rocky steeps and sunlit stretches, but finding many a sunlit resting place on the way. brightest of all these to danny is killykinick, where he goes every summer to spend a happy holiday,--to boat, to swim, to fish, to be "matey" again with the two old men, who look for his coming as the joy of the year. "it's hurrah! hurrah, aunt win!" he wrote jubilantly one glad summer day. "your danny is at work before time, doing a little missionary business already. two real true converts, aunt win,--baptized yesterday! it was the 'padre's preaching' that set jeb thinking first, and then he got hold of some of great-uncle joe's books. i sort of took a hand, and altogether we've got the dear old chaps into the fold. peter and andrew,--they chose the names themselves, even good old neb's dull wits seeming to wake at his master's call. brother bart's prayers for his old friends have been answered. the light is shining on killykinick, aunt win,--the light is shining on killykinick!" patty's butterfly days by carolyn wells author of the patty books, the marjorie books, etc illustrations by martin lewis contents chapter i different opinions ii mona's plan iii susan to the rescue iv a perfectly good chaperon v a dinner party vi aunt adelaide vii a garden party viii the house party arrives ix big bill farnsworth x just a short spin xi the worst storm ever! xii a welcome shelter xiii at daisy's dictation xiv pageant plans xv in the arbour xvi the spirit of the sea xvii the apple blossom dance xviii a coquettish cook xix a forced march xx good-bye for now chapter i different opinions "different men are of different opinions; some like apples, some like inions," sang patty, as she swayed herself idly back and forth in the veranda swing; "but, truly-ooly, nan," she went on, "i don't care a snipjack. i'm quite ready and willing to go to the white mountains,--or the blue or pink or even lavender mountains, if you like." "you're willing, patty, only because you're so good-natured and unselfish; but, really, you don't want to go one bit." "now, nan, i'm no poor, pale martyr, with a halo roundy-bout me noble brow. when we came down here to spring beach, it was understood that we were to stay here part of the summer, and then go to the mountains. and now it's the first of august and i've had my innings, so it's only fair you should have your outing." though patty's air was gay and careless, and patty's tones were sincere, she was in reality making an heroic self-sacrifice, and nan knew it. patty loved the seashore; she had been there three months, and loved it better every day. but nan cared more for the mountains, and longed to get away from the sunny glare of the sea, and enjoy the shaded walks and drives of higher altitudes. however, these two were of unselfish nature, and each wanted to please the other. but as patty had had her wish for three months, it was certainly fair that nan should be humoured for the rest of the summer. the season had done wonders for patty, physically. because of her outdoor life, she had grown plumper and browner, her muscles had strengthened, and her rosy cheeks betokened a perfect state of health. she was still slender, and her willowy figure had gained soft curves without losing its dainty gracefulness. and patty was still enthusiastically devoted to her motor-car. indeed, it was the realisation that she must leave that behind that made her so opposed to a trip to the mountains. mr. fairfield and nan had both dilated on the charms and beauties of mountain scenery, on the joys and delights of the gay mountain hotels, but though patty listened amiably, she failed to look upon the matter as they did. at first, she had declared her unwillingness to go, and had tried to devise a way by which she might remain at spring beach, while her parents went to the mountains. but no plan of chaperons or visiting relatives seemed to satisfy mr. fairfield of its availability. "i can't see it, patty," he would say; "there is no chaperon for you that we know of, and i wouldn't leave you here with some stranger obtained by advertisement. nor have we any relatives who could come to look after you. if nan's mother could come, that would do beautifully. but mrs. allen is in europe and none of your aunts could leave her own family. no, girlie, i can't see any way to separate our family." so patty, with her unfailing good nature, had agreed to go to the white mountains with the others. she admitted, herself, that she'd probably have a good time, as she always did everywhere, but still her heart clung to "the pebbles," as they called their seashore home, and she silently rebelled when she thought of "camilla," her swift little electric runabout. patty drove her own car, and she never tired of spinning along the shore roads, or inland through the pine groves and laurel jungles. she had become acquainted with many young people, both cottagers and hotel guests, and the outlook for a pleasant summer and fall at spring beach was all that could be desired from her point of view. but before they left the city in the spring, patty had known that nan preferred mountain localities and had agreed to the seashore house for her sake; so, now, it was patty's turn to give up her preference for nan's. and she was going to do it,--oh, yes,--she was going to do it cheerfully and even gaily. but, though she tried to pretend she didn't care, nan knew she did care, and she had tried hard to think of some way that patty might be left behind. nan would willingly have given up her own desires, and stayed at spring beach all summer, but her husband wouldn't hear of it. mr. fairfield said that justice demanded a fair division of the season, and already three months had been spent at the seashore, so august and september must be spent in the mountains. his word was law, and, too, patty realised the fairness of the plan, and gracefully submitted to fate. so, as the first of august was in the very near future, patty and nan were discussing details of the trip. "it almost seems as if you might take your motor-car, patty," said nan, reflectively. "i thought so, too, at first; but father says not. you see, not all mountain roads are modern and well-kept, and, of course, we'll be moving on, now and then, and camilla is a nuisance as luggage. now, nan, no more suggestions, or regrets, or backward glances. i'm going to the mountains, not like the quarry-slave at night, but like a conquering hero; and i shall have all the mountaineers at my feet, overwhelming me with their devoted attentions." "you probably will, patty; you're easily the most popular girl at spring beach, and if the 'mountaineers' have any taste in such matters--" "there, there, nan, don't make me blush. i'm 'popular,' as you call it, because i have such a delightful home, and such an attractive stepmother to make it pleasant for my callers! and, by the same token, here are a few of them coming now." two laughing girls, and a good-looking young man came in at the gate, and strolled along the drive to the veranda, where patty and nan sat. lora and beatrice sayre were of the "butterfly" type, and their pale-coloured muslin gowns, broad hats, and fluttering scarfs made the description appropriate. jack pennington was just what he looked like, a college youth on his vacation; and his earnest face seemed to betoken a determination to have the most fun possible before he went back to grind at his books. "hello," cried patty, who was not given to dignified forms of salutation. the trio responded gaily, and coming up on the veranda, selected seats on the wicker chairs, or couches, or the porch railing, as suited their fancy. "i say," began young pennington, conversationally, "we can't let you go away, patty. why, week after next we're going to have the pageant, and there are forty-'leven other pleasant doings before that comes off." "yes," chimed in lora sayre, "we can't get along without our pitty-pat. do don't go away, sunshine!" "but suppose i want to go," said patty, bravely trying to treat the subject lightly; "suppose i'm just crazy to go to that stunning big hotel up in the white mountains, and have the time of my life!" "suppose the moon is made of green pumpkins!" scoffed jack. "you don't want to go at all, and you know it! and then, think of the girls,--and boys,--you leave behind you! your departure is a national calamity. we mourn our loss!" "we do so!" agreed beatrice. "why, patty, i'm going to have a house party next week, and we'll have lots of fun going on. can't you wait over for that?" "no, i can't," and patty spoke a little shortly, for these gay plans made her long more than ever to stay at spring beach. "so don't let's talk any more about me. tell me about the pageant,--will it be fine?" "oh, yes," said jack, "the biggest thing ever. sort of like a durbar, you know, with elephants and--" "no, it isn't going to be like that," said lora. "they've given up that plan. it's going to be ever so much nicer than that! they're going to have--" "don't tell me!" cried patty, laughing, as she clapped her hands over her ears. "i'd rather not hear about it! i suppose you'll be queen of it, whatever it is, lora?" "i'll have a chance at it, if you're not here! that's the only comfort about your going away. somebody else can be the belle of spring beach for a time." the good-natured laughter in lora's eyes took all sting from her words, and, indeed, it was an acknowledged fact that pretty patty was the belle of the little seashore colony. "i'm awfully sorry about it," began nan, but patty stopped her at once. "there's nothing to be sorry about, madame nan," she cried, gaily; "these provincial young people don't appreciate the advantages of travel. they'd rather stay here in one place than jog about the country, seeing all sorts of grand scenery and sights! once i'm away from this place i shall forget all about its petty frolics and its foolish parties." "yes, you will!" exclaimed jack, not at all impressed by patty's statements, for he knew how untrue they were. "and the country club summer dance!" said beatrice, regretfully. "patty, how can you be reconciled to missing that? it's the event of the season! a fancy dance, you know. a sort of kirmess. oh, don't go away!" "don't go away!" echoed lora, and jack broke into one of the improvised songs for which he was famous: "don't go away from us, patty, patty, we can't part with the likes of you! stay, and be queen of the pageant, patty, patty, patty, tender and true. though you are not very pretty, patty, though you are liked by a very few; we will put up with you, patty, patty,-- patty, patty, stay with us, do!" the rollicking voice and twinkling eyes, which were jack's chief charms, made patty laugh outright at his song. but, not to be outdone in fun, and also, to keep herself from growing serious, she sang back at him: "i don't want to stay at this place, i don't like it any more! i am going to the mountains, where i've never been before. i shall tramp the mountain pathways, i shall climb the mountain's peak; i don't want to stay in this place, so i'll go away next week!" "all right for you!" declared jack. "go on, and joy go with you! but don't you send me any picture postcards of yourself lost in a perilous mountain fastness,--'cause i won't come and rescue you. so there!" "what is a mountain fastness?" demanded patty. "it sounds frisky." "it isn't," replied jack; "it's a deep gorge, with ice-covered walls and no way out; and as the darkness falls, dreadful growls are heard on all sides, and wild animals prowl--and prowl--and prow-ow-owl!" jack's voice grew deep and terrible, as he suggested the awful situation, but patty laughed gaily as she said: "well, as long as they keep on prowling, they certainly can't harm me. it all sounds rather interesting. at any rate, the ice-covered walls sound cool. you must admit spring beach is a hot place." "all places are hot in hot weather," observed beatrice, sapiently; "when there's an ocean breeze, it's lovely and cool here." "yes," agreed lora, "when there is. but there 'most generally isn't. to-day, i'm sure the thermometer must be about two hundred." "that's your heated imagination," said jack. "it's really about eighty-four in the shade." "let's move around into the shade, then," said patty. "this side of the veranda is getting sunny." so the young people went round the corner of the house to a cooler spot, and nan expressed her intention of going down to the train to meet mr. fairfield. "you people," began patty, after nan had left them, "mustn't talk as you do about my going away, before my stepmother. you see, we're going because she wants to go, but it isn't polite to rub it in!" "i know it," said beatrice, "but i forgot it. but, i say, patty, i think it's too bad for you to be trailed off there just to please her." "not at all, bee. she has stayed here three months to please me, and turn about is fair play." "it's fairfield play, at any rate," put in jack. "you're a trump, patty, to take it so sweetly. i wish you didn't have to go, though." "so say we all of us," declared lora, but patty ordered them, rather earnestly, to drop the subject and not refer to it again. "you must write me all about the pageant, girls," she went on. "can't i write too, though i'm not a girl?" asked jack. "no!" cried patty, holding up her hands in pretended horror. "i couldn't receive a letter from a young man!" "oh, try it," said jack, laughing. "i'll help you. you've no idea how easy it is! have you never had a letter from a man?" "from papa," said patty, putting the tip of her finger in her mouth, and speaking babyishly. "papa, nothing! you get letters from those new york chaps, don't you, now?" "who new york chaps?" asked patty, opening her eyes wide, with an over-innocent stare. "oh, that harper kid and that farrington cub and that hepworth old gentleman!" "what pretty pet names you call them! yes, i get letters from them, but they're my lifelong friends." "that's the position i'm applying for. don't you need one more l. l. f.?" but patty had turned to the girls, and they were counting up what few parties were to take place before patty went away. "i'd have a farewell party myself," said patty, thoughtfully, "but there's so little time now, and nan's pretty busy. i hate to bother her with it. you see, we leave next week,--thursday." "and our house party comes that very day!" said beatrice, regretfully. "and captain sayre is coming. he's the most stunning man! he's our second cousin, and older than we are, but he's just grand, isn't he, lora?" "yes; and he'd adore patty. oh, girlie, don't go!" "i think i'll kidnap patty," said jack. "the day they start, i'll waylay the party as they board the train, and carry patty off by force." "you'd have to get out a force of militia," laughed patty. "my father fairfield is of a sharp-eyed disposition. you couldn't carry off his daughter under his nose." "strategy!" whispered jack, in a deep, mysterious voice. "i could manage it, somehow, i'm sure." "well, it wouldn't do any good. he'd just come back after me, and we'd take the next train. but, oh, girls, i do wish i could stay here! i never had such a disappointment before. i've grown to love this place; and all you people; and my dear camilla!" patty's blue eyes filled with real tears, as she dropped her light and bantering manner, and spoke earnestly. "it's a shame!" declared jack, as he noted the drops trembling on the long, curled lashes. "come on, girls, i'm going home before i express myself too strongly." so jack and the sayre girls went away, and patty went up to her own room. chapter ii mona's plan that night, when patty was alone in her own room, she threw herself into a rocking chair, and rocked violently, as was her habit, when she had anything to bother her. she looked about at the pretty room, furnished with all her dear and cherished belongings. "to go away from all this," she thought, "and be mewed up in a little bare room, with a few sticks of horrid old furniture, and nowhere to put things away decently!" she glanced at her room wardrobes and numerous chiffoniers and dressing-tables. "live in a trunk, i s'pose," she went on to herself; "all my best frocks in a mess of wrinkles, all my best hats smashed to windmills! no broad ocean to look at! nothing but mountains with trees all over their sides! nothing to do but walk up rocky, steep paths to a spring, take a drink of water, and come stumbling down again! in the evenings, dress up, and promenade eighty thousand feet of veranda, as advertised!" roused to a frenzy by her own self-pity and indignation, patty got up and stalked about the room. she flung off her pretty summer frock, and slipped on a blue silk kimono. then she sat down in front of her dressing-table to brush her hair for the night. she drew out the pins, and great curly masses came tumbling down around her shoulders. patty's hair was truly golden, and did not turn darker as she grew older. she brushed away slowly, and looked at herself in the mirror. what she saw must have surprised her, for she dropped her brush in astonishment. "well, patricia fairfield!" she exclaimed to her own reflection. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself! you, who are supposed to be of amiable disposition, you whom people call 'sunshine,' because of your good nature, you who have every joy and every blessing that heart can wish, you look like a sour-faced, cross-grained, disgruntled old maid! so there now! and, miss, do you want to know what _i_ think of you?" she picked up her hair brush, and shook it at the flushed, angry face in the mirror. "well, _i_ think you're a monster of selfishness! you're a dragon of ingratitude! and a griffin of cross-patchedness! now, miss, will you drop this attitude of injured innocence, and act like a civilised human being?" patty was a little over hard on herself. she hadn't at all exhibited such traits as she charged herself with, but she was not a girl to do things by halves. she sat, calmly looking at her own face, until the lines smoothed themselves out of her forehead, the dimples came back to her cheeks, and the laughter to her blue eyes. "that's better!" she said, wagging her head at the pretty, smiling face. "now, never again, patty fairfield, let me see you looking mopy or peevish about anything! mind, not about anything at all! you have enough blessings and pleasures to make up for any disappointments that may come to you. so, now that you've braced up, just stay braced up! see?" the scolding, though self-inflicted, did patty good, and humming a lively tune, she busied herself with arranging some fans and frills in boxes to take away with her. if stray thoughts of the pageant or the fancy dance crept into her mind, she determinedly thrust them out, and forced her anticipations to the unknown fun and gaiety she would enjoy at the big mountain houses. and when at last, ready for bed, she stood in front of her long cheval glass, the folds of her blue dressing gown trailing away from her pretty, lace-frilled nightgown, she shook her forefinger warningly at the smiling reflection. "now, mind you, patricia, not a whimper out of you to-morrow! not a shadow of a shade of disappointment on your fair young brow? only happy smiles and pleasant words, and just make yourself enjoy the prospect of those poky, gloomy, horrid old mountains!" it will be easily seen that patty was amenable to discipline, for next morning she went dancing downstairs, looking like amiability personified. even nan came to the conclusion that patty was reconciled to the mountain trip, and had begun to see the pleasanter side of it. mr. fairfield regarded his daughter approvingly. though patty had not been cross or glum the day before, she had been silent, and now she treated her hearers to a flood of gay and merry chatter. only a fleeting shadow across her face, or a sudden, pained look in her eyes when spring beach matters were mentioned, revealed to her watchful father the fact that patty's gaiety was the result of brave and honest will-power. but such shadows passed as quickly as they came, and the girl's pleasant and sweet demeanour was not unappreciated by her elders. she joined heartily in the plans for the mountain trip; discussed itineraries with her father, and costumes with nan. as the three sat on the veranda, thus engaged, a flying figure came through the gate like a whirlwind, and mona galbraith precipitated herself into the family group. "why, mona, you look a little,--er,--hasty!" exclaimed patty as, out of breath, their visitor plumped herself into a swing and twirled its tasselled ropes, while she regained her breath. "yes,--yes,--and well i may!" she panted. "what do you think, patty? oh, mr. fairfield, do say yes! coax him to, won't you, mrs. fairfield! oh, i can't tell you,--i daren't! i just know you won't do it! oh, patty, do,--do!" impetuous mona had swayed out of the swing in her eagerness, and was now kneeling by patty's side, stroking her hand, and gazing into her face with imploring eyes. "mona galbraith," said patty, laughing, "are you rehearsing for melodrama, or what? for, if so, you don't know your lines, and you're 'way off on your gestures, and--and, as a whole, your act is not convincing." "oh, don't say that, patty!" exclaimed mona, laughing herself. "anything but that! it must be convincing,--it must,--it must!" "is it meant for a roaring farce?" asked mr. fairfield, politely, "or merely high comedy?" "i think it's a problem play," said nan, laughing anew at the excited visitor, who had returned to the swing, and was vigorously pushing herself back and forth with her slippered toe. "let me help you, mona," said mr. fairfield, kindly. "is it something you have to tell us,--or ask us?" "yes, sir, yes! that's it!" "well, tell us, then. but take your time and tell us quietly. then you won't get incoherent." the quiet friendliness of his tones seemed to reassure the girl, and letting the swing stand still, mona began: "you see, mr. fairfield,--and mrs. fairfield, my father is going to europe next week. it's on a business trip, and he only just found out that he had to go. he will take me with him if i want to go, but i don't! so i proposed a plan to him instead of that, which he thinks is fine. and,--and, i want to know what you think about it." "we will probably approve of it, if your father does," said nan, helpfully. "well--it's just this. for me to stay at home, and keep our house open, and have patty stay there with me, instead of her going to the mountains with you." "you and patty stay there alone!" exclaimed mr. fairfield. "no, sir; not alone. father would ask his sister, my aunt adelaide, to stay with us, as chaperon. she's a lovely lady, and she'd be glad to come." "well, i don't know,--i don't know," said mr. fairfield. "i'm not sure i could go off and leave patty with strangers." "but i'm not a stranger," said mona, "and aunt adelaide won't be, as soon as you know her. i haven't seen her myself for some years, but she's a lovely, sweet character,--everybody says so. and then, you see, we wouldn't have to close up our house, and patty wouldn't have to leave spring beach,--and, oh, we could have lovely times!" "how long will your father be gone?" "two months. august and september. he would rather take me with him, but he said if you all agreed to my plan, he would do so, too." "well, it's a surprise," said mr. fairfield, "and we'll have to think it over, and talk it over. how does it strike you, patty?" patty considered. it was her habit to decide quickly, but this was a case with several sides to be looked at. yet, of course, it must be decided at once, for mr. galbraith must have time to make his preparations. patty's heart jumped with joy at the thought of staying at spring beach instead of going to the mountains. but--the joy was a little dampened at the idea of staying with mona, and not at "the pebbles." "why can't we both stay here?" she said at last. "let mona visit me here, and let her aunt chaperon us just the same." "oh, no," mona said. "i know father wouldn't consent to that. you see, it's a great undertaking to close up our big place, and find homes for the servants, and look after the horses and gardens and all that, just for two months. father was relieved at the thought of just walking off and leaving it all in charge of aunt adelaide. and then, we could have so much more room there, you know--" mona paused, blushing. she did not want to imply that "red chimneys" was a grandly appointed mansion, while "the pebbles" was only a pretty cottage, but that was what she meant. "yes, i know," said nan, kindly helping her out. "you have such immense grounds, and luxuries of all sorts. why, your place is a pleasure park of itself, with the pond and tennis court, and fountains and grottoes and all such things." "yes, it is a lovely summer place," said mona, earnestly, "and i should do everything i could to make patty happy there. i know how much she wants to stay at spring beach, and it seemed such a satisfactory plan all round." patty was still thinking. but, by this time, she was wondering if she were really a selfish, disagreeable snob or not. for, the truth was, patty did not entirely like mona, though she had grown to like her much better than at first. nor did she like mona's home, with its ostentatiously expensive appointments, both indoors and out. and yet, it was exceedingly comfortable and luxurious, and patty knew she could do exactly as she chose in every respect. but, again, patty was a favourite in spring beach society, and mona was not. this might cause complications in the matter of invitations to entertainments. but patty knew this would mostly redound to mona's benefit. she would be asked on patty's account to places where otherwise she would not have been invited. and patty well knew she would be left out of nothing just because she was visiting mona. and yet, to accept her hospitality for two months meant to acknowledge her as an intimate friend,--a chosen companion. was it quite honest to do this when, privately, patty disapproved of many of mona's ways and tastes? then, it occurred to patty that mr. hepworth had urged her to do what she could to help mona,--to improve her manners, her dress, her tastes. patty jumped at this idea, and then as suddenly paused to scrutinise her own motives, and make sure she was not pretending to herself that she did for mona's sake what she was really doing for her own. but being quick at decisions, she saw at once that it was about evenly divided. she was willing, if she could, to help mona in any way, and she felt that this justified her in accepting the offered hospitality of one whom she couldn't emulate. mr. fairfield watched patty's face closely, and knew pretty well what sort of a mental controversy she was holding with herself. he was not surprised when she said at last: "well, so far as i have a voice in this matter, i'd like to go. i think it's very kind of mona to ask me, and i'd try not to be a troublesome visitor. you know, father fairfield, how much i would rather stay in spring beach than go to the mountains. and i suppose i could take my motor-car to mona's with me." "yes, of course," mona said. "and father says if i don't go to europe, he'll buy me a runabout just like yours, and we can have lovely times going out together." "would your aunt come at once?" asked nan, who wanted to know more about the chaperon who would have patty in charge. "yes, father will send for her as soon as we decide. but you know, mrs. fairfield, i should keep house, as i always do, and aunt adelaide would only be with us in the cause of propriety." nan smiled at the thought of mona's housekeeping, for "red chimneys" was so liberally provided with servants that mona's duties consisted mainly in mentioning her favourite dishes to the cook. "are you sure you could behave yourself, patty?" asked her father, teasingly, "without either nan or myself to keep you in order?" "oh, yes," said patty, drawing down the corners of her mouth demurely. "in fact, as i should be on my own responsibility, i'd have to be even more careful of my manners than i am at home." mr. fairfield sighed a little. "well, puss," he said, "i really wanted you with us on our trip, but as you'd rather stay here, and as this way seems providentially opened for you, i can only say you may accept mona's invitation if you choose." "then i do choose, you dear old daddy!" cried patty, making a rush for her father, and, seating herself on the arm of his chair, she patted his head, while she told him how glad she was of his consent. "for," she said, "i made up my mind not to coax. if you didn't agree readily, i was going to abide by your wishes, without a murmur." "oh, what a goody-girl!" said mr. fairfield, laughing. "now, you see, virtue is its own reward." "and i'm so glad!" mona declared, fervently. "oh, patty, we'll have perfectly elegant times! i was so afraid you wouldn't want to come to stay with me." "oh, yes, i do," said patty, "but i warn you i'm a self-willed young person, and if i insist on having my own way, what are you going to do?" "let you have it," said mona, promptly. "your way is always better than mine." "but suppose you two quarrel," said mr. fairfield, "what can you do then? patty will have nowhere to go." "oh, we won't quarrel," said mona, confidently. "patty's too sweet-tempered,--" "and you're too amiable," supplemented nan, who was fond of mona in some ways, though not in others. but she, too, thought that patty would have a good influence over the motherless girl, and she was honestly glad that patty could stay at her beloved seashore for the rest of the summer. so it was settled, and mona went flying home to carry the glad news to her father, and to begin at once to arrange patty's rooms. chapter iii susan to the rescue the day that mr. and mrs. fairfield were to start on their trip to the mountains came during what is known as "a hot spell." it was one of those days when life seems almost unbearable,--when the slightest exertion seems impossible. there was no breeze from the ocean, and the faint, languid land breeze that now and then gave an uncertain puff, was about as refreshing as a heat-wave from an opened furnace door. at the breakfast table, patty tried to persuade them not to go that day. "you'll faint in the train, nan, on a day like this," she said. "do wait until to-morrow." "there's no prospect of its being any better to-morrow," said mr. fairfield, looking anxious; "and i think the sooner nan gets away, the better. she needs cool, bracing mountain air. the seashore doesn't agree with her as it does with you, patty." "i know it," said patty, who loved hot weather. "well, perhaps you'd better go, then; but it will be just boiling on the train." "no more so than here," said nan, smiling. she wore a light pongee silk travelling gown, which was the coolest garb she could think of. "but what's bothering me is that mrs. parsons hasn't arrived yet." "oh, she'll come to-day," said patty. "mona says she telegraphed yesterday that it was too hot to travel, but she'd surely come to-day." mrs. parsons was the aunt who was to chaperon the two girls at "red chimneys," and nan wanted to see the lady before she gave patty into her charge. "but it's going to be just as warm to-day," went on nan. "suppose she can't travel to-day, either?" "oh, she'll have to," said patty, lightly. "if you can travel, i guess she can. now, nan, don't bother about her. you've enough to do to think of yourself and try to keep cool. i'm glad louise is going with you. she's a good nurse, and you must let her take care of you." louise was the lady's maid who looked after the welfare of both nan and patty. but as patty was going to a house where servants were more than plentiful, it had been arranged that louise should accompany nan. "don't talk as if i were an invalid, patty. i'm sensitive to the heat, i admit, and this weather is excessive. but i'm not ill, and once i get a whiff of mountain air i'll be all right." "i know it, nancy; and so fly away and get it. and don't waste a thought on poor, worthless me, for i shall be as happy as a clam. i just love broiling, sizzling weather, and i'm sure my experiences at mona's will be novel--if nothing else,--and novelty is always interesting." "i hope you will have a good time, patty, but it all seems so queer. to go off and leave you with that girl, and an aunt whom we have never even seen!" "well, i'll see her this afternoon, and if she won't give me a photograph of herself for you, i'll draw you a pen portrait of the dragon lady." "i hope she will be a dragon, for you need some one to keep you steady. you mean to do right, but you're so thoughtless and impulsive of late. i'm afraid it's growing on you, patty." "and i'm afraid you're a dear old goose! the heat has gone to your head. now, forget me and my vagaries, and devote all your time and attention to the consideration of mrs. frederick fairfield." "ready, nan?" called her husband from the doorway, and then there was a flurry of leave-takings, and final advices, and last words, and good-bye embraces; and then the motor-car rolled down the drive carrying the travellers away, and patty dropped into a veranda chair to realise that she was her own mistress. not that her father or nan were over strict with her; they merely exercised the kind and gentle supervision that every young girl ought to have. but sometimes, of late, patty had chafed a little at their restrictions, and though she had no desire to do anything they would disapprove of, she enjoyed the novel sense of entire freedom of action. however, to be responsible to nobody at all seemed to make patty feel an added responsibility of her own behaviour, so she went into the house, determined to do all she ought to do as mistress there. though her time for such duties was short. the fairfields had been obliged to leave on an early morning train, and patty was not to go to mona's until late in the afternoon. she had, therefore, several hours, and she went systematically to work, looking through each room to make sure all was in order for closing the house. she put away some books and some bits of choice bric-a-brac, and then went out to interview the cook. "yes, miss patty," said that worthy, in answer to her enquiries, "i've enough av food for yer luncheon, an' thin i'll dispose av the schraps, and lave the refrigerators clane an' empty." "that's right, susan," said patty, in most housekeeperly tones; "and will you go away in time for me to lock up the house after you?" "yes, miss; mrs. fairfield said we was all to go at five o'clock. thin miller will lock up, and give yersilf the keys." patty knew these matters had all been arranged by her parents, but it pleased her to assume an authority. "very well, susan," she said. "and where are you all going?" "jane, she's going to take another place, miss; but i'm going to me sister's for a time. it's a rest i'm nadin'." patty looked kindly at the cook. she had never really talked with her before, as nan a capable and sufficient housewife, and patty was a little surprised to see what a fine-looking woman susan was. she was irish, but of the best type. a large, well-built figure, and a sensible, intelligent face. her abundant hair was slightly grey, and her still rosy cheeks and dark blue eyes indicated her nationality. though she spoke with a soft burr, her brogue was not very noticeable, and patty felt irresistibly drawn to her. "if you want anything, susan," she said, "or if i can help you in any way, come to me at once. i shall be at 'red chimneys' for two months, you know." "thank you, miss patty. i'm thinkin' i'll be fair comfortable at my sister's. but if you do be goin' by in yer autymobile, wave yer hand, just. it'd please us all. you know the house,--down on the scudder road." "yes, i know, susan. i often pass there, and i'll wave my hand at you every time." patty went back to her own room, and continued her preparations for her visit to mona. although "red chimneys" was but two blocks away, the packing to be done was the same as if for a more distant destination. many of patty's things had already been sent over, and now she was looking up some favourite books and music to take with her. though, of course, she would have the keys of her own home, and could return for anything she might want. patty expected to go over to mona's at five o'clock, but at about four mona herself came flying over to "the pebbles." she waved a yellow telegram, and before patty heard what was in it, she divined that mrs. parsons had again postponed her arrival. and this was the truth. "doctor fears sunstroke. advises me to wait until to-morrow," the message read, and patty and mona looked at each other in blank dismay. "father doesn't know this," said mona. "you see, he left this morning for new york. his steamer sails this afternoon. of course, he was sure aunt adelaide would come to-day. what shall we do, patty?" "well, of course it's too bad. but i'm not afraid to stay alone one night without your aunt. you've so many servants, i'm sure there's no danger of fire or burglars." "oh, it isn't that, patty! i'm not afraid of such things. but, you see, we've no chaperon,--just us two girls there alone,--it isn't proper." "well," patty laughed, "we can't help it. and if we have no callers, and go to bed early, no one will be the wiser, and surely, your aunt will come to-morrow." "oh, i hope she will! i'll telegraph her she must! but,--patty,--you see--well, i shall have to tell you!" "tell me what?" "why, just this: i have invited a little party to welcome you this evening. not many,--just about a dozen of the boys and girls. and how can we receive them without aunt adelaide there?" "for mercy's sake, mona! why didn't you tell me this before?" "i wanted it to be a surprise,--to welcome you to 'red chimneys.'" "yes, i know. well, what can we do? we must do something! shall i telephone to mrs. sayre to come and chaperon us?" "she can't come. she has a house party coming to-day. the sayre girls are coming to us to-night, but mrs. sayre has some older guests, and she couldn't come." "well, let's ask mrs. dennison. no, she's away, i know. how about mrs. lockwood?" "she's ill; lena told me so this morning. oh, patty, shall i have to send them all word not to come?" "looks that way to me. and i'm sorry to do that, too. how many are asked, mona?" "about twelve, counting you and me. i thought it would be such a nice welcome for you." "and so it would! you're a dear to think of it. i suppose your things are all ordered?" "yes; a caterer will bring the supper. i don't know what it will be,--cook looked after it." "cook! cook! mona--i have an idea! no, i haven't, either! it's too crazy! oh, do you suppose we could? let's!" "patty, are you crazy? what are you talking about? and it's almost five o'clock. i suppose i must telephone them not to come! well, i'll go home and do it, and you come on over as soon as you're ready. we'll spend the evening alone in my boudoir, and we'll amuse ourselves somehow." "wait a minute, mona. let me think. yes, i do believe i'll do it! mona, suppose i provide a chaperon. will it be all right to have the party then?" "why, yes, if it's a proper kind of a lady,--of course it will." patty's eyes twinkled. "i don't know whether you'll think her a proper lady or not," she said, "but i do." she rang a nearby bell, and when jane answered, she asked her to send susan, the cook, in. susan came, and stood respectfully awaiting patty's orders. "susan," patty began, "you're married, aren't you?" "yes, miss patty; me name is hastings. me husband is dead this four years, rist his sowl." "well, susan, i want you to do something for me, and you may think it's very queer, but you'll do it, won't you?" "nothin's quare, miss patty, if you bid me do it. what is it, ma'am?" mona began to look a little scared, but patty seemed now quite sure of her own mind, and she began, in a kind but firm voice: "susan, miss mona and i expected to have a party at her house to-night, but her aunt, who was to chaperon us, hasn't arrived. so i want you, susan, to let me fix you up, and dress you in a proper gown, and then i want you to act as a lady who is visiting at 'red chimneys.' can you do this?" it was funny to see the varying expressions on susan's face. wonder, amusement, and docility followed each other in quick succession, and then she said: "is it a masqueradin', belike, you want, miss patty?" "yes; just that, susan. could you do it?" "av coorse i cud do it, if you be wantin' me to; but wud i look good enough, miss?" "you'd look all right, after i dressed you; but, susan, could you talk with less,--less accent?" "me brogue, is it, miss? faith, an' i fear i can't be after conquerin' that! it's born in me." "patty," said mona, "i think your scheme is crazy,--perfectly crazy! but--if you really mean it, i'll tell you that i have an irish aunt,--at least, sort of scotch-irish,--and if we pass susan off for her, the--the accent won't matter." "just the thing!" cried patty, gleefully. "i see my way clear now! it is a crazy plan, mona, i admit that,--but do you know of any better?" "no; but, patty, think a minute. of course, the truth will leak out, and what will people say?" "no, it won't leak out,--and, if it did, what harm? susan is a nice, respectable woman, and as a member of my family is capable of chaperoning me in her own personality. but i choose this other game because it's more fun. i shall dress her up in,--in,--susan, you couldn't wear a gown of mrs. fairfield's, could you?" "the saints presarve us, miss patty, it wuddent go halfway round me!" "no; so it wouldn't. well, i'll find something. oh, there's a gown in the attic that mrs. allen left here--she's nan's mother, mona,--that will be just right. it's grey satin and silver lace. oh, susan, you'll look great!" mona still seemed a trifle unconvinced. "patty," she said, "you know i usually think what you do is all right,--but this,--well, this seems so very crazy." "mona, my child," said patty, serenely, "i warned you that our ways might clash, and you said i might do exactly as i chose while at 'red chimneys.'" "so i did, patty,--and so i do. i'll go home now, and leave the rest of this performance to you. come over soon, won't you?" "yes," said patty, "i'll be there for dinner. good-bye, mona." after mona had gone, patty turned to susan. "you know, susan, this is to be a dead secret. don't ever tell anybody. and you must obey my orders implicitly. i'll pay you something extra for your trouble." "sure, it's no trouble at all, miss patty. i'd do anything for ye, whativer. but you must be afther tellin' me just what to do." "of course i will. and, first of all, susan, you must go home,--i mean, to your sister's,--get your dinner there, and then come to 'red chimneys' about half-past seven and ask for me. they'll bring you right up to my room, and i'll dress you up as i think best. then we'll take you down to the drawing-room, and all you'll have to do, susan, is to sit there all the evening in a big easy chair. can you knit, susan?" "yes, miss patty." "well, bring a piece of knitting work, not an old grey thing,--a piece of nice, fleecy white wool work. have you any?" "i've not, miss, but i'll get some white yarn from my sister, and start a shawl or a tippet." "yes; do that. then you just sit there, you know, and knit and glance around the room now and then, and smile benignly. can you smile benignly, susan?" susan tried, and after one or two lessons from patty, was pronounced proficient in that art. "then, susan, if there's music, you must listen, and wag your head in appreciation, so! when we dance, you must look on with interest and again smile benignly. not many of the young people will talk to you, except to be introduced at first, but if they do, answer them pleasantly, and use your brogue as little as possible. do you understand, susan?" and as susan possessed the quick wit and ready adaptability of her race, she did see; and as she adored her young mistress above any one on earth, she was only too willing to please her; and, too, the occasion had its charms for a good-hearted, hard-working irishwoman. she declared her willingness to obey patty's orders, promised to keep it all a profound secret, and then went away to her sister's house until the appointed time. chapter iv a perfectly good chaperon it was nearly six o'clock when patty reached "red chimneys." she carried a bandbox, and miller, who followed her, carried a large suitcase, and various other parcels. mona met them at the door, and, directing that the luggage be sent to patty's rooms, she carried her visitor off to her own boudoir. "patty," she began, "i can't let you carry out that ridiculous scheme! i'm going to telephone to the young people not to come." "haven't telephoned yet, have you?" enquired patty, carelessly, as she flung herself into an easy-chair, and made vigorous use of a large fan. "no; i waited to tell you. but i'm going to begin now," and mona lifted a telephone receiver from its hook. "oh, i wouldn't," said patty, smiling at her hostess. "you see, i've set my heart on having this party, and i'd hate to have you upset it." "but, patty, consider how--" "consider,--cow--consider! well, my fair lady, i have considered, and i must request you to hang up that telephone, and trust all to me." when patty adopted this tone, playful but decided, mona knew she could do nothing with her. so she hung up the receiver, but she still showed a troubled expression as she looked questioningly at pretty patty. but that provoking young person only smiled at her, and slowly waved her big fan. "awfully warm, even yet, isn't it?" she said. "what time is dinner, mona? i've a lot to do before that party of yours comes off." "i ordered dinner early, so we'd have time to dress afterward. come, patty, i'll show you your rooms." the two girls rose, and standing in front of mona, patty began to smooth the lines from the other's brow, with her own finger tips. "there there," she said; "don't worry. trust all to smarty-patty! she'll do the trick. and just turn up the corners of your mouth a little, so!" patty poked her forefingers into mona's cheeks till she made her smile, and then mona gave up. "all right, patty," she said. "i said you should have your own way, and so you shall! get miller to chaperon us, if you want to,--i won't say a word! now, come on with me." she led patty across the hall to the suite of rooms prepared for her. like everything else at "red chimneys," it was on a far grander scale than patty's own home. there was a boudoir, bedroom, dressing-room, and bath, all fitted up in the prettiest, daintiest manner. the ivory-tinted walls showed panels of rose-coloured brocade, ornate with gilded decorations in empire style. the marquetry furniture and bisque ornaments carried out the scheme, and though elaborate, the rooms were most attractive and comfortable. patty herself preferred simpler furnishings, but she knew that mona didn't, and she exclaimed with delight at the beauty of appointments. "it's out best suite," said mona, complacently, "and i've had it fixed up freshly for you." "it's charming," declared patty, "and i know i shall be very happy here,--if i can have my own way!" she smiled as she spoke, but she was in earnest, too, for mona was dictatorial by nature, and patty by no means proposed to be tyrannised over. "you shall, patty! all the time you are here, your word shall be law in this house, both over the servants and myself." "oh, i can manage the servants," cried patty, gaily. "i'm rather good at that. now, if i can only manage you!" "you can! i'll prove so manageable and docile, you'll scarcely know me!" so, having flown her colours, patty wagged her head sagaciously as mona went away. "i think, miss fairfield," she observed to her reflection in a gold-garlanded mirror, "that you're in for a pleasant summer. firmness tempered with kindness must be your plan; and i'm pretty sure you can, in that way, manage mona without friction." humming snatches of song to herself, patty continued to explore her new domain. the rose-coloured boudoir opened into a dainty bedroom done in white and gold. everywhere white silk or lace curtains were looped back with frenchy pink satin rosebuds, and the gilded furniture, with its embroidered satin cushions, made the room look fit for a princess. patty laughed with glee, for she loved dainty prettiness and this was a novel change from her own simpler belongings. from the bedroom she went on to the dressing-room and bathroom; the former replete with all known appurtenances to milady's toilette, and the latter a bewildering vista of marble, silver, and glass. dinner was a gay little feast. although patty had dined once or twice before at "red chimneys," it had been with her parents at formal dinners, and they had been examples of the unrestrained elegance which mr. galbraith deemed the correct way of displaying his wealth. the fairfields had assumed that the overelaborateness was due to the festive occasion, but patty now perceived that the same formality of service was observed with only the two girls at the table. and the menu was long and varied enough to have served a dinner party. of course, it all appealed to patty's sense of humour, but as it was mona's habit to dine under the supervision of three or four serving-men, patty was quite willing to accept the situation placidly. the servants, however, were no bar to their gay chatter. except that they did not refer to the expected temporary chaperon, they discussed all the details of the evening's party. many of the courses of the dinner they dismissed without tasting, and so, by half-past seven, patty was back in her own rooms, and mrs. hastings appeared promptly at the hour. a maid named janet had been appointed to look after patty personally, but she was dismissed, with instructions to return at eight, and then patty began her transformation scene. it was not accomplished without some few difficulties, and much giggling, but by eight o'clock, patty and mona surveyed a most acceptable looking chaperon, due to their own handiwork. susan, or mrs. hastings, as they called her, looked the picture of a kindly, dignified matron. her grey hair was done in a simple, becoming fashion, and ornamented with a spray of silver tinsel leaves. the grey satin gown of mrs. allen's, which patty had appropriated without compunction, fitted fairly well, and a fichu of old lace, prettily draped, concealed any deficiencies. though possessing no elegance of manner, susan had quiet ways, and being observant by nature, she remembered the demeanour of ladies she had worked for, and carried herself so well that patty and mona were satisfied as to her ability to carry out their purpose. patty provided mrs. hastings with a black feather fan, and gave her a quick lesson in the art of using it. the piece of white knitting work proved satisfactory on inspection, and after a few final injunctions, patty pronounced the "chaperon" complete. then she called for janet, and hastily proceeded to make her own toilette. she chose a white silk muslin, dotted with tiny pink rosebuds, and further ornamented with fluttering ends of pale pink ribbon. the frock was cut a little low at the throat, and had short sleeves, and very cool and sweet patty looked in it. her gold curls were piled high on her head, and kept there by a twist of pink ribbon. she wore no jewelry, and the simple attire was very becoming to the soft, babyish curves of her neck and dimpled arms. mona appeared in rose-coloured chiffon, richly embroidered. the gown, though beautiful of itself, was not appropriate for such a warm night; but mona had not patty's sense of harmony, and had added a heavy necklace and bracelets of wrought roman gold. "you'll melt in all that toggery!" said patty, bluntly, and mona sighed as she saw patty's diaphanous frock. then, led by mrs. hastings, they went down to the drawing-room. they put susan through a few lessons in introductions, practised calling her "aunt rachel," and bolstered up her failing courage by telling her how well she looked. the first guest to arrive was jack pennington. being a graceful mannered boy he acknowledged his introduction to mrs. hastings with just the correct blending of deference and cordiality. "isn't it warm?" he said, and as this required no answer save, "it is, indeed," susan acquitted herself creditably, and even refrained from saying "indade." then the others came, and being a merry crowd of young people, they merely paused for a word or two with the elderly stranger, before turning away to their own interests. and, if by chance, one or two showed a tendency to linger and converse with her, patty and mona were at hand to take up the burden of the conversation. after all had arrived, patty conducted susan to a pleasant seat near an open window, provided her with her knitting and a book, and gave her a whispered permission to doze a little if she wished to. so far as the girls could see, not one of the guests had suspected that mrs. hastings was other than an aunt of mona's, nor had they given her a second thought. to their minds a chaperon was a necessary piece of furniture, but of only a momentary interest. she must be greeted, and later, she must be bidden farewell, but no conversation with her between times was necessary. the party was a pretty one. usually, the spring beach people didn't care much to go to "red chimneys," for mona was not a favourite. but patty was, and, invited to meet her, every one accepted. and the large rooms, cooled by electric fans, and decorated with lovely flowers and softly shaded lights, looked somehow more attractive, now that patty fairfield's graceful figure was flitting through them. after one of the dances, patty drifted across the room and stood near susan. that worthy was dutifully looking over her book, and occasionally glancing thoughtfully round the room. "keep it up, susan!" whispered patty. "you're a howling success! everything's all right." "come for a stroll on the veranda, patty," said jack pennington, coming up to her. "mayn't i take her, mrs. hastings, if i'll be very careful of her?" "shure an' ye may, sir," said susan, heartily, caught off her guard by this sudden request. jack pennington stared at her, and susan's eyes fell and her face turned red in deepest dismay lest she had disgraced her beloved miss patty. in a despairing effort to remedy her indiscretion she assumed a haughty tone and said, "you have my permission. go with the young gentleman, miss patty." and with an air of having accomplished her duty successfully, susan picked up her knitting. patty's twitching lips and flushed cheeks made quick-witted jack pennington suspect a joke somewhere, but he gravely offered his arm, and as they reached the broad veranda and walked toward a moonlighted corner of it, he said, "interesting lady, that new aunt of mona's, isn't she?" "very," said patty, trying not to laugh. "i always like that foreign accent," went on jack; "is it,--er--french?" "well, no," opined patty. "i don't think mrs. hastings is french." "ah, german, then, perhaps. i've heard that particular accent before, but i can't just place it." "i think it's sort of,--of scotch, don't you?" "faith, an' i don't, thin! i'm afther thinkin' she's a daughter av ould ireland, arrah." jack's imitation of susan's brogue was so funny that patty laughed outright. "perhaps the lady is irish," she said; "but she looks charming, and so well-dressed." "that's so. she is much better dressed than when i saw her last." "saw her last! what do you mean?" "well, of course i may be mistaken, but do you know, she looks like a--like a lady i saw once in the kitchen garden at 'the pebbles.'" "and pray what were you doing in that kitchen garden?" "well, i was helping miller look after your motor one day, and i strolled around the house, back to the front veranda that way. and,"--jack's voice sank to an impressive whisper,--"there in the midst of the cabbages and eggplants,--there stood mrs. hastings,--i'm sure it was she,--in a calico gown and checked apron!" "oh, jack!" and patty burst into laughter. "she is our cook! don't give it away, will you?" "never! never! but what a joke! does no one know it?" "no one at all but mona and myself. you see--" and then patty told the whole story. "well, that's the best ever!" declared jack as she finished. "patty, you do beat all! no one else will guess, i'm sure,--and i'll never tell. but it's most too good a joke to keep, now, isn't it?" "but it's going to be kept! why, if some people knew of it, they'd drum me out of spring beach. and anyway, jack, i wouldn't have done it, if susan hadn't been such a dear respectable person herself." "i'm sure she is, and to show i believe it, i'll take her out to supper." "gracious, goodness, jack! i never thought of supper! will she have to eat with us?" "of course she will! and, as i say, i'll take her out, so there'll be no danger of further discovery." patty giggled again. the idea of susan being escorted out to the dining-room of "red chimneys"! and by jack pennington, the most aristocratic young man in their set! "all right," she said. "but i must sit the other side of you. i want to keep my eye on her." and so it came to pass that when supper was announced, jack went up gallantly and offered his arm to the chaperon. this seemed quite natural and proper to the other guests, and they paid little attention as mrs. hastings rose with dignity, and, with her escort, led the procession. susan was resolved to make up for her blunder, and she carried herself with an air of hauteur, and trailed the grey satin gown after her quite as if she were used to such. "it is a beautiful home, is it not, mrs. hastings?" said jack, by way of making conversation. "it is, sir," returned susan, careful of speech and accent, but unable to forget her deference. "such airy rooms and fine, high ceilings." jack couldn't help admiring her aplomb, and he chatted away easily in an endeavour to put her at her ease. "will you sit here, mrs. hastings?" he said, offering her the seat at the head of the table, as became the chaperon of the party. susan hesitated, but catching mona's nod of acquiescence, she sank gracefully into the armchair jack held for her. chapter v a dinner party as patty expressed it afterward, she felt as limp as a jelly-fish with the grippe when she saw susan at the head of mona's table! mrs. hastings herself seemed in no way appalled at the sparkling array of glass and silver, of lights and flowers, but she was secretly alarmed lest her ignorance of etiquette should lead her into blunders that might shame miss patty. but jack pennington proved himself a trump. without attracting attention, he touched or indicated which spoon or fork mrs. hastings should use. or he gave her valuable advice regarding the viands. "i say," he whispered, "you'd better duck the artichoke hollandaise. you mightn't manage it just right. or--well--take it, but don't attempt to eat it. you'd sure get into trouble." irish susan had both quick wit and a warm heart, and she appreciated gratefully the young man's good-natured assistance, and adroitly followed his instructions. but jack was a daring rogue, and the temptation to have a little fun was too strong to resist. "are you fond of motoring, mrs. hastings?" he asked, innocently, while patty, on his other side, felt her heart beat madly and her cheeks grow red. but susan wasn't caught napping this time. "oh, i like it," she said, "but i'm not fair crazy about it, like some." she smiled benignly at patty, and the few guests who overheard the remarks thought nothing of it. but naughty jack went on. "oh, then you know of miss fairfield's fad. i didn't know you knew her so well. i thought you had just arrived here. have you been to spring beach before?" susan looked at jack with twinkling eyes. she well knew he was saying these things to tease patty, and she looked kindly at the embarrassed girl as she replied: "oh, my niece, mona, has told me so much about her friend, miss fairfield, that i feel as if i had known her a long time." patty gasped. surely susan could take care of herself, after that astounding speech! jack chuckled silently, and as the game promised rare sport, he kept on. "are you fond of bridge, mrs. hastings?" susan looked at him. so far all had gone well, but she didn't know how long she could match his banter. so she favoured him with a deliberate gaze, and said, "bridge, is it? i'm fond of the game, but i play only with expayrienced players,--so don't ask me." "ho! ho! jack, that's a good one on you!" said guy martin, who sat within hearing. "you're right, mrs. hastings; he's no sort of a player, but i'm an expert. may i hope for a game with you some time?" "we'll see about it, young sir," said susan, with cold dignity, and then turned her attention to her plate. in response to a desperate appeal from patty, jack stopped teasing, and made general conversation, which interested the young people, to the exclusion of susan. then, supper over, he escorted the chaperon from the table, talking to her in low tones. "i hope i didn't bother you," he said. "you see, i know all about it, and i think it's fine of you to help the girls out in this way." "you helped me far more than you bothered me, sir," susan replied with a grateful glance. "will it soon be over now, sir?" "well, they'll have a few more dances, and probably they'll sing a little. they'll go home before midnight. but, i say, mrs. hastings, i won't let 'em trouble you. you sit in this cosy corner, and if you'll take my advice, you'll nod a bit now and then,--but don't go really to sleep. then they'll let you alone." susan followed this good counsel, and holding her knitting carelessly in her lap, she sat quietly, now and then nodding, and opening her eyes with a slight start. the poor woman was really most uncomfortable, but patty had ordered this performance and she would have done her best had the task been twice as hard. "you were a villain to tease poor susan so at the table," said patty to jack, as they sauntered on the veranda between dances. "she came through with flying colours," he replied, laughing at the recollection. "yes, but it was mean of you to fluster the poor thing." "don't you know why i did it?" "to tease me, i suppose," and patty drew down the corners of her mouth and looked like a much injured damsel. "yes; but, incidentally, to see that pinky colour spread all over your cheeks. it makes you look like a wild rose." "does it?" said patty, lightly. "and what do i look like at other times? a tame rose?" "no; a primrose. very prim, sometimes." "i have to be very prim when i'm with you," and patty glanced saucily from beneath her long lashes; "you're so inclined to--" "to what?" "to friskiness. i never know what you're going to do next." "isn't it nicer to be surprised?" "well,--that depends. it is if they're nice surprises." "oh, mine always are! i'm going to surprise you a lot of times this summer. are you to be here, at mona's, all the rest of the season?" "i shall be here two months, anyway." "that's time enough for a heap of surprises. just you wait! but,--i say,--i suppose--oh, pshaw, i know this sounds horrid, but i've got to say it. i suppose everything you're invited to, mona must be also?" patty's eyes blazed at what she considered a very rude implication. "not necessarily," she said, coldly. "you are quite at liberty to invite whom you choose. of course, i shall accept no invitations that do not include mona." "quite right, my child, quite right! just what i was thinking myself." patty knew he was only trying to make up for his rudeness, and she looked at him severely. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said. "i am! oh, i am! deeply, darkly, desperately ashamed. but i've succeeded in making your cheeks turn that peculiar shade of brick-red again!" "they aren't brick-red!" "no? well, a sort of crushed strawberry shading to magenta, then!" patty laughed, in spite of herself, and jack smiled back at her. "am i forguv?" he asked, in a wheedling voice. "on condition that you'll be particularly nice to mona all summer. and it's not much to your credit that i have to ask such a thing of you!" "you're right, patty," and jack looked honestly penitent. "i'm a good-for-nothing brute! a boor without any manners at all! not a manner to my name! but if you'll smile upon me, and let me,--er--surprise you once in a while, i'll,--oh, i'll just tie myself to mona's apron strings!" "mona doesn't wear aprons!" "no, i know it," returned jack, coolly, and they both laughed. but patty knew she had already gained one friend for mona, for heretofore, jack pennington had ignored the girl's existence. "what are you doing to-morrow, patty?" asked dorothy dennison, as she and guy martin came up to the corner where patty and jack were sitting. it was a pleasant nook, a sort of balcony built out from the main veranda, and draped with a few clustering vines. the veranda was lighted with japanese lanterns, whose gayer glow was looked down upon by the silvery full moon. "we're going to the sayres' garden party,--mona and i," said patty. "oh, good gracious!" rejoined dorothy. "i suppose mona will have to be asked everywhere, now you're staying with her!" "not to your parties, dorothy, for i'm sure neither of us would care to come!" it was rarely that patty spoke crossly to any one, and still more rarely that she flung out such a bitter speech as that; but she was getting tired of combating the prevalent attitude of the young people toward mona, and though she had determined to overcome it, she began to think it meant real warfare. dorothy looked perfectly amazed. she had never heard gentle, merry patty speak like that before. guy martin looked uncomfortable, and jack pennington shook with laughter. "them cheeks is now a deep solferino colour," he observed, and patty's flushed face had to break into smiles. "forgive me, dorothy," she said; "i didn't mean what i said, and neither did you. let's forget it." glad of this easy escape from a difficult situation, dorothy broke into a merry stream of chatter about other things, and the quartette were soon laughing gaily. "you managed that beautifully, patty," said jack, as a little later, they returned to the house for the last dance. "you showed fine tact." "what! in speaking so rudely to dorothy?" "well, in getting out of it so adroitly afterward. and she had her lesson. she won't slight mona, i fancy. look here, patty. you're a brick, to stand up for that girl the way you do, and i want to tell you that i'll help you all i can." "oh, jack, that's awfully good of you. not but what i think you ought to be kind and polite to her, but of course you haven't the same reason that i have. i'm her guest, and so i can't stand for any slight or unkindness to her." "no, of course not. and there are lots of ways that i can--" "that you can surprise mona," interrupted patty, laughing. jack smiled appreciation, and to prove it went straight to mona and asked for the favour of the final dance. mona was greatly elated, for handsome jack pennington had never asked her to dance before. she was not a good dancer, for she was heavy, physically, and self-conscious, mentally; but jack was skilful, and guided her lightly across the shining floors. "i'll see you to-morrow at the sayres'," he said, as the dance ended. "yes," said mona, smiling. "we're going to the garden fete. the sayres have a house party, you know. i've always longed to have a house party." "this would be a fine place for one," said jack, glancing at the large and numerous rooms. "yes, it would. do you suppose i could have one?" "easy as pie!" declared jack. "why don't you?" "perhaps i will, after aunt adelaide comes. this,--this chaperon to-night is only temporary, you know." "yes, i know," said jack, but he said no more. the discovery of susan was his secret with patty, not with mona. then the young people prepared to depart, and patty and mona stood either side of mrs. hastings to assist her, if necessary, in receiving their good-nights. jack stood near, too, for he thought he might be of some slight help. "good-night, mrs. hastings," said beatrice sayre. "the girls are coming to my garden party to-morrow, and as my mother also expects guests, i'm sure she'd be glad if you would come." susan, much bewildered at being thus addressed, looked about her helplessly, and murmured uncertainly, "thank you, miss," when jack interrupted by saying, "such a pity, bee, but mrs. hastings goes away to-morrow. another aunt of mona's is coming to play chaperon at 'red chimneys.'" "oh," said beatrice, carelessly; "then this is good-bye as well as good-night, mrs. hastings. i've so enjoyed meeting you." these conventional phrases meant nothing on beatrice's part, but it almost convulsed patty to hear susan thus addressed. however, she knew she must play the game a few moments longer, and she did so, watching the thoughtless young guests as they shook hands with the masquerading cook! jack pennington was the last to go. "i say," he whispered to patty, "it's been a great success! i don't see how you ever had the nerve to try it, but it worked all right!" then he went away, and patty and mona sank limply into chairs and shook with laughter. susan instantly returned to her role of servant, and stood before patty, as if waiting for further orders. "you were fine, susan, just fine," patty said, still giggling as she looked at the satin clad figure. "i did me best, miss patty. i made some shlips, sure, but i thried that hard, ye wuddent belave!" in her earnestness, susan lapsed into her broadest brogue, and the girls laughed afresh to see the silver headdress wag above susan's nodding head. "you were all right, susan," declared mona. "now you can trot off home as fast as you like, or you can stay here over night, as you prefer." but susan wanted to go, as her duty was done, so, changing back to her own costume, she went away, gladdened by mona's generous douceur. "and now for bed," said patty, and the two girls started upstairs. but after getting into a kimono, mona came tapping at patty's door. she found that young person in a white negligee, luxuriously curled up among the cushions of a wide window seat, gazing idly out at the black ocean. "patty, you're a wonder!" her hostess remarked, with conviction. "can you always do everything you undertake? but i know you can. i never saw any one like you!" "no," said patty, complacently. "they don't catch 'em like me very often. but, i say, mona, wasn't susan just a peach? though if jack pennington hadn't helped, i don't know how she would have behaved at the supper table." "isn't he a nice young man, patty?" "lovely. the flower of chivalry, and the glass of form, or whatever it is. but he's a waggish youth." "well, he's kind. patty, i'm going to have a house party, and he's going to help me!" "you don't say! my dear mona, you are blossoming out! but you haven't asked my permission yet." "oh, i know you'll agree to anything jack pennington favours." "sure, i will! but he seems to favour you, and i don't always agree with you!" "well, anyway, patty, it will be perfectly lovely,--and we'll have a gorgeous time!" "where do i come in? providing cooks for chaperons?" "nonsense! aunt adelaide will come to-morrow, and she'll do the chaperon act. now, i'll tell you about the house party." "not to-night, lady gay. it's time for you to go beddy, and i, too, need my beauty sleep." "you need nothing of the sort,--you're too beautiful as it is!" "oh, mona,--monissima! don't say those things to me! i'm but a weak-minded simpleton, and i might think you meant them, and grow conceited! hie thee away, fair maiden, and hie pretty swiftly, too. and call me not to breakfast foods until that the sun is well toward the zenith." "you needn't get up till you choose, patty. you know you are mistress here." "no, you're that. i'm merely the adviser-in-chief. and what i say goes!" "indeed it does! good-night, patty." "good-night, mona. scoot!" chapter vi aunt adelaide the next morning patty was making one of her "peregrinating toilettes." she could dress as quickly as any one, if occasion required; but, if not, she loved to walk slowly about as she dressed, pausing now and then to look out of a window or into a book. so she dawdled through her pretty rooms, brushing her curly golden mop, and singing softly to herself. "come in," she said, in answer to a tap at her door, and mona burst in, in a wild state of excitement. "aunt adelaide has arrived!" she exclaimed. "well, that isn't a national calamity, is it?" returned patty. "why this look of dismay?" "wait till you see her! she's a national calamity!" "well, then, we must get susan back again! but what's wrong with your noble aunt?" "oh, patty, she's so queer! i haven't seen her for some years, but she's not a bit as i remembered her." "oh, don't take it too seriously. perhaps we can make her over to suit ourselves. did you expect her so early?" "no; but she said she came early to avoid the midday heat. it's almost eleven. do finish dressing, patty, and come down to see her." "hasten me not, my child. aunt adelaide will keep, and i'm not in rapid mood this morning." "oh, bother; come on down as you are, then. that negligee thing is all right." "no; aunt adelaide might think me a careless young person. i shall get into a tidy frock, and appear before her properly." "well, go on and do it, then. i'll wait for you." mona sat down to wait, and patty dropped into a chair before her dressing-table, and soon twisted up her curls into presentable shape. "i declare, patty," mona said, "the quicker you twist up that yellow mop of yours, the more it looks like a coiffure in a fashion paper." "and, as a rule, they look like the dickens. but describe the visitor to me, mona." "no; i'll let you get an unbiased first impression. here's janet, now do get dressed." except on occasions of haste, or elaborate toilette, patty preferred to dress herself, but she submitted to janet's ministrations, and in a few minutes was hooked into a fresh morning dress of blue and white mull. "on, stanley, on!" she cried, catching mona's hand, and dancing out into the hall. "where is the calamity?" "hush, she'll hear you! her rooms are just over here. she told me to bring you." as patty afterward confided to mona, she felt, when introduced to mrs. parsons, as if she were making the acquaintance of a ghost. the little lady was so thin, so pale, and so generally ethereal looking, that it seemed as if a strong puff of wind would blow her away. her face was very white, her large eyes a pale blue, and her hair that ashen tint which comes when light hair turns grey. the hand she languidly held out to patty was transparent, and so thin and limp that it felt like a glove full of small bones. her voice was quite in keeping with her general air of fragility. it was high, thin and piping, and she spoke as if every word were a tax on her strength. "how do you do, my dear?" she said, with a wan little smile at patty. "how pretty you are! i used to be pretty, too; at least, so they told me." she gave a trilling little laugh, and patty said, heartily, "i'm sure they were right; i approve their opinion." this pleased mrs. parsons mightily, and she leaned back among her chair cushions with a satisfied air. patty felt a distinct liking for the little lady, but she wondered how she expected to perform a chaperon's duties for two vigorous, healthy young girls, much inclined to gaieties. "i am not ill," mrs. parsons said, almost, it seemed, in answer to patty's unspoken thought. "i am not very strong, and i can't stand hot weather. but i am really well,--though of a delicate constitution." "perhaps the sea air will make you stronger after a time," suggested patty. "oh, i hope so; i hope so. but i fear not. however, i am trying a new treatment, combined with certain medicines, which i am sure will help my failing health. they tell me i am always trying new remedies. but, you see, the advertisements recommend them so highly that i feel sure they will cure me. and, then, they usually make me worse." the little lady said this so pathetically that patty felt sorry for her. "but you have a doctor's advice, don't you?" she asked. "no; i've no faith in doctors. one never knows what they put in their old prescriptions. now when i buy one of these advertised medicines, they send me a lot of little books or circulars telling me all about it. this last treatment of mine sends more reading matter, i think, than any of the others, and their pamphlets are so encouraging." "but, aunt adelaide," broke in mona, "if you're somewhat of an invalid, how did you come to promise father that you'd look after us girls this summer?" "i'm not an invalid, my dear. i'm sure a few more weeks, or perhaps less, of this cure i am trying now will make me a strong, hearty woman." patty looked at the weak little creature, and concluded that if any medicine could make her strong and hearty, it must indeed be a cure-all. "may i call you aunt adelaide, too?" she said, gently, for she wanted to be on the pleasantest possible terms with mrs. parsons, and hoped to be able to help her in some way. "yes, yes, my dear. i seem to take to you at once. i look upon you and mona both as my nieces and my loved charges. i had a little daughter once, but she died in infancy. had she lived, i think she would have looked like you. you are very pretty, my dear." "you mustn't tell me so, aunt adelaide," said patty, smiling at her. "it isn't good chaperonage to make your girls vain." "mona is pretty, too," went on mrs. parsons, unheeding patty's words. "but of a different type. she hasn't your air of refinement,--of class." "oh, don't discuss us before each other," laughed mona, good-naturedly. "and i'm jealous and envious enough of patty already, without having those traits fostered." "yes," went on aunt adelaide, reminiscently, "my little girl had blue eyes and golden hair,--they said she looked like me. she was very pretty. her father was a plain-looking man. good as gold, henry was, but plain looking. not to say homely,--but just plain." a faraway look came in the speaker's eyes, and she rambled on and on about her lost husband and daughter, until patty looked at mona questioningly. "yes, yes, aunt adelaide," mona said, speaking briskly; "but now, don't you want to change your travelling gown for something lighter? and then will you lie down for a while, or come with us down to the west veranda? it is always cool there in the morning." "no, i don't want to lie down. i'll join you girls very shortly. i suppose you have a maid for me, mona? i shall need one for my exclusive service." "oh, yes, auntie; you may have lisette." "not if she's french. i can't abide a french maid." "well, she is,--partly. then i'll give you mary. she's a good american." "americans have no taste. is there a norwegian girl on the place? i had a norwegian maid once, and she--" "no, there isn't," said mona, deeming it wise to cut short another string of reminiscences. "you try mary, and if you don't like her, we'll see what we can do." "well--send her to me--and we'll see." mona rang for mary, and then the two girls went down to the pleasant and cool veranda. "it's lucky you have such shoals of servants," said patty. "at our house, we couldn't give a guest a choice of nationalities." "oh, patty, isn't she a terror?" "who, mary?" "no! aunt adelaide! it gives me the creeps to look at her. she's so slight and fragile, i expect to see her go to pieces like a soap bubble." "she is like a soap bubble, isn't she! but, mona, you mustn't talk about her like that. i feel sorry for her, she looks so ill and weak. i think we ought to do all we can to cheer her up, and to restore her health and strength. i'm sure she's refined and dainty in her way." "yes, she's all of that. but i don't see how she can do the chaperon act." "oh, well, there isn't much to do. it's only the idea of having a matronly lady here to observe the proprieties." "but i don't believe she can do that. i think she'll take to her bed soon. she ought to go to a good sanitarium." "nonsense, mona, she isn't as ill as all that! can't you see through her? she's the sort of lady who likes to fancy she's ill, and likes to try all sorts of quack medicines." "well, you can look after her, patty; you seem to understand her so well." "all right, i will. hush, here she comes." mrs. parsons came slowly out to the veranda. she was followed by mary, carrying a fan, a light wrap, a book, a thermometer, and a glass of lemonade. "sit here, won't you, aunt adelaide?" said mona, politely offering a comfortable wicker chair. "i'll try this, my dear, but i fear it's too low for me. can you get another cushion or two?" mona went for more cushions, and then aunt adelaide had to have the chair moved, for fear of a possible draught,--though there wasn't a breath of wind stirring. then a table must be moved nearer for the book and the lemonade, and the thermometer placed where it would get neither sun nor wind. "i always keep a thermometer near me," she explained, "and i always bring my own, for otherwise i can't feel sure they are accurate." mrs. parsons wore a dress of light grey lawn. though cool looking, it was unbecoming, for it had no touch of black or white to relieve its monotony, and on the colourless lady it had a very dull effect. but, though languid, aunt adelaide was quite able to give orders for what she wanted. she sent mary for another book, and for more sugar for her lemonade. then she fidgeted because a stray sunbeam came too near her. "mary," she said, petulantly. "oh, i sent mary away, didn't i? how long she's gone! mona, can't you find a screen somewhere to shade that sun a little?" "there are screens to roll down from the veranda roof, aunt adelaide; but it is so shady here, and they cut off the breeze so. however, if you want them down---" "i certainly do," said the lady, and as mary returned then, she lowered the rattan blinds. but they were no sooner down than aunt adelaide wanted them up again, and when at last she became settled in comfort, she asked mona to read aloud to her. "please excuse me," said mona, who was thoroughly annoyed at the fussing and fidgeting ways of her aunt, "i am a very poor reader." "i can read fairly well," said patty, good-naturedly. "let me try." she picked up mrs. parson's book, secretly amused to find that its title was "the higher health," and she began to read as well as she could, and patty really read very well. "don't go so fast," commanded her hearer; "valuable information like this must be read slowly, with intervals for thought." but when patty provided pauses for thought, aunt adelaide said, petulantly, "go on, do; what are you waiting for?" at last, patty purposely let her voice grow monotonous and low, and then, as she had hoped, aunt adelaide dropped into a doze. seeing that she was really asleep, patty beckoned to mona, and the two girls slipped away, leaving mary in charge. "oh, patty!" cried mona, as soon as they were out of hearing. "isn't it awful! how can we stand having such a horrid old fusser around?" "whoopee! mona! moderate your language! mrs. parsons isn't so very old, and she isn't horrid. if she's a fusser, that's just her way, and we must politely submit to it." "submit, nothing! if you think, patty fairfield, that i'm going to be taken care of by that worry-cat, you're greatly mistaken!" "stop, mona! i won't let you call her such names; it isn't nice!" "she isn't nice, either!" "she's your aunt, and your guest; and you must treat her with proper respect. she isn't an old lady; i don't believe she's fifty. and she is ill, and that makes her querulous." "well, do you want to wait on her, and read to her, and put up with her fussiness all summer?" "it doesn't matter whether we want to or not. we have to do it. your father sent for her, and she's here. you can't send her away." "i suppose that's so. but, oh, patty, how i do dislike her! she's changed so. when i saw her some years ago, she was sweet and gentle, but not so fidgety and self-centred." "you were so young then, mona. you probably thought little about her character. and, too, her ill health has come, and that has undoubtedly ruffled her disposition." "well, she'll ruffle mine, if she stays here long." "of course she'll stay here, and we must make the best of it. perhaps we can train her to be a little less exacting. and then, too, you can arrange to have the servants wait on her. you needn't do it yourself, always." "patty, you're a great comfort. if anybody can train that woman, you can. so please try, for as you say, she'll have to stay, i suppose, until father comes home. just think, she's father's own sister! but she isn't a bit like him. dad isn't fussy at all." "no, your father is of a lovely disposition. and so kind and indulgent to you, mona." "yes; dad is a darling. but we don't seem to get into the best society, as he expected, when he built this big house. i wonder why." "don't bother about that now," said patty, who was going to talk to mona some time on that very subject, but was not ready yet. "now, as to aunt adelaide, for i may as well call her that since she wishes it. i think, mona, the only way to manage her is to be always kind and sweet to her, but not to let her impose upon us. i can see she is rather exacting, and if we always give in to her whims, she will always expect it. so let's start out, as we mean to continue. i'll read to her occasionally, but i can't always be at her beck and call. perhaps janet can do it." "yes, janet is a good reader. but, of course, aunt adelaide would find fault with her reading, as she did with yours." "yes, i expect that's her nature. but she'll be easy enough to get along with, if we all play fair. we'll have to give and take. and don't judge her by this morning. she was tired and worn, and, as yet, unused to her new surroundings. she'll feel more at home to-morrow." "she can't act more at home! well, i'll give her a trial, patty, but i warn you, if she doesn't get placider, i'll suit myself with another chaperon, that's what i'll do!" the girls did not see their visitor again until luncheon time, and then it was the same situation repeated. but few of the viands served at table were acceptable to aunt adelaide. she provided the butler with certain "health foods" of her own, and gave him elaborate instructions for preparing them, and then found much fault with the results of his labours. patty had to laugh when mrs. parsons tasted, critically, a dish the butler anxiously offered. "you've cooked it too much!" she exclaimed; "or, no,--you've not cooked it enough! i can scarcely tell which it is,--but it isn't right!" "i'm sorry, ma'am," said the surprised james. "shall i cook another portion?" "no," said mrs. parsons, resignedly. "i'll make out with this, though it is very distasteful." as she had really eaten a hearty luncheon, mona said only, "i am sorry, aunt adelaide; but perhaps you will enjoy the ice cream." at which she brightened perceptibly, saying: "yes, ice cream is my favourite dessert, and i hope, mona, you will have it often." after luncheon the visitor departed for her own rooms, saying, "i hope, my dears, you will excuse me now. i always take a nap at this hour, and as it is so warm i will not reappear until about dinner time." "very well, aunt adelaide," said mona, greatly pleased at the plan. "ring for mary when you want her. patty and i are going out this afternoon, so we'll all meet at dinner time." "yes, my dear. and will you please order iced tea sent to me at four o'clock, and have the house kept as quiet as possible during my nap hour?" chapter vii a garden party during the afternoon, an ocean breeze had the politeness to arrive on the scene, and it was pleasantly cool when the girls started for the garden party. "let's walk," said patty, when mona proposed the motor-car. "it's not far, and its lovely and cool now." so the two girls strolled along the boardwalk, and then turned inland toward the sayres' place. patty wore a white, lacy, frilly frock, with touches of pale yellow ribbon here and there. her hat was of the broad-leafed, flapping variety, circled with a wreath of yellow flowers. patty could wear any colour, and the dainty, cool-looking costume was very becoming. mona looked very well in light green chiffon, but she hadn't patty's liking for simplicity of detail, and her heavy satin sash and profusion of jingling ornaments detracted from the airiness of her light gown. her hat was of triangular shape, with a green cockade, and perched jauntily on her befrizzed hair, gave her a somewhat stunning effect. "you'd look a lot better, mona," said patty, straightforwardly, "if you didn't curl your hair so tightly." "that's all very well for you to say," returned mona, a little pettishly, "for your hair is naturally curly, and you don't have to use hot tongs." "some day i'll show you how to wave it more loosely; it'll be prettier than those kinky frizzes." "well, these won't last long. the curl comes out of my hair as soon as it's in. and it leaves straight wisps sticking out all over." "that's just it. to-morrow i'll show you a wiser and a better plan of curling it." "i wish you would, patty. there are lots of things i want you to advise me about, if you will." this showed an unusually docile spirit in mona, and patty began to think that she might help the girl in many ways during their stay together. they turned in at the sayres' beautiful home, and found the grounds gaily decked for the garden party. bunting and banners of various nations were streaming here and there. huge japanese umbrellas shaded rustic settees, and gay little tents dotted the lawn. the girls went to the veranda, where mrs. sayre and her two daughters were receiving their guests. there they were introduced to several out-of-town visitors who were staying with the sayres. captain sayre, in a most impressive looking white uniform, asked patty to walk round the grounds with him. "for," said he, as they strolled away, "there's nothing to do at a garden party but walk round the grounds, is there?" "indeed there is!" cried patty. "there's lots to do. there's tennis and croquet and quoits and other games i see already." "too hot for such things," declared the captain. "then, these tents all about, have interesting inhabitants. there's a fortune teller in one, i know." "fortune tellers are never interesting. they just make up a lot of stuff with no sense to it." "but lots of things with no sense to them are interesting," laughed patty. "i begin to think, captain sayre, that you're blase. i never met any one before who was really blase. do tell me how it feels." "nonsense, child, you're poking fun at me. i'm not blase at all." captain sayre was not more than five or six years older than patty, but he had the air of a man of the world, while patty's greatest charm was her simple, unsophisticated manner. "i wish you were," she said, a little regretfully; "all the boys i know are nice, enthusiastic young people, like myself, and i'd like some one to be different, just for a change." "well, i can't. i assure you, i'm both nice and enthusiastic, if not so awfully young." patty smiled up at him. "prove it," she said, gaily. "all right, i'll prove it by poking an inquisitive nose into every tent on the place. come on." they went the rounds of the gay little festival, and so vivacious and entertaining did the captain prove, that patty confessed frankly that she had misjudged him. "you're not blase," she declared. "i never saw any one less so. if you fight with as much energy as you enjoy yourself you must be a fine soldier indeed!" "oh, i am!" returned the captain, laughing. "i'm one of uncle sam's noblest heroes! he hasn't realised it yet, because i've not had a real good chance to prove it, but i shall, some day." "perhaps you could show other people, without waiting for uncle sam's turn." a slight earnestness in patty's tone made captain sayre look at her quickly. "i'll show you now," he said. "give me chance for a brave, heroic deed, and watch me hit it off!" "i will!" said patty, with twinkling eyes. "but it's secret service. i mean sealed orders. i'll lead you to it, but you may 'hit it off' without realising it." "lead on, fair lady! from now, you are my superior officer." but patty turned the subject then, and the pair went gaily on, stopping often to chat with groups of young people, or to admire some decorations. at last, patty adroitly managed that they should pause near mona, who stood talking with lora sayre and jack pennington. patty's quick eyes saw that mona was ill at ease, and that the others were including her in their conversation merely through a perfunctory politeness. patty, with her captain in tow, went up to the trio, and all joined in merry chatter. then soon, with a gay, challenging glance at him, patty said: "now captain sayre, you have the opportunity you wanted, to ask miss galbraith to go with you to the fortune teller's tent." for a brief instant the young man looked dumfounded, but immediately recovering himself, he turned to mona and said, gracefully: "miss fairfield has told you of the secret hope i cherish; will you grant it, miss galbraith?" mona, flattered, and a little flustered at this attention, consented, and the two walked away together. jack pennington gave patty an understanding glance, but lora sayre said, "how funny for edgar to do that!" then realising the impolite implication, she added, "he's so infatuated with you, patty. i'm surprised to see him leave you." "soldier men are very fickle," said patty, assuming a mock woe-begone expression; "but your cousin is a most interesting man, lora." "yes, indeed; edgar is splendid. he has lived in the philippines and other queer places, and he tells such funny stories. he is most entertaining. but i see mother beckoning to me; i must go and see what she wants." lora ran away, and jack pennington remained with patty. "you're a brick!" he exclaimed; "to dispose of that marvellous military model, just so you could play with me!" "that wasn't my only motive," said patty, gazing after the captain and mona--as they stood at the door of the fortune teller's tent. "he is such a charming man, i wanted to share him with my friend." "h'm--you say that to tease me, i suppose. but i remember, before he arrived on the scene, you thought me such a charming man that you wanted to share me with your friend." "oh, yes," agreed patty, lightly, "and you promised that you'd be shared. so don't forget it!" "as if i'd ever forget anything you say to me! by the way, mona says she's going to have a house party. what do you s'pose it'll be like?" "i s'pose it'll be lovely. she hasn't talked to me about it yet, for we really haven't had time. the new chaperon came to-day." "is she a veritable dragon? won't she let you girls do anything?" patty laughed. "i don't think dragon exactly describes her. and she hasn't denied us anything as yet. but then, she only came this morning." "i shall call soon, and make friends with her. i'm always liked by chaperons." "yes, mrs. hastings, for example," said patty, laughing at the recollection of the night before. "oh, all chaperons look alike to me," said jack. "now, let's go over and hear the band play." across the garden, a fine orchestra was making music, and patty hummed in tune, as they strolled over the lawns. as they neared a group of young people who were eagerly chatting, guy martin called out, "come on, you two, you're just the ones we want." "what for?" queried jack. "to help plan the pageant. you'll be in it, won't you, patty? it's for charity, you know." "i can't promise until i know more about it. what would i have to do?" "oh, you have to be part of a float. stand on a high, wabbly pedestal, you know, and wave your arms about like a classic marble figure." "but i never saw a classic marble figure wave her arms about," objected patty; "indeed, the most classic ones don't have arms to wave. look at the milo venus." "i can't look at her, she isn't here. but i look at you, and i see you're just the one for 'the spirit of the sea.' isn't she, lora?" but lora sayre had set her heart on that part for herself, so she said, in a half-absent way, "yes, i think so." "you think so!" put in jack pennington. "i know so! patty would make a perfect 'spirit of the sea.' i vote for her!" "i'm not a candidate," said patty, who had divined lora's wish. "i won't agree to take any special part until i know more about the whole thing." "well, you'll soon know all about it," went on guy. "we're going to have a meeting soon to arrange for the parts, and plan everything." "have that meeting at our house, won't you?" asked patty, suddenly. "i mean at 'red chimneys.' won't you all meet there?" "why, yes," said guy. "we'll be very glad to. i tell you, there's lots to be done." patty had made her suggestion because she knew that if the committee met at "red chimneys," they couldn't help giving mona a good part in the pageant, and if not, she couldn't feel sure what might happen. but lora didn't look satisfied. "i thought you'd meet here," she said, "because mother is chairman of the float committee." "i know," returned guy, "but, for that very reason, she'll have to have a lot of other meetings here. and as i'm supposed to look after the sea float, i thought it a kindness to your mother to have our meetings elsewhere." "oh, i don't care," said lora, "have them where you like." lora turned to speak to some people passing, and then walked away with them. "now she's mad!" commented jack. "that's the beautiful part of getting up a show; all the girls get mad, one after another." "_i_'m going to get mad!" announced patty, deliberately. "you are!" exclaimed lena lockwood, in amazement. "i didn't know you could get mad!" "patty gets about as mad as a small angora kitten," said jack. "yes," agreed patty, "and i can tell you, kittens, like cats, get awful mad, if they want to. now i'm going to get mad, if you people don't tell me all about this show, now! i don't want to wait for meetings and things." "i'll tell you now," said guy, speaking very fast. "it's to be a pageant, a great and glittering pageant, made up of floats with tableaux on 'em, and bands of music playing, and banners streaming, and coloured fire firing, all over spring beach." "that tells some, but not all," said patty. "you tell me more, lena." "well, the floats will represent the sea and different rivers and all sorts of things like that. and they are all under different committees, and every chairman has to look after her own people." "and whose people are we?" demanded patty. "mrs. sayre has the general committee of floats under her charge." "but the sea float is my especial care, patty," broke in guy martin, "and i want you to promise to be spirit of the sea. won't you?" "not to-day, thank you. i have to think these matters over slowly. what do you want mona galbraith to be?" a silence was the response to this question, and then guy said: "i hadn't put her name down yet, but i daresay she'll be asked to take some part." "i daresay she will," returned patty, "and a good part, too! why can't she be spirit of the sea?" "nonsense, that part requires a sylph-like girl, such as--such as you or lora. mona galbraith is too heavy for any self-respecting spirit." "well, never mind," said patty, "there must be plenty of other good parts that require more substantial specimens of humanity. arrange your meetings at our house, guy, and we'll fix it all up then." they changed the subject then, for mona and captain sayre came walking toward them. "get good fortunes?" asked jack. "very much so," returned the captain. "miss galbraith is to become a duchess later on, and i am to achieve the rank of a rear-admiral. what more could we ask?" "nothing!" exclaimed patty. "you'll make a gorgeous duchess, mona. i can see you now, prancing around with a jewelled coronet on your noble brow." "can't you see me," said captain sayre, "prancing around in admiral's regalia?" "but i've never seen you prance at all. i supposed you were too dignified." "you did! well, you never were more mistaken in your life. watch me, now." the orchestra was playing in lively time, and captain sayre began to do a lively dance, which was something between a sailor's hornpipe and a double shuffle. he danced wonderfully well, and as patty looked at him the spirit of the music inspired her, and throwing off her hat, she prettily caught up the sides of her frilled skirt, and danced, facing him. he smiled at her, changed his step to a more graceful fancy dance, and they danced an impromptu duet. others gathered about to watch the pretty sight, and patty soon discovered that, though she was an accomplished dancer, the captain was far more familiar with the latest styles and steps. but he suited his mood to hers, and they advanced, retreated, and bowed, almost as if they had practised together for the purpose. loud applause greeted them as the band ceased playing, and they were urged to repeat the dance. "no," said captain sayre, laughing; "you forget it is a summer's day, and that sort of prancing is better suited to a winter evening. i'm going to take miss fairfield away to the lemonade tent, before she faints from utter exhaustion." "i'm not tired," protested patty, but her cheeks were pink from the exercise, and she went gladly for the refreshing lemonade. "you're a wonderful dancer," said captain sayre. "who taught you?" patty mentioned the name of the teacher she had had in new york. "but," she said, "i haven't had any lessons of late, and i don't know the new fancy dances." "some of them are beautiful; you really ought to know them. mayn't i call on you, and teach you a few new steps?" "i'd love to have you do so. i'm staying with miss galbraith, you know. but you're not here for long, are you?" "i'll be here about a week, and i may return later for a short time. at any rate we can have a few dances. i never saw any one so quick to catch the spirit of the music. you love dancing, don't you?" "yes, i do. but i love it more in cooler weather." "oh, this hot spell won't last long. and it's so cool mornings. suppose i run over to see you to-morrow morning. may i?" "do," said patty, cordially. "mona and i will be glad to have you." "but i'm coming to see you" said the captain, a little pointedly. "you're coming to see us both," said patty, very decidedly. chapter viii the house party arrives "red chimneys" was in a turmoil. the house party had been invited, and the house party had accepted their invitations, and all would have been well had it not been for aunt adelaide. somehow or other she managed to upset every plan, throw cold water on every pleasure, and acted as a general wet blanket on all the doings of patty and mona. she was not an over strict chaperon; indeed, she was more than ready to let the girls do whatever they chose; but she dictated the way it should be done and continually put forth not only suggestions but commands directly opposed to the wishes of the young people. often these dictates concerned the merest details. if the girls had a merry luncheon party invited, that was the very day aunt adelaide chose for a special rest-cure treatment, and demanded that the whole house be kept quiet as a church. on the other hand, if the girls were going off for the day, that was the occasion aunt adelaide felt lonesome, and declared herself cruelly neglected to be left at home alone. but it was mona's nature to submit to the inevitable,--though not always gracefully. and it was patty's nature to smooth away rough places by her never-failing tact and good nature. the greatest trouble was with the servants. those who came in contact with the nervous, fussy lady were harassed beyond endurance by her querulous and contradictory orders. the cook declared herself unable to prepare mrs. parson's "messes" acceptably, and threatened every other day to leave. but patty's coaxing persuasions, and mona's promise of increased wages induced her to remain. remonstrance with aunt adelaide did no good at all. she assumed an air of injured innocence, asserted her entire indifference to the details of mona's housekeeping,--and then, proceeded to interfere just the same. as far as possible, the girls had arranged the house party without consulting her; but, even so, she continually offered her advice and obtruded her opinions until mona lost patience. "aunt adelaide," she said, when mrs. parsons insisted that patty should give up the suite of rooms she occupied to some of the arriving guests, "when patty came to me i gave her the best rooms, and she's going to stay in them. i know mrs. kenerley is bringing her baby and nurse, and that's why i gave her rooms on the third floor, that the baby might not disturb any one." "it's too high up for the dear child," argued aunt adelaide. "i'd like to have her nearer me." "you wouldn't, if she's in the habit of crying all night," said patty. "i'm quite willing to give up my pretty rooms, but mona won't let me, and i never quarrel with my hostess' decisions." "meaning, i suppose, that i do," said aunt adelaide, querulously. "of course, you girls know more than i do. i'm only a poor, old, set aside nobody. i couldn't expect to be listened to, even when i advise you for your own good." patty well knew that any response to this sort of talk was useless, so she said, lightly, "we want you mostly for ornament, aunt adelaide. if you'll put on one of your prettiest dresses, and some of that lovely old lace of yours, and your amethyst jewellery, and be on hand to welcome our guests this afternoon, mona and i will relieve you of all bother about household arrangements." this mollified mrs. parsons somewhat, for she dearly loved to "dress up" and receive company, so she went away to select her costume. patty had been at "red chimneys" little more than a week, but already the influence of her taste could be seen in the household. some of the more gaudy and heavy ornaments, which had been provided by a professional decorator, had been removed, and their places filled by palms, or large plain bowls of fresh flowers. the cook's extravagant ideas were curbed, and the meals were now less heavily elaborate, and the viands more delicate and carefully chosen. the service was simpler, and the whole household had lost much of its atmosphere of vulgar ostentation. mona, too, was improved. her frocks were more dainty and becoming, and patty had persuaded her to wear less jewellery and ornamentation. patty had also taught her to wave her hair in pretty, loose curls that were far more effective than the tight frizzes she had worn. the plans for the house party were complete, and, to the girls, entirely satisfactory. adele kenerley had been a school friend of mona's, and was coming with her husband and baby girl. daisy dow, another of mona's schoolmates, was coming from chicago, and roger farrington and two other young men would complete the party, which had been invited for a week. patty had not accomplished all her wishes, without some difficulties. several times mona had balked at patty's decrees, and had insisted on following her own inclinations. but by tactful persuasion patty had usually won out, and in all important matters had carried the day. it was, therefore, with honest pride and satisfaction that she looked over the house just before the arrival of the guests. she had herself superintended the arrangement of the beautiful flowers for which the galbraiths' garden was famous, and she had, in a moment of victory, persuaded mona to put the men servants into white duck instead of their ornate, gilt-braided livery, and the maids into white linen uniforms. "in this weather," she said, "let's make our keynote 'coolness,' and your guests will have a better time than if we overpower them with your winter splendour." mona began to see that coolness and splendour were rarely compatible, but she was also beginning to see things as patty saw them, so she agreed. the girls had not dared to advise aunt adelaide as to costume, for just so sure as they advised something, that contradictory lady would be sure to insist on something else. "but i think i'd better coax her to wear that purple satin," said mona, "for if i don't, she'll surely put it on, and if i do, she won't!" "wait and see," said patty. "i took pains to hang her lavender crepe de chine right in the front of her wardrobe, and i hope she'll let her eagle eye light on that, and seek no further!" "patty, you're a born conspirator. i hope you'll marry a foreign diplomat, and help him manage his international intrigues." "oh, i could manage the intrigues and the diplomat both, i expect." "i'm sure you could! now, let's fly and get dressed. the kenerleys will come soon and i'm crazy to see adele's darling baby." soon after, the girls going downstairs in their fresh, light summer frocks, were much pleased to see that patty's ruse had succeeded. aunt adelaide was gracefully posed in a veranda chair, wearing the lavender gown, a collar of fine old lace, and her amethyst necklace. she looked gentle and charming, and seemed in high good humour. "i hope you like this gown," she said. "i hesitated a long time, but finally chose it because it matched my necklace." "it's lovely," said patty, enthusiastically; "and it suits you awfully well. look, mona, there they come!" another moment, and a rosy-cheeked young matron flew into mona's arms and greeted her after the most approved manner of reunited school friends. "you dearest old thing!" she cried. "you haven't changed a bit, except to grow better looking! and, mona, here's my husband,--jim, his name is,--but here's the baby!" a nurse stepped forward, bringing a mite of humanity, who was laughing and waving her little fat arms, as if delighted to be of the party. "what an angel of a baby!" cried mona, taking the smiling infant in her arms. "and a solid angel too," she added, as the child proved more substantial than she had appeared. "yes; she's nearly two years old, and she weighs exactly right, according to the best schedules. she's a perfect schedule baby in every way." then the small piece of perfection was handed over to what was probably a schedule nurse, and general introductions followed. patty liked the kenerleys at once. they were breezy and pleasant mannered, and had an affable way of making themselves at home. "mona," said mr. kenerley,--"i shall have to call you that, for i doubt if my wife has ever even mentioned your last name to me, and if she has, i have forgotten it,--mona, how long does one have to be a guest at 'red chimneys' before he is allowed to go for a dip in that tempting looking ocean i perceive hard by?" "oh, only about ten minutes," said mona, laughing at his impatience. "do you want to go now, alone, or will you wait until later? some men are coming soon who would probably join you for a swim. i expect bill farnsworth." "do you! dear old bill! i haven't seen him for years. but he's so big, he'd take up all the surf,--i think i'll go on by myself. and i know you girls have lots of gossip to talk over--so, i'll see you later." jim kenerley set off for the galbraith bathing pavilion, easily discernible by its ornate red chimneys, and mona turned to have a good old-fashioned chat with adele. "why, where is she?" she exclaimed, and aunt adelaide petulantly explained that patty and adele had gone to look after the baby. "pretty poor manners, i call it, to leave me here all alone. it never occurred to them that i'd like to see the baby, too!" "never mind, aunt adelaide, you'll have lots of time to see that baby. and, of course, adele wants to go to her rooms and get things arranged. you and i will wait here for the next arrivals. laurence cromer is due about now. he's an artist, you know, and he'll think you're a picture in that exquisite gown." much mollified at these remarks, aunt adelaide rearranged her draperies, called for another cushion, had a screen lowered, and sat slowly waving a small fan, in expectance of the artist's admiration. and perhaps the artist might have given an admiring glance to the picturesque lady in lavender had it not happened that just as he came up the veranda steps patty appeared in the doorway. her pink cheeks were a little flushed from a romp with the baby, a few stray curls had been pulled from their ribbon by baby's chubby hands, and the laughing face was so fair and winsome that laurence cromer stood stock-still and gazed at her. then mona intercepted his vision, but after the necessary introductions and greetings, the young artist's eyes kept wandering toward patty, as if drawn by a magnet. young cromer was a clever artist, though not, as yet, exceedingly renowned. he advertised his calling, however, in his costume and appearance. he wore white flannels, but he affected a low rolling collar and a soft silk tie. his hair was just a trifle longer than convention called for, and his well-cut features were marred by a drooping, faraway expression which, he fondly hoped, denoted soulfulness. patty laughed gaily at him. "don't stare at me, mr. cromer," she said, saucily. "baby may pulled my hair down, but i have the grace to be ashamed of my untidiness." "it's exquisite," said cromer, looking at her admiringly; "a sweet disorder in the dress." "oh, i know that lady you quote! she always had her shoestrings untied and her hat on crooked!" cromer looked amazed, as if a saint had been guilty of heresy, and patty laughed afresh at his astonished look. "if you want to see sweet disorder in dress, here's your chance," cried mona. "here comes daisy dow, and she's one who never has her hat on straight, by any chance!" sure enough, as a big car whizzed up under the porte-cochere, a girl jumped out, with veils flying, coat flapping, and gloves, bag, and handkerchief dropping, as she ran up the steps. "here i am, mona!" she cried, and her words were unmistakably true. daisy dow was from chicago, and she looked as if she had blown all the way from there to spring beach. she was, or had been, prettily dressed, but, as mona had predicted, her hat was awry, her collar askew, and her shoelace untied. the poetical idea of "a sweet disorder in the dress" was a bit overdone in daisy's case, but her merry, breezy laugh, and her whole-souled joy at seeing mona again rather corresponded with her disarranged finery. "i'm all coming to pieces," she said, apologetically, as she was introduced to the others. "but we flew along so fast, it's a wonder there's anything left of me. can't i go and tidy up, mona?" "yes, indeed. come along with me, daisy. they're all here now, patty, except bill and roger. you can look after them." "all right, i will. i don't know mr. bill, but that won't matter. i know roger, and of course the other one will be the gentle bill." "'gentle' is good!" laughed mona. "little billy is about six feet eight and weighs a ton." "that doesn't frighten me," declared patty, calmly. "i've seen bigger men than that, if it was in a circus! skip along, girls, but come back soon. i think this house party is too much given to staying in the house. are you for a dip in the ocean before dinner, mr. cromer?" "no; not if i may sit here with you instead." "oh, aunt adelaide and i are delighted to keep you here. all the guests seem to run away from me. i know not why!" naughty patty drew a mournful sigh, and looked as if she had lost her last friend, which look, on her pretty, saucy face, was very fetching indeed. "i'll never run away from you!" declared mr. cromer, in so earnest a tone that patty laughed. "you'd better!" she warned. "i'm so contrary minded by nature that the more people run away from me the better i like them." "ah," said laurence cromer, gravely; "then i shall start at once. mrs. parsons, will you not go for a stroll with me round the gardens?" aunt adelaide rose with alacrity, and willingly started off with the young artist, who gave not another glance in patty's direction. "h'm," said patty to herself, as the pair walked away. "h'm! i rather like that young man! he has some go to him." she laughed aloud at her own involuntary joke, and stood, watching aunt adelaide's mincing steps, as she tripped along the garden path. as patty stood thus, she did not see or hear a large and stalwart young man come up on the veranda, and, smiling roguishly, steal up behind her. but in a moment, she felt herself clasped in two strong arms, and a hearty kiss resounded on her pink cheek. chapter ix big bill farnsworth "how are you?" exclaimed a voice as hearty as the kiss, and patty, with a wild spring, jumped from the encircling arms, and turned to face a towering giant, who, she knew at once, must be mr. farnsworth. "how dare you!" she cried, stamping her foot, and flashing furious glances, while her dimpled cheeks burned scarlet. "whoopee! wowly-wow-wow! i thought you were mona! oh, can you ever forgive me? but, no, of course you can't! so pronounce my doom! shall i dash myself into the roaring billows and seek a watery grave? oh, no, no! i see by your haughty glare that is all too mild a punishment! then, have me tarred and feathered, and drawn and quartered and ridden on a rail! send for the torturers! send for the inquisitioners! but, remember this! i didn't know i was kissing a stranger. i thought i was kissing my cousin mona. if i had known,--oh, my dear lady,--if i had known,--i should have kissed you twice!" this astonishing announcement was doubtless induced by the fact that patty had been unable to resist his wheedlesome voice and frank, ingenuous manner, and she had indulged in one of her most dimpled smiles. with her face still flushed by the unexpected caress, and her golden curls still rumpled from the baby's mischievous little fingers, patty looked like a harum-scarum schoolgirl. "be careful," she warned, shaking a finger at him. "i was just about to forgive you because of your mistake in identity, but if you make me really angry, i'll never forgive you." "come back, and all will be forgiven," said the young man, mock-dramatically, as he held out his arms for a repetition of the scene. "this is your punishment," said patty, gaily, paying no attention to his fooling. "you are not to tell of this episode! i know you'll want to, for it is a good joke, but i should be unmercifully teased. and as you owe me something for--for putting me in a false position----" "delightful position!" murmured the young man. "you owe me something," went on patty, severely, "and i claim your promise not to tell any one,--not even mona,--what you did." "i won't tell," was the fervent reply. "i swear i won't tell! it shall be our secret,--yours and mine. our sweet secret, and we'll have another some day." "what!" "another secret, i mean. what did you think i meant? any one is liable to have a secret,--any two, i mean. and we might chance to be the two." "you're too big to talk such nonsense," and patty ran a scornful eye over the six feet three of broad and weighty masculinity. "oh, i know how big i am. please don't rub that in! i've heard it ever since i was out of dresses. can't you flatter me by pretending i'm small?" "i could make you feel small, if i told you what i really thought of you." "well, do that, then. what do you think of me?" "i think you very rude and--" "you don't think any such thing,--because you know i mistook you for mona, and it's not rude to kiss one's cousin." "is she your cousin? she never told me so." "well, her grandfather's stepdaughter's sister-in-law married my grandmother's second cousin twice removed." "oh, then you're not very nearly related." "no; that's why we don't look more alike. but, do you know my name? or shall i introduce myself?" "i fancy you're big bill farnsworth, aren't you?" "yes,--but don't call me big, please!" "no, i'll call you little billee. how's that?" "that's lovely! now, what may i call you?" "miss fairfield." the big man made an easy and graceful bow. "i am delighted to meet you, miss fair--fair, with golden hair. pardon me, i've a terrible memory for names, but a good reserve fund of poetry." "miss fairfield, my name is. pray don't forget it again." "if you're so curt, i shall think it's a fairfield and no favour! you're not mad at me, are you?" "certainly not. one can't get mad at an utter stranger." "oh, i don't think people who kiss people can be classed as utter strangers." "well, you will be, if you refer to that mistake again! now, remember, i forbid you ever to mention it,--to me, or to any one else. here comes mona." mona and daisy dow appeared in the doorway, and seeing bill, made a dash at him. the young man kissed mona heartily, and as he did so, he smiled at patty over mona's shoulder. he shook hands with daisy, and soon the three were chatting gaily of old school days. then roger farrington came. not all of patty's new york friends had liked mona, but roger had always declared the girl was a fine nature, spoiled by opulent surroundings. he had gladly accepted the invitation to the house party, and came in anticipation of an all-round good time. "hooray! patty! here's me!" was his salutation, as he ran up the steps. "oh, roger!" cried patty, and she grasped his hand and showed unfeigned gladness at seeing him. patty was devoted to her friends, and roger was one of her schoolday chums. mona came forward and greeted the new guest, and introduced him to the strangers. "isn't this just too downright jolly!" roger exclaimed, as he looked at the sea and shore, and then brought his gaze back to the merry group on the veranda. "haven't you any chaperon person? or are we all kids together?" "we have two chaperons," announced patty, proudly. "one, you may see, just down that rose path. the lady in trailing lavender is our house chaperon, mrs. parsons. the impressive looking personage beside her is an artist of high degree. but our other chaperon,--ah, here she comes! mrs. kenerley." adele kenerley appeared then, looking very sweet and dainty in her fresh summer frock, and laughingly expressed her willingness to keep the house party in order and decorum. "it won't be so very easy, mrs. kenerley," said roger. "my word for it, these are wilful and prankish girls. i've known miss fairfield for years, and she's capable of any mischief. miss galbraith, now, is more sedate." "nonsense!" cried patty. "i'm the sedate one." "you don't look it," observed mona. "your hair is a sight!" "it is," said laurence cromer, coming up and catching the last remark; "a sight for gods and men! miss fairfield, i beseech you, don't do it up in fillets and things; leave it just as it is, do!" "indeed i won't," said patty, and she ran away to her own room to put her curly locks in order. she was quite shocked at the mirrored picture of tousled tresses, and did it all up a little more severely than usual, by way of amends. "may i come in?" and daisy dow, after a quick tap at the door, walked in, without waiting for an answer. "what lovely hair!" she exclaimed, as patty pushed in more and more hairpins. "you're a perfect duck, anyway. i foresee i shall be terribly jealous of you. but i say, patty,--i may call you patty, mayn't i?--don't you dare to steal big bill farnsworth away from me! he's my own particular property and i don't allow trespassing." there was an earnest tone underlying daisy's gay words that made patty look up at her quickly. "are you engaged to him?" she asked. "no,--not exactly. at least, it isn't announced. but--" "oh, pshaw, don't trouble to explain. i won't bother your big adorer. but if he chooses to speak to me, i shan't be purposely rude to him. i like boys and young men, miss dow, and i like to talk and play and dance with them. but i've no special interest in any one, and if you have, i shall certainly respect it,--be sure of that." "you're a brick, patty! i was sure you were the minute i laid my two honest grey eyes on you. but you're 'most too pretty for my peace of mind. bill adores pretty girls." "oh, don't cross bridges before you come to them. probably he'll never look at little me, and if he should, i'll be too busy to see him. there are others, you know." reassured by patty's indifference, daisy vowed her everlasting friendship and adoration, and the two went downstairs arm in arm. the veranda presented a gay scene--afternoon tea was in progress, and as some of the spring beach young people had dropped in, there were several groups at small tables, or sitting on the veranda steps and railings. "i've saved a lovely seat for you," said laurence cromer, advancing to patty; "just to show you that i'm of a forgiving nature." "why, what have i done to be forgiven for?" asked patty, opening her blue eyes wide in surprise. "you've spoiled your good looks, for one thing. you had a little head sunning over with curls, and now you have the effect of a nice little girl who has washed her face and hands and neatly brushed her hair." "but one can't go around like slovenly peter," said patty, laughing, as she took the wicker chair he placed for her. "why not, if one is a pretty peter?" "oh, pshaw, i see you don't know me very well. i never talk to people who talk about me." "good gracious, how can they help it?" "well, you see, i'm accustomed to my girl and boy friends, whom i've known for years. but here, somehow, everybody seems more grown up and societyfied." "how old are you?" "it's my impression that that's a rude question, though i'm not sure." "it isn't, because you're not old enough to make it rude. come, how old?" "nineteen, please, sir." "well, that's quite old enough to drop boy and girl ways and behave as a grown-up." "but i don't want to," and patty's adorable pout proved her words. "that doesn't matter. your 'reluctant feet' have to move on whether they wish to or not. are you bashful?" "sorta," and patty put her finger in her mouth, with a shy simper. "you're anything but bashful! you're a coquette!" "oh, no!" and patty opened her eyes wide in horror. "oh, kind sir, don't say that!" but cromer paid no heed to her words; he was studying her face. "i'm going to paint you," he announced, "and i shall call it 'reluctant feet.' your head, with its aureole of curls; your wide eyes, your baby chin--" "oh, roger!" cried patty, as young farrington came toward her. "what do you think? mr. cromer is going to paint a picture of my head and call it 'reluctant feet'! he says so." "yes," said cromer, unconscious of any absurdity; "miss fairfield is a fine subject." "that's better than being called an object," said roger, joining them, "and you did look an object, patty, when i arrived! your wig was all awry,--and--" "you haven't a soul for art?" said cromer, looking solemnly at roger. "no, i haven't an artful soul, i fear. how are you getting along, patty, down here without your fond but strict parents?" "getting along finely, roger. aunt adelaide plays propriety, and mona and i keep house." "h'm, i'm 'fraid i scared off our long-haired friend," said roger, as cromer rose and drifted away. "never mind, i want to talk to you a little myself. i say, patsy, don't you let these men flatter you till you're all puffed up with pride and vanity." "now, roger, am i that kind of a goose?" "well, you're blossoming out so, and getting so growny-uppy looking, i'm 'fraid you won't be my little patty-friend much longer." "'deed i shall! don't you worry about that. how do you think mona is looking?" "fine! lots better than when i saw her in may. she dresses better, don't you think?" "yes, i guess she does," said patty, demurely, with no hint as to why mona's appearance had improved. "she's an awfully nice girl, roger." "yes, i always said so. and you and she help each other. sort of reaction, you know. what do we do down here?" "oh, there are oceans of things planned. parties of all sorts, and picnics, and dances, and motor trips, and every old thing. how long can you stay?" "i'm invited for a week, but i may have to go home sooner. isn't that western chap immense?" for some ridiculous reason, patty blushed scarlet at the mere mention of mr. farnsworth. "what the--oh, i say, patty! you're not favouring him, are you? why, you've only just met him to-day, haven't you?" "yes, certainly; i never saw him before. no, i'm not favouring him, as you call it." "then why are you the colour of a hard-boiled lobster? patty! quit blushing, or you'll burn up!" "don't, roger; don't be silly. i'm not blushing." "oh, no! you're only a delicate shade of crimson vermilion! well, if you want him, patty, i'll get him for you. do you want him now?" "no! of course i don't! do be still, roger! and stop that foolish smiling! well, then, i'm going to talk to adele kenerley." patty ran away from roger, who was decidedly in a teasing mood, and seated herself beside the pretty young matron. "such a good child," mrs. kenerley was saying; "she never cries, and she's so loving and affectionate." "oh, she's a heavenly baby!" cried mona, in raptures of appreciation, and then along came the baby's father, fresh from his ocean dip. "you must choke off my wife," he said, smiling, "if she gets started on a monologue about that infant prodigy! she can keep it up most of the hours out of the twenty-four, and go right over it all again next day!" "and why not?" cried mona. "such a baby deserves appreciation. i can hardly wait till to-morrow to wake her up and play with her." "she's a good enough kiddy," said the proud young father, trying to hide his own enthusiasm. "now, jim," cried his wife, "you know perfectly well you're a bigger idiot about that child than i am! why, would you believe, mona--" "there, there, adele, if you're going to tell anecdotes of my parental devotion, i'm going to run away! come on, farnsworth, let's go for a stroll, and talk over old times." the two men walked off together, and the party generally broke up. most of them went to their rooms to rest or dress for dinner, and patty concluded that she would grasp the opportunity to write a letter to nan, a task which she enjoyed, but rarely found time for. "the house party is upon us," she wrote, "and, though they're really very nice, they are a little of the west, westy. but there's only one girl, daisy dow, who's much that way, and i rather think i can manage her. but already she has warned me not to interfere with her young man! as if i would!" just here, patty's cheeks grew red again, and she changed the subject of her epistolary progress. "the baby is a perfect darling, and her parents are very nice people. terribly devoted to the infant, but of course that's to be expected. roger is a comfort. it's so nice to have an old friend here among all these strangers. oh, and there's an artist who, i know, spells his art with a big a. he wants to paint me as 'cherry ripe' or something, i forget what. but i know his portraits will look just like magazine covers. though,--i suppose i am rather of that type myself. oh, me! i wish i were a tall, dark beauty, with melting brown eyes and midnight tresses, instead of a tow-headed, doll-faced thing. but then, as the poet says, 'we women cannot choose our lot.' i'm in for a good time, there's no doubt about that. we've parties and picnics and pageants piled up mountain high. so if i don't write again very soon, you'll know it's because i'm a social butterfly for the time being, and these are my butterfly days. aunt adelaide is rather nicer than when i last wrote. she gets on her 'company manners,' and that makes her more amiable." "my goodness gracious!" this last phrase was spoken aloud, not written, for the low, open window, near which patty sat writing, was suddenly invaded by a laughing face and a pair of broad, burly shoulders, and big bill's big voice said, "hello, you pretty little poppet!" chapter x just a short spin "stop! look! listen!" cried patty, gaily, as the unabashed intruder calmly seated himself on the broad, low window-sill. "do you consider it good manners to present yourself in this burglarious fashion?" "well, you see, my room opens on this same veranda,--indeed the veranda seems to run all around the house on this story,--and so i thought i'd walk about a bit. then i chanced to spy you, and--well, i'm still spying. is this your dinky boudoir? how fussy it is." "i like it so," said patty, smiling. "of course you do. you're fussy yourself." "i am not! i'm not fussy!" "oh, i don't mean that the way you think i do. i mean you're all dressed fussy, with pink ribbons and lace tassels and furbelows." "yes; i do love frilly clothes. now, i suppose your ideal girl wears plain tailor-made suits, and stiff white collars, and small hats without much trimming,--just a band and a quill." "say, that's where you're 'way off! i like to see girls all dollied up in squffly lace over-skirts,--or whatever you call 'em,--with dinky little bows here and there." "is this frock all right, then?" asked patty, demurely, knowing that her summer afternoon costume was of the very type he had tried to describe. "just the ticket! i'm not much on millinery, but you look like an apple blossom trimmed with sunshine." "why, you're a poet! only poets talk like that. i doubt if mr. cromer could say anything prettier." "'tisn't pretty enough for you. only a chap like austin dobson could make poetry about you." the earnest sincerity in the big blue eyes of the westerner robbed the words of any semblance of impertinence, and patty spoke out her surprise. "why, do you read austin dobson? i never thought--" she paused, lest she hurt his feelings by her implication, but farnsworth went on, quietly: "you never thought a big, hulking fellow like me could appreciate anything exquisite and dainty, either in poetry or in people," he said. "i don't blame you, miss fairfield; i am uncouth, uncultured, and unmannered. but i am fond of books, and, perhaps by the law of contrast, i am especially fond of the minor poets." "you shan't call yourself those horrid names," said patty, for his tones rang true, and she began to appreciate his honest nature; "no one can be uncouth or uncultured who loves such reading. don't you love the big poets, too?" "yes; but i suppose everybody does that. i say, won't you come outside for a bit? that room is stuffy, and the air out here now is great. couldn't you skip down with me for a whiff of the sea?" "why, i ought to be dressing for dinner." "oh, there's lots of time yet. come on. don't tell anybody, just fly out at this window, like peter pan, and we'll elope for half an hour." acting impulsively, patty swung herself through the low window, and had descended the picturesque outside stairway that led from the upper veranda to the lower one before she remembered daisy's prohibition. "oh, i think i won't go down to the beach," she said, suddenly pausing at the foot of the stairs. "i must go right back." "nothing of the sort," and farnsworth grasped her arm and fairly marched her along the path to the gate. "you're not a quitter, i know, so what silly notion popped into your head just then?" patty laughed outright at his quick appreciation of her mood. "well," she parried, "you see, i don't know you very well." "all the more reason for snatching this chance to get acquainted." "somebody might see us." "let them. it's no crime to stroll down to the beach." "somebody might object to my monopolising you like this." "who, mona?" "no; not mona." "who, then?" "is there no one who might justly do so?" "no, indeed! unless mrs. parsons thinks i'm neglecting her." "nonsense. i don't mean her. but, what about miss dow?" "daisy dow! well, miss fairfield, i'm a blunt westerner, and i don't know how to say these things subtly, but when you imply that daisy has any special interest in me, you do me undeserved honour. i've known her for years, and we're good chums, but she'd have no right to comment if i walked down to the sea, or into it, or across it. now, will you be good?" they had reached the beach, and stood looking at the great rollers coming in, their white crests tinged by the last rays of the setting sun, which flashed a good-bye at them from the opposite horizon. "it's fortunate you eastern people have a sea," farnsworth said, as he gazed across the black distance, "or you wouldn't know the meaning of the word space. your lives and living are so cramped." "you western people have a sea, too, i believe," said patty. "yes, but we don't really need it, as you do. we have seas of land, rolling all over the place. we can get our breath inland; you have to come to the ocean to get a full breath." "that's the popular superstition. i mean, that we are cramped and all that. but, really, i think we all have room enough. i think the westerner's idea of wanting several acres to breathe in is just a habit." farnsworth looked at her steadily. "perhaps you're right," he said; "at any rate, you seem to know all about it. do you suppose i could learn to see it as you do?" "of course you could. but why should you? if you like the west, the big, breezy, long-distance west, there's no reason why you should cultivate a taste for our little cramped up, stuffy east." "that's right! but i wish i could show you our country. wouldn't you love to go galloping across a great prairie,--tearing ahead for illimitable miles,--breathing the air that has come, fresh and clean, straight down from the blue sky?" "you make it sound well, but after that mad gallop is over, what then? a shack or ranch, or whatever you call it, with whitewashed walls, and rush mats and a smoky stove?" "by george! you're about right! it wouldn't suit you, would it? you couldn't fit into that picture!" "i'm 'fraid not. but if we're going to fit into the picture soon to assemble in mona's dining-room, we must make a start in that direction. mr. farnsworth--" "call me bill, oh, do call me bill!" "why should i?" "because i want you to; and because i think you might make that much concession to my western primitiveness and unceremoniousness." "but i don't like the name of bill. it's so,--so--" "so uncouth? yes, it is. but i'm not the sort to be called william. well, do call me something pleasant and amiable." "i'll call you little billee. that's thackeray's, and therefore, it's all right. now, can you slip me back into my own apartments as quietly as you took me away?" "of course i can, as it's nearly dark now. here we go!" he aided her up the stairs, and along the balcony to her own windows. patty sprang lightly over the low sill, and waved her hand gaily as she pulled down her blinds and flashed on the electric lights. then she rang for janet, and found that a hurried toilette was necessary if she would be prompt at dinner. one of patty's prettiest evening frocks was a dainty french thing of white chiffon, decked with pale green ribbons and exquisite artificial apple blossoms made of satin. with a smile at the memory of farnsworth's allusion to apple blossoms, she put it on, and twisted a wreath of the same lovely flowers in her golden crown of curls. then she danced downstairs to find the western man awaiting her. he looked very handsome in evening clothes, and the easy unconsciousness of his pose and manner made him seem to patty the most attractive man she had ever seen. "i've arranged it with mona," he said, straightforwardly, "and i'm to take you in to dinner. i want to sit next to you." but patty had caught sight of daisy dow, and the angry gleam in that young woman's eyes warned patty that farnsworth's plan boded trouble. moreover, perverse patty objected to being appropriated so calmly, and with a deliberate intent to pique farnsworth, she replied, gaily: "nay, nay, fair sir; it suits me not, thus to be parcelled out. we eastern girls are not to be had for the asking." the smile she flashed at him brought an answering smile to farnsworth's face, but as he stepped forward to urge her to grant his wish, patty slipped her hand in roger's arm, and joined the others who were already going to the dining-room. she had quickly seen that this move on her part would leave farnsworth no choice but to escort daisy dow, for roger had been assigned to that fair maiden. "what's up?" enquired roger, as he obediently followed patty's whispered order to "come along and behave yourself." "nothing," returned patty, airily; "i have to have my own way, that's all; and as my old friend and comrade, you have to help me to get it." "always ready," declared roger, promptly, "but seems to me, pitty-pat, the colossal cowboy is already a willing willy to your caprices." "don't be silly, roger. he's so unused to our sort of society that he's willing to bow down at the shrine of any pretty girl." "oh, patsy-pat! do you consider yourself a pretty girl? how can you think so? your nose turns up, and i think you're a little cross-eyed--" "oh, roger, i am not!" "well, perhaps i'm mistaken about that; but you've a freckle on your left cheek, and a curl on your right temple is out of place." "it isn't! i fixed it there on purpose! it's supposed to look coquettish." "very untidy!" and roger glared in pretended disapproval at the curl that had purposely been allowed to escape from the apple-blossom wreath. patty liked roger's fooling, for they were old chums and thoroughly good friends, and it was one of his customary jokes to pretend that he was trying to correct her tendency to personal vanity. beside the house party, there were several other guests, mostly spring beach cottagers, and the dinner was a gay one. jack pennington sat at patty's other side, and farnsworth and daisy dow were far away, near the head of the table. "dashing girl, miss dow," said jack, as he looked at the vivacious daisy, who was entertaining those near her with picturesque stories of western life. "yes, indeed," said patty; "and very clever and capable." "now, isn't it funny! just from the way you say that, i know you don't like her." patty was dismayed. if she didn't altogether like daisy, she had no wish to have other people aware of the fact. "oh, jack, don't be mean. i do like her." "no, you don't; at least, not very much. she isn't your style." "well, then, if you think that, don't say it. i must like mona's guests." "yes, of course. forgive a poor, blundering idiot! and don't worry, patty, no one shall ever know from me that you and the dashing daisy aren't boon companions." "you're so nice and understanding, jacky boy, and i'm much obliged. do you remember the night you discovered who our chaperon was, and you helped me out so beautifully?" "always glad to help the ladies. what are we doing to-night, after this feast of fat things is over?" "nothing especial; dance a little, i suppose, sit around on the veranda, sing choruses, and that sort of thing." "there's a glorious full moon. couldn't we escape for a little spin? just a very short one, in my runabout?" "yes, i'd love to. or we could take my runabout." "or mona's for that matter. i don't care what car we take, but i do love a short, quick drive, and then come back for the dance." "all right, i'll go. mona won't mind, if i don't stay long." "oh, only just around a block or two. just to clear the effect of these flowers and candles from our brain." "isn't your brain a little weak, if it can't stand flowers and candles?" asked patty, laughing. "perhaps it is, and perhaps that's only an excuse to get away. hooray! mona's rising now; let's make a mad dash." "no; that isn't the way. let's slide out quietly and inconspicuously, through this side door." adopting this idea, jack and patty went out on a side veranda, and stepped across the terrace to the garden paths. the moonlight turned the picturesque flower-beds to fairy fields, and patty paused on one of the terrace landings. "i don't know as i want to go motoring, jack," she said, perching herself on the marble balustrade; "it's so lovely here." "just as you like, girlie. ha! methinks i hear vocal speech! some one approacheth!" farnsworth and daisy dow came strolling along the terrace, and daisy took a seat beside patty, while the two men stood in front of them. "won't you girls catch cold?" said farnsworth, in his matter-of-fact way. "these be not mortal maidens," said jack, who was in whimsical mood. "these be two goddesses from olympian heights, who have deigned to visit us for a brief hour." "and unless you're very good to us," observed patty, "we'll spread our wings and fly away." "let's do something," said daisy, restlessly; "it's poky, just sitting here, doing nothing. i'd like to go in the ocean. it must be lovely to bounce around in the surf by moonlight." "you'd bounce into bed with pneumonia," said patty. "but jack and i were talking of motoring. suppose we take two runabouts and go for a short spin." all agreed, and the quartette went to the garage for the cars. the head chauffeur, who was not of an over kindly disposition, informed them that miss galbraith's runabout was out of commission for the moment, though miss fairfield's was in good shape. "i'll get mine," proposed jack, but bill farnsworth said, "no, i don't understand an electric awfully well. let's take this car. i can run this o.k., and it will hold the four of us." "all right," said jack; "we're only going a few blocks up the beach. hop in, patty." farnsworth and daisy sat in front, and patty and jack behind, and they started off at a brisk speed. the girls declined to go back to the house for wraps, as it was a warm evening, and the ride would be short. but when farnsworth found himself with the wheel in his hand and a long stretch of hard, white road ahead of him, he forgot all else in the glory of the opportunity, and he let the car go at an astonishing speed. "isn't this fun!" cried patty, but the words were fairly blown away from her lips as they dashed along. "this is the way we westerners ride!" exclaimed daisy, as she sat upright beside bill, her hair streaming back from her forehead, the light scarf she wore round her neck flapping back into patty's face. "it's grand!" gasped jack. "but i hope big bill knows what he's about." "you bet he does!" replied bill himself, and they whizzed on. patty had never gone so fast. though it was a warm night, the rush of wind chilled her, and she shivered. jack, seeing this, picked up a lap-robe and wrapped it about her. "don't want to turn back yet, do you?" he asked. "we must turn soon," patty managed to reply, but jack scarcely heard the words. the big moon was setting when bill turned the car inland, and shouting, "we're going to drive straight into that moon!" made a mad dash toward it. "hurry up!" cried patty. "catch it before it drops below the horizon. speed her!" chapter xi the worst storm ever! patty's gay words added the final spur to farnsworth's enthusiasm, and with a whoop of glee, he darted ahead faster than ever. though his manner and appearance gave the effect of recklessness, big bill knew quite well what he was doing. he was a magnificent driver, and however seemingly careless he might be, his whole mind was alert and intent on his work. the road, hard and white, glistened in the moonlight. straight and clear, it seemed truly to lead directly into the great yellow disk, now dropped almost low enough to touch it. "whoopee!" shouted bill. "this is some going! sit tight, daisy, and hold on for all you're worth! are you people in the back hall all right?" "right we are!" returned jack. "are you going straight through the moon?" "yep! if we catch her in time! hallo, she's touched the earth!" it was a great game. the road was so level and so free of obstruction that they kept the centre, and seemed to be shooting, at whistling speed, into that enormous yellow circle. but, already, the horizon was swallowing up their goal. the laughing quartette saw the circle of gold become a semi-circle, then a mere arc, and soon only a glimpse of yellow remained, which immediately vanished, and save for a faint reminiscent glow, the western sky was dark. "where are your stars?" queried farnsworth, gazing upward. "nice country, this! no stars, no moon, no nothin'!" "the lamps give enough light," cried daisy. "don't slow down, bill! go on, this flying is grand!" "come on in,--the flying's fine!" laughed bill, and again they went at highest speed. but with the setting of the moon, patty's spirit of adventure calmed down. "oh, do let's turn back," she begged. "he doesn't hear me,--make him hear, jack." "i say, farnsworth," and jack tapped the burly shoulder in front of him, "we've gone far enough. back to the old home, eh?" "back it is!" and the driver slowed down, and picking a wide, clear space, deftly turned the machine around. but at sight of the eastern sky, every one exclaimed in dismay. though the moon had set clearly, and the west was a dull grey, the eastern sky was black. turbulent masses of clouds climbed, rolling, to the zenith; faint lights appeared now and then, and a dim rumble of distant thunder was heard at intervals. "shower coming up," said farnsworth, blithely; "better streak for home. wish i'd turned sooner. but we'll beat the storm. wish the girls had some wraps. here, daisy, take my coat and put it on while you've a chance. it'll look pretty silly on you, but it will keep your furbelows from getting spoiled." "yes, i will take it, billy. i'm awfully chilly." as daisy already had a laprobe, patty looked at her in astonishment, as she let farnsworth take off his coat and put it on her. an ordinary evening coat, it was not a great protection, but daisy turned up the collar and made herself as comfortable as she could. then she tucked the laprobe carefully over her skirts, though as yet no drop of rain had descended. "no, indeed!" said patty, as jack offered her his coat. "i have the laprobe, you know, and i'll put it round my shoulders. never mind if my skirts are spoilt. turn up your collar, jack, it will pour in a minute now." and pour it did! suddenly, without a preliminary sprinkle, the floods dropped straight from the heavens. a drenching, pouring rain that soaked the occupants of the open car before they could realise what had happened. gusts of wind added to their discomfort, and then the thunder and lightning, drawn nearer, gave the greatest exhibition of an electrical storm that had been seen all summer. patty, who was confessedly afraid of thunder storms, shivered, on the verge of nervous hysterics. finally, at a specially ear-splitting bolt and blinding flash, which were almost simultaneous, she gave a little shriek and pulled the wet laprobe over her head. she crumpled down into a little heap, and, frightened lest she should faint, pennington put his arm round her and held her in a reassuring clasp. daisy dow was more angry than frightened. she hadn't patty's fear of the elements, but she greatly objected to the uncomfortable situation in which she found herself. "do get home, bill!" she cried, crossly. "can't you go any faster?" the big fellow, in his white shirtsleeves, bent to his wheel. he had worn no hat, and the rain fairly rebounded as it dashed on his thick mat of soaking wet hair. "speed her, bill," went on daisy, petulantly; "you could go fast enough in the moonlight,--why do you slow down now, when we all want to get home?" no answer from farnsworth, who was intently looking and listening. "why do you, bill?" reiterated the irritating voice, and farnsworth's never very patient temper gave way. "shut up, daisy!" he cried. "i'm doing the best i can,--but that's all the good it does. we've got to stop. the gasolene is out!" all of them, accustomed to motors, knew what this meant. like a flash, each mind flew back to think who was to blame for this. and each realised that it was not the fault of the chauffeur at "red chimneys" who had let them take out the car. for, had they not said they were going only for a short spin? and the car had been amply stocked for about two hours. yes, it must be about two hours since they started, for in their merry mood they had had no thought of time, and had gone far, far inland. "we can't stop," shrieked daisy, "in this storm! no house or shelter near! bill farnsworth, i'll never forgive you for bringing me into this pickle!" farnsworth gave a short, sharp laugh. "i can get along without your forgiveness, daisy, if i can only get you people home safely. great cats, how it rains! i say, pennington, what do you think we'd better do? where's miss fairfield?" looking around suddenly, bill saw no sign of patty in the nondescript heap by jack's side. but at his startled question, a wet face and a mass of tangled curls and apple blossoms, equally wet, emerged from the soaking laprobe. "here i am!" said a plaintive little voice that tried hard to be brave. but a sharp flare of lightning sent the golden head suddenly back to its hiding-place. "miss fairfield is awfully afraid of electrical storms," explained jack, patting the wet heap anywhere, in a well-meant attempt at reassurance. "pooh!" exclaimed daisy. "what a 'fraid-cat! i'm not frightened,--but i'm terribly wet. i'm soaked! i'm drowned!" "so are we all, daisy," said bill, shivering as the wind flapped his dripping shirtsleeves; "but what can we do? the car won't move." "well, we can move! let's get out and walk." "why, daisy, what's the use? where could we walk to?" "well, i think you two men are horrid! you just sit there and let patty and me catch our death of cold. though patty is wrapped up snug and warm in that robe. if she's protected you don't care about me!" "daisy! what nonsense---" began bill, but patty's head popped out again. "if you think i'm snug and warm, daisy dow, you're greatly mistaken! i never was so uncomfortable in all my life! and i'm scared besides! that's more than you are!" jack pennington laughed. "while the girls are comparing notes of discomfort," he said, "how about us, bill? do you feel,-er--well-groomed and all that?" farnsworth looked critically at his soaked apparel. "i've been drier," he replied, "but you know, pennington, i'm one of those chaps who look well in any costume!" the absurdity of this speech brought patty's head out again, and she felt a shock of surprise to note that the jesting words were true. bill farnsworth, coatless, dripping wet, and exceedingly uncomfortable, sat upright, tossing back his clustered wet hair, and positively laughing at the situation. "pardon my hilarity," he said, as he caught a glimpse of patty's face, "but you're all so lugubrious, somebody must laugh." "all right, i'll laugh with you!" and patty sat upright, the dark laprobe held hoodwise, so that she looked like a mischievous nun. "if you'll please turn off the thunder and lightning, i won't mind the rain a bit. in fact, i'm getting used to it. i know i was meant for a duck, anyway." "well, duck, the thunder and lightning are getting farther away," said bill, truly, "but i do believe it rains harder than ever! what can we do?" "can't we get under the car?" suggested daisy. "not very well; and it wouldn't help much. it's rather wet, even under there," and bill looked at the soaked road. "we passed a house about a mile back," said patty, "couldn't we walk back to that?" "i thought of that," said bill, "but i didn't suppose you girls could walk it,--with those foolish step-ladder heels you're wearing. and white satin slippers aren't real good style for mud-wading. i could carry you, miss fairfield,--you're only a will-o'-the-wisp; but daisy here is a heavyweight." "oh, no matter about me," said daisy, spitefully; "just see that miss fairfield is looked after!" big bill farnsworth looked at the speaker. "daisy dow," he said, quietly, "don't you get me any more riled than i am! if you do, i won't be pleasant!" "but i can walk," put in patty, anxious to prevent a quarrel. "i haven't on walking boots exactly, but i can flounder along somehow. and we must get to shelter! help me along, jack, and i'll try not to mind the thunder and lightning." "plucky little girl!" said farnsworth, and daisy scowled in the darkness. "what time is it?" asked patty, who was now thoroughly ready to face the situation. "just twelve o'clock," replied jack, after several futile attempts to light a match and see his watch. "then we must try to get to that house," declared patty. "i had no idea it was so late. come, people, no matter what the result, we must try to reach shelter and civilisation." "right!" said pennington. "it's the only thing to do. i remember the house. there was no light in it, though." "no; it's so late. but we can ring up the family, and they'll surely take us in for the night." "not if they see us first!" exclaimed bill. "oh, miss fairfield, you look like ophelia with those flowers tumbling all over your face!" patty laughed, and removing the apple-blossom wreath from her head, was about to throw it away. but she felt it gently taken from her hand in the darkness, and she somehow divined that farnsworth had put it in his pocket. the combination of this sentimental act with the drenched condition of the flower wreath--and, presumably, the pocket, was too much for patty, and she giggled outright. "what are you laughing at?" snapped daisy. "_i_ don't see anything funny in this whole performance." "oh, do think it's funny, daisy," implored patty, still laughing. "oh, do! for it isn't funny at all, unless we make it so by thinking it is so!" "stop talking nonsense," daisy flung back. "oh, i've sprained my ankle. i can't walk at all! oh, oh!" farnsworth looked at her. "daisy," he said, sternly, "if you've really sprained your ankle, we'll have to get back into the car--for i can't carry you. but if you can walk, i advise you to do so." daisy looked a little frightened at his severe tone. "oh, i suppose i can walk," she said, "though it hurts me dreadfully. hold me up, bill." "i'll hold you," he replied, cheerily. "now we'll take this lantern, and we'll walk ahead. pennington, you follow with miss fairfield. don't talk much, you'll need all your strength to walk through the storm. it's abating a little, but it's raining cats and dogs yet." unconsciously, bill had assumed command of the expedition, and involuntarily, the others obeyed him. that mile was a dreadful walk! at first, it seemed fairly easy, for the road was a good one, though wet and slippery. but soon the satin slippers were soaked; stones and bits of gravel made their way inside, and at last patty found it almost impossible to keep hers on at all. jack tried to help, by tying the little slippers on with his own and patty's handkerchiefs, but these soon gave way. the rain fell steadily now; not in dashes and sheets, but a moderate downpour that seemed as if it meant to go on forever. jack could do little to help, save to grasp patty's arm tightly and "boost" her along. daisy stood it better, for she was of far stronger build than fragile patty, and big bill almost carried her along with his own long, sturdy strides. after what seemed an interminable walk, they reached the house in question. it was a large, fine-looking structure, but as no lights were visible, the family had evidently retired. "i should think they'd leave a night light in the hall," grumbled daisy, as the quartette climbed the veranda steps and stood, dripping, at the front door. "whew!" exclaimed jack. "it's good to get where that rain doesn't drive straight into your eyes, anyway! ring the bell, farnsworth." "can't find it. ah, here it is!" and bill pushed the electric button, and held it, ringing a continuous peal. but no one came to the door, and the shivering four grew impatient, to think that shelter was so near, yet unavailable. "you keep punching this bell, pennington," suggested bill, "and i'll reconnoitre round to the other entrances. there must be side doors and things." jack kept the bell going, but no one responded, and no lights showed in the house. at last bill returned from his tour of exploration. "i've been all the way round," he said; "there are three or four entrances to this mansion, and all have bells, but nobody answered my various and insistent ringings. what shall us do now, poor things?" "i suppose they're afraid we're burglars," observed patty; "and they're afraid to let us in." "if they don't come pretty soon, i will be a burglar," declared bill, "and i'll get in in burglar fashion. it isn't fair for people to have a warm, dry house, and keep forlorn wet people out of it. we've got to get in! let's bang on the doors." but no amount of banging and pounding, no shaking of door knobs, no whistling or shouting served to bring response. "throw pebbles at the window," patty suggested, and immediately a young hailstorm bombarded the second-story panes. "no good!" commented bill. "so here goes!" and without further warning his large and well-aimed foot crashed through a long front window which reached down to the floor. "oh, my gracious!" exclaimed patty. "what a thing to do!" "the only way is the best way," returned bill, gaily. "now, wait a minute, you girls, i'll let you in." carefully looking out for the broken glass, big bill inserted his hand, sprung back the catch, and opened the window. "don't come in this way," he cautioned, "i'll open the front door." farnsworth found himself in a large, pleasant room, evidently a drawing-room. but without pausing to look around, he made for the hall, and tried to open the great front doors. "can't do it," he called to those outside. "i'll open another window." in a moment, he had thrown up the sash of another long, low window, in a room the other side of the hall, and invited his friends in. "couldn't let you girls walk in on that broken glass," he explained. "come in this way, and make yourselves at home." "we're too wet,--we'll spoil things," said patty, hesitating at the long lace curtains and fine floors and rugs. "nonsense! come on! where do you suppose the electric light key is? whoo! here we have it!" a flood of light filled the room, and the girls saw they were in a comfortable, pleasant library or sitting-room, evidently the home of cultured, refined people. chapter xii a welcome shelter a piano stood open, and daisy sat at it, striking a few chords of "home, sweet home." this made them all laugh, but farnsworth said, reprovingly, "come away from that, daisy. we have to enter this house to shelter ourselves, but we needn't spoil their belongings unnecessarily." daisy pouted, but she came away from the piano, having already left many drops of water on its keys and shining rosewood case. patty smiled appreciatively at bill's thoughtfulness, but said, with growing alarm: "where do you suppose the people are? they must have heard us come in, even if they were sound asleep." "it's pretty queer, i think," said jack. "oh!" cried daisy, "what do you mean? do you think there's anything wrong?" and she began to cry, in sheer, hysterical fright and discomfort. "it is queer," agreed bill, looking out into the hall, and listening. then patty's practical good sense came to her aid. "nonsense!" she said. "you're an ungrateful bunch! here you have shelter from the storm, and you all begin to cry! well, no," she added, smiling, "you boys are not exactly crying,--but if you were girls, you would be! now, behave yourselves, and brace up to this occasion! first, there's a fireplace, and here's a full woodbox. build a roaring fire, and let's dry off a little. meantime, i wish you two men would go over the house, and find out who's in it. daisy and i will stay here." "_i_ won't stay here alone with patty," sobbed daisy, who was shaking with nervous fear. "there, there, daisy," said bill, "don't cry. i'll fix it. miss fairfield, you're a brick! your ideas, as i shall amend them, are fine! pennington, you stay here with the girls, and build the biggest fire you can make. i'll investigate this domicile, and see if the family are really the seven sleepers, or if they're surely afraid to come downstairs, for fear we're burglars." patty flashed a glance of admiration at the big fellow, but she only said: "go along, little billee; but hurry back and dry yourself before you catch pneumonia." bill went off whistling, and jack and patty built a rousing fire. the woodbox was ample and well filled, and the fireplace, a wide one, and the crackling flames felt most grateful to the wet refugees. jack wanted to go after farnsworth, but daisy wouldn't hear of it, so he stayed with the girls. soon big bill returned, smiling all over his good-natured face. "not a soul in the whole house!" he reported. "i've been all over it, from attic to cellar. everything in good order; beds made up, and so forth. but no food in the larder, so i assume the family has gone away for a time." "well, of all funny situations!" exclaimed patty. cheered by the warmth, her face was smiling and dimpling, and her drying hair was curling in soft tendrils all over her head. "come to the fire, little billee, and see if you can't begin to commence to dry out a little bit." "i've just washed my hair, and i can't do a thing with it!" said big bill, comically, as he ran his fingers through his thick mane of brown, wavy hair. "but, i say, this fire feels good! wow! but i'm damp! i say, pennington, i've been thinking." "hard?" "yes, hard. now you must all listen to me. i expect opposition, but it doesn't matter. what i'm going to say now, goes! see?" bill looked almost ferocious in his earnestness, and patty looked at him with admiration. he was so big and powerful, physically, and now his determined face and strongly set jaw betokened an equal mental power. "i'm at the head of this expedition, and in the present emergency, my word is law!" he banged his clenched fist on the mantel, as he stood before the fire, and seemed fairly to challenge a reply. "well, go on," said patty, laughing. "what's it all about?" "it's just this. you two girls have got to stay in this house, alone, while pennington and i walk back to spring beach, now!" "good gracious! what for?" exclaimed patty, while daisy screamed, "i won't do it! i won't stay here alone!" "be quiet," said bill, looking at daisy sternly. "you must do as i say." "you're right, farnsworth," said jack pennington. "it's nearly one o'clock, and we must start right off." "yes," agreed bill. "now, miss fairfield, i assure you, you will be perfectly safe here. it isn't a pleasant prospect, but there's nothing else to be done. the house is securely fastened against intruders. you can lock the drawing-room doors on this side, so the broken window need cause you no uneasiness. we will walk back to 'red chimneys,' unless we can get a lift somehow. but, at any rate, we will send a car back here for you at the earliest possible moment." "it is the only thing to do," agreed patty; "but i hate to have you boys start out so wet. can't you borrow from your host's wardrobe?" "good idea!" laughed bill. "i saw some men's raincoats in the hall. i think we will appropriate them, eh, pennington?" with very few further words, the two men took possession of raincoats, rubbers, and umbrellas belonging to their unknown hosts, and went out through the open, broken window into the night. it was still raining, but not so hard, and bill called back cheerily, "good-night, ladies," as they tramped away. "it's awful," daisy whimpered, "to leave us two girls here alone and unprotected! i know we'll be robbed and murdered by highwaymen!" "you're talking nonsense, daisy," said patty, sternly. "now, look here, if you'll just be friendly and decent, we needn't have such a bad time, but if you're going to be cross and cry all the time, i shall simply let you alone, and we'll have a horrid, uncomfortable time." this straightforward, common-sense talk brought daisy to her senses, and though she still looked petulant, she made no more cross or unkind speeches. "what are you going to do?" she enquired as patty took off her chiffon gown, and held it carefully before the fire. "that frock is ruined." "yes, i know, but i'm going to pick it out and make it look as decent as i can. i suppose i'll have to wear it home when i go. take off yours, and i'll dry them both nicely. i'm good at this sort of thing. here, i'll unhook it." daisy dropped her own party frock on the floor and showed little interest as patty picked it up and daintily fingered its frills into something like shapeliness. "hunt around, daisy," patty said, knowing it best to keep the girl occupied. "surely you can find something to put round our shoulders. an afghan or even a table cover would do for a dressing jacket." slightly interested, daisy went into the next room and returned with two lengths of brocaded silk. "they're bookcase curtains," she explained. "i slipped the rings off the pole. see, we can each have one." "good!" said patty, draping the curtain round her shoulders, sontag fashion. "these are fine. now, see, i'm getting your dress quite fluffy again." "so you are. i'll finish it, and you do your own. aren't you going to bed, patty?" "no, not exactly. suppose we sleep here. you take the couch, and i'll doze in this big armchair." "are you--are you frightened, patty?" "n--no; no! of course i'm not! what's there to be afraid of?" "well--i am," and daisy began to whimper, and then to cry. "daisy dow! you stop that! i'd be all right if you'd behave yourself! now, don't you get hysterical! if you do, i'll--i'll telephone for the doctor! oh, daisy! the telephone! why didn't we think of that before? there must be one! let's hunt for it." spurred by this new thought, patty ran through the rooms in search of a telephone. she found one in the back part of the hall, but, alas, it had been disconnected and was useless. "bill must have found that out," patty said, thoughtfully; "and he didn't tell us." "why not?" demanded daisy. "why wouldn't he tell us?" "because he's so thoughtful and considerate. i feel sure he thought it would make us feel more lonely if we knew the telephone was there, but wouldn't work." "well, it does!" declared daisy. "i'm so lonely and frightened and miserable, i believe i'll die!" "oh, no, you won't," said patty, cheerfully. "now, i'll tell you what, daisy. you lie down on the couch,--here's a nice afghan to put over you,--and i'll sing a little." this sounded comfortable, so daisy, now quite warm and dry, lay down, and after tucking the afghan over her, patty went to the piano. she played a few soft chords, and then sang, softly, a crooning lullaby. it is not surprising that under the influence of the soothing music, the warm fire, and her own fatigue, daisy soon fell sound asleep. assured of this, patty left the piano, and sat in the big easy-chair in front of the fire. she thought over their escapade, and though it was certainly serious enough, she smiled to herself as she thought of the humorous side of it. it certainly seemed funny for daisy and herself to be alone in a big, handsome, strange house,--wrapped in other people's bookcase curtains! then she thought of big bill and jack trudging miles and miles through the storm. what a splendid fellow bill farnsworth was, anyhow! he had left no room for argument or even discussion; he had decided there was but one way out of this situation, and he took it. jack had acquiesced, and had done as he was told, but bill had been the moving spirit. what good sense he had shown! and with what forgetfulness of self he had accepted his own hard part of the performance. of course the boys wouldn't have to walk all the way to spring beach. of course they would manage somehow to get a conveyance, but bill had not bothered about such details; he had seen his way, and had walked straight out into it. surely he was a splendid man,--a big, fine man,--and--he had taken her apple-blossom wreath,--and he had put it in his pocket,--because--because-- and even as she thought of bill's confiscation of her flowers, patty's golden head drooped a little, the long lashes fell over her blue eyes, and in the sheltering depths of the soft-cushioned chair, she fell sound asleep. a few hours later she awoke. at first she couldn't realise where she was, then, like a flash, the truth came to her. greatly refreshed by her nap, she jumped up, smiling. the fire was out, so she rekindled it, and proceeded to don her dried but sadly wilted looking party dress. she hesitated a moment, and then concluded to wake daisy, as a rescuing party might arrive at any minute. daisy sat up on her couch, and rubbed her eyes. "what time is it?" she asked, not yet fully awake. "i've no idea," said patty, laughing. "i never wear my watch in the evening. but," and she looked from the window as she raised the blind, "i see streaks of pink, so that must be the east, and the sun is about ready to rise. so up, up, lucy, the sun is in the sky, or will be soon. and i'm sure our deliverers will soon come to rescue us from this durance vile!" patty was in high spirits now, and danced about the room while she urged daisy to get into her frock. "bookcase curtains are all very well for boudoir jackets," she said, "but not fit for appearance in polite society. see, your frock looks fairly well; a lot better than mine." sure enough the soft silk of daisy's gown had stood its wetting much better than patty's chiffon, but they were both sad wrecks of the dainty costumes they had been the evening before. patty flung open the windows, and let in the cool morning air, and as she stepped out on the veranda she cried, "oh, daisy, here they come!" a big touring car was visible at a distance, and in a moment patty saw that farnsworth himself was driving it. "hooray!" he called, as he came nearer, and mona, who sat beside him, cried out, "oh, patty, patty! are you safe?" "safe? of course i'm safe," said patty, who despite her draggled dress, looked like the incarnation of morning as she stood on the veranda, her sweet face glad and smiling beneath its cloud of golden curls. "thank heaven!" cried big bill, as he fairly flung himself out of his driver's seat and rushed up to her. he almost took her in his arms, but just checked his mad impulse in time, and grasping both her hands, shook them vigorously up and down as he whispered, "oh, my little girl! you never can know what it cost me to go off and leave you here alone!" his frank, honest blue eyes looked straight into her deep violet ones, and his glance told eloquently of his remorse and regret for the mischief he had thoughtlessly brought about. patty understood at once all his unspoken message, and smiled a full and free forgiveness. "it's all right, little billee," she said, softly. "you were a brave, true friend, and i shall never forget your chivalry and true kindness." a moment more he held her hands, gazing deep into her eyes, and then turned abruptly to greet daisy. chapter xiii at daisy's dictation at farnsworth's directions, the "rescuing party" had brought with them a glazier and his kit of tools and materials. while he fitted a new pane of glass in place of the broken one, mona expressed her opinion of the escapade of the night before. "it was all your fault, bill!" she exclaimed. "you ought not to have driven so fast and so far." "i know it, ma'am," said big bill, looking like a culprit schoolboy. "i'm awful 'shamed of myself!" "and well you may be!" chimed in adele kenerley. "suppose this house hadn't been here, what would you have done?" "i should have built one," declared bill, promptly. "so you would!" agreed patty, heartily. "you're equal to any emergency, little billee; and it wasn't all your fault, anyway. _i_ egged you on, because i love to drive fast, especially at night." "very reprehensible tastes, young woman," said jim kenerley, trying to be severe, but not succeeding very well. "oh, you might have known this house was here," said mona. "it's mr. kemper's house. they've gone away for a month. they're coming back next week." "well, they'll find everything in order," said patty. "we didn't hurt a thing, except the window, and we've fixed that. we burned up a lot of their firewood, though." "they won't mind that," said mona, laughing. "they're awfully nice people. we'll come over and tell them the whole story when they get home." "and now, can't we go home?" said patty. "i'm just about starved." "you poor dear child," cried mrs. kenerley. "you haven't had a bite of breakfast! come on, mona, let's take patty and daisy home in one of the cars; the rest can follow in the other." two cars of people had come over to escort the wanderers home, so this plan was agreed upon. but somehow, bill farnsworth managed to hasten the glazier's task, so that all were ready to depart at once. "i'll drive the big car," cried bill. "come on, patty," and before any one realised it, he had swung the girl up into the front seat of the big touring car, and had himself climbed to the driver's seat. "i had to do this," he said to patty, as they started off. "i must speak to you alone a minute, and be sure that you forgive me for the trouble i made you." "of course i forgive you," said patty, gaily. "i'd forgive you a lot more than that." "you would? why?" "oh, because i'm such a good forgiver. i'd forgive anybody, anything." "huh! then it isn't much of a compliment to have your forgiveness!" "well, why should i pay you compliments?" "that's so! why should you? in fact, it ought to be the other way. let me pay them to you." "oh, i don't care much about them. i get quite a lot, you see--" "i see you're a spoiled baby, that's what you are!" "now,--little billee!" and patty's tone was cajoling, and her sideways glance and smile very provoking. "and i'd like to do my share of the spoiling!" he continued, looking at her laughing, dimpled face and wind-tossed curls. "so you shall! begin just as soon as you like and spoil me all you can," said patty, still in gay fooling, when she suddenly remembered daisy's prohibition of this sort of fun. "of course i don't mean all this," she said, suddenly speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. "but i do, and i shall hold you to it. you know i have your blossom wreath; i've saved it as a souvenir of last night." "that forlorn bit of drowned finery! oh, little billee, i thought you were poetical! no poet could keep such a tawdry old souvenir as that!" "it isn't tawdry. i dried it carefully, and picked the little petals all out straight, and it's really lovely." "then if it's in such good shape, i wish you'd give it back to me to wear. i was fond of that wreath." "no, it's mine now. i claim right of salvage. but i'll give you another in place of it,--if i may." patty didn't answer this, for daisy, tired of being neglected, leaned her head over between the two, and commenced chattering. the two girls were well wrapped up in coats and veils mona had brought them, but they were both glad when they came in sight of "red chimneys." patty went gaily off to her own rooms, saying she was going to have a bath and a breakfast, and then she was going to sleep for twenty-four hours. "i'm not," announced daisy. "i'm going to make a straight dive for the breakfast room. come with me, bill, and see that i get enough to eat." roger, mona, and the kenerleys were going for an ocean dip, and laurence cromer, who was a late riser, had not yet put in an appearance. aunt adelaide was with patty, hearing all about the adventure, so bill was obliged to accept daisy's rather peremptory invitation. "what's the matter with you, bill?" asked the girl, as she threw off her motor coat and sat at the table in her low-necked party gown. "nothing. i say, daisy, why don't you go and get into some togs more suitable for a.m.?" "because i'm hungry. yes, james, omelet, and some of the fried chicken. bill, don't you like me any more?" "yes, of course i do. but you ought to act more,--more polite, you know." "oh, fiddlesticks! you mean more finicky,--like that paragon, patty. you think she's perfect, because she never raises her voice above a certain pitch, and she expects all you men to lie down and let her walk over you." "she may walk over me, if she likes; and i want you to stop speaking of her in that slighting way, daisy." "oh, you do, do you? and, pray, what right have you to say how i shall speak of her?" "the right that any man has, to take the part of one who is absent." "you'd like to have more rights than that, wouldn't you?" "maybe i would, but i'm not confiding in you." "you don't have to. yours is an open secret. everybody can see you're perfectly gone on that little pink and white thing!" "that will do, daisy; don't say another word of that sort!" and bill's voice was so stern and tense that daisy stopped, a little frightened at his demeanour. what he might have said further, she never knew, for just then guy martin and lora sayre came strolling into the room. "hello, people!" said guy. "where's everybody that belongs to this chateau? we've come through myriads of empty rooms, but at last we find the gems of the collection." "why, miss dow," exclaimed lora, looking at daisy's gown, "is this a dinner party?" daisy laughed, and explained, rather pleased than otherwise to be the sole narrator of the interesting tale. needless to say, she and bill farnsworth figured as the principal actors in her dramatic version of the motor adventure, and, naturally, bill could not contradict her. "i congratulate you, miss dow," said guy, "on looking so fit after such a trying ordeal. patty is all right, isn't she?" "oh, yes; she's all right, but you know, she can't stand much fatigue. and the whole performance unnerved her, and gave her a chance to insist on having a beauty sleep." "which she doesn't need for that purpose," laughed lora, good-naturedly. "but i fear we are keeping you, miss dow. don't you want to get into a morning frock? wouldn't you feel more comfortable?" "no, it doesn't matter," and daisy's manner gave the effect of sacrificing her comfort to the guests, though really she was of no mind to run away and lose this call. "we came to talk about the pageant," began guy. "we want to get the various parts settled." "well, of course we can't answer for the others," said daisy, "but let's discuss it,--it's such fun, and among us, we may think up some good ideas. i've had lots of experience with this sort of thing out west." "oh, have you?" said guy, eagerly. "then do help me out. i have to get up such a lot of characters,--all representative of the sea, you know. i want mr. farnsworth here for father neptune, that's certain." "i'm quite willing," said bill, good-naturedly. "do i wear a bathing suit?" "no, indeed," replied lora. "you wear a gorgeous robe, all dark green muslin, in billowy waves, and cotton wool on it for sea foam. then you'll have a stunning crown and a trident and a lot of paraphernalia." "lovely," said bill. "i do think i'll look just sweet! who is with me in this misery?" "well, the spirit of the sea is the next most important figure on this float. i wanted to be it, but mother thinks i'm not strong enough to stand it. she refuses to let me try. so i suppose it will be patty." "patty fairfield!" exclaimed daisy. "she's not strong enough, either. suppose i take that part. i'm used to posing, and i can stand in one position without getting tired. i'll do it, if you want me to." "but we've really asked patty," demurred guy, "and she hasn't decided yet." "well, leave it to me," said daisy. "i'll ask her, and if she wants the part, all right, and if not, i'll take it." this seemed satisfactory, and the matter was dropped while they discussed other details of the float. laurence cromer came down while they were talking, and they all adjourned to the veranda, while the artist gave them the benefit of his advice as to decorations and scenic effects. then the bathers came back from the beach, and all went to work heartily to make and carry out plans for the pageant. patty had luncheon sent to her room, for she was more affected by the exposure to the storm and the nerve exhaustion of the adventure than the others were. however, as mona and mrs. kenerley and baby may spent much of the time with her, she did not have a dull day. in the afternoon daisy came in. patty, in a blue silk negligee, sat at her desk writing letters. "how sweet you look!" said daisy, sitting beside her. "when are you coming downstairs? the boys are moping all over the place. i believe you're staying up here for coquetry." the tone was light, but patty could see that daisy's words were at least partly in earnest. but they were untrue, and patty said, "oh, i'm going down for tea. i'm just writing to my father. then i'll dress and go downstairs. i'm all right, you know." "yes, you look so," said daisy, glancing at the bright eyes and roseleaf complexion. "you don't look a bit tired." "i'm not now; but i was when i reached home this morning. weren't you?" "not very. i'm stronger than you are. guy martin and lora sayre were here to talk about the pageant." "were they? is lora going to be spirit of the sea?" "no; her mother won't let her. they asked me to take the part, but i don't want to." "why not?" said patty, looking at her curiously. "oh, i think they'd better have a spring beach girl. you, for instance." "they asked me before, but if you'll do it, i'll take something else. who's going to be neptune?" "bill. that's another reason why you'd better be the sea spirit." "nonsense!" and patty was angry at herself to feel the blush that rose to her cheek. but daisy made no comment, and in a moment she said suddenly: "patty, write a note for me, will you? i've run a sliver into my forefinger and i can't hold a pen." "a sliver? oh, daisy, does it hurt?" "no, not much now. i got it out. but the tip of my finger is painful if i write. you've your pen in your hand, so just scribble a line for me. i can sign it." "of course i will. dictate, please!" patty took a fresh sheet of paper, and tried to look like a professional amanuensis. "i really would rather not be the spirit of the sea," dictated daisy, and patty wrote obediently. "please try to get some one else for the part. but may i ask you as a personal favour not to speak of the matter to me at any time." "thank you," said daisy, taking the paper from patty and folding it. "i can sign it, even if i have to use my left hand. i'm going to give it to mr. martin for, somehow, i don't want to talk about the matter to him." "i don't see why," said patty, a little puzzled. "never mind, girlie. you know sometimes there are little foolish reasons we don't like to tell of. don't say anything about all this to anybody, will you?" "no, certainly not," said patty, wonderingly. "don't tell any one i asked you to write the note." "no." "you see, i hate to acknowledge a hurt finger. it sounds so silly." the whole affair seemed silly to patty, for she could see no reason why daisy shouldn't tell guy that she didn't want to be spirit of the sea. but it was none of her affair, and as daisy went away she put the whole matter out of her mind. after making a leisurely toilette, she went downstairs and found a group of young people having tea on the veranda. her appearance was hailed with shouts of joy. seats were offered her in every choice position, but the pleading look in farnsworth's big blue eyes persuaded her to sit beside him in a broad, red-cushioned swing. "you're all right, little girl, aren't you?" he said, anxiously, and patty laughed gaily up at him as she answered, "yes, indeed! and all ready for another adventure, if you'll take care of me!" "you apple blossom!" whispered bill. "i won't hold you to your word, but i'd like to. do you know, i've promised to be father neptune in this dinky parade they're getting up. won't i be the gay old sea dog! i hope you'll be the spirit of the sea." "that isn't decided; don't ask me about it yet," said patty, who had no mind to commit herself until guy should ask her definitely to take the part. though since lora couldn't take it, and daisy wouldn't, she felt pretty sure it would fall to her. a number of the spring beach boys and girls had drifted in, as they often did at tea time, and the talk of the many small groups was all of the coming festivity. beside the sea float, there were the various rivers to be represented. the nile would be characterised by egyptian costumes and effects. the hudson would be an attempt at a representation of "the half moon." the tiber was to show gorgeous roman citizens; the thames proudly contemplated a houseboat, and the seine, french scenery. also, there would be floats representing venice, holland, the panama canal, niagara falls, the open polar sea, and many others showing some phase or manifestation of water's great kingdom. daisy had inveigled guy martin into a tete-a-tete corner with her, but after a polite quarter of an hour, he declared he must move around and confer with a few people concerning their parts in the carnival. "how about patty's being spirit of the sea?" he asked. "oh," daisy said, "you'd better not say anything to her about that. i asked her, and she gave me this note to give you. it isn't signed, nor addressed, but you see it's her handwriting. she wrote it hastily, but she said she didn't want to talk about the matter." guy looked a little surprised, but took the note and read it. "h'm," he said, "rather not be spirit of the sea. get some one else. and--as a personal favour, don't speak of the matter to her! well, pretty patty must have a miff of some sort. most unlike her! however, her word is law. i'll never mention the subject to her, since she asks me not to. but our time is getting short, and most of the girls have their parts. miss dow, won't you be spirit of the sea?" "why, yes, if you want me to," said daisy, looking modest and demure. "i can make the costume easily, because i know just how. it requires fishnet draperies over green chiffon, and lots of seaweed decorations and that sort of thing." "yes; you have just the right idea. then i'll put you down for that. you and mr. farnsworth will make a fine pair. i wonder what patty would like to be." "i'll ask her," volunteered daisy. "i know you're awfully busy, mr. martin, and i want to help you all i can. so leave that matter to me." "very well, i will," said guy, who really had a multitude of cares and affairs; "but be sure to make her take some good part. it wouldn't be a pageant at all with patty fairfield left out! if i didn't have to skip away this very minute to keep an engagement with a scene painter, i'd ask her what's the matter, anyhow!" "oh, mr. martin, you forget she asked you, as a personal favour, not to speak to her about it." "by jove! so she did! wonder what's come over the girlie! if anybody has offended her, i'll kill him! well, i must fly, miss dow; attend the rehearsals, won't you? see you tomorrow." guy made hasty adieux to mona, and went off on his errands. daisy, in high spirits at the success of her ruse, went straight over to patty. "patty, dear," she said, sweetly, "i couldn't withstand mr. martin's persuasions, and i've promised him i'll be the spirit of the sea. you know i told you i didn't want to, but he overruled my objections and i consented." "all right, daisy," said patty, without a trace of regret on her sweet face. she did feel regret keenly, for guy had asked her long ago, and she had only hesitated out of generosity toward lora, who also wanted it. but it was not her nature to resent such things, and she concluded that guy thought daisy better adapted for the part than herself. "what part will you take?" daisy went on. "mr. martin told me to ask you and arrange for you." daisy's manner showed such undue importance and ostentatious authority that jack pennington spoke up. "are you assistant chairman, miss dow?" "mr. martin didn't call it that," said daisy, smiling pleasantly; "he only left it to me to see that miss fairfield had a good place in the pageant." "you bet miss fairfield will have a good place!" exclaimed jack. "don't you bother about it, miss dow. let me relieve you of that duty. _i_'ll see to miss fairfield's place." "but mr. martin left it in my care," persisted daisy, getting a little frightened lest her deceit about the note should be discovered. "leave mr. martin to me," said jack, a little curtly. "i'll explain to him that i relieved you of the responsibility of patty's place in the show. i say, patty, let's you and me be dutch kiddies on the holland float." "shall us?" said patty, smiling in a whimsical way that meant nothing at all. chapter xiv pageant plans as patty was preparing for bed that night, mona came tapping at her door. "come in," said patty. "oh, it's you, mona,--well, i am glad to see you! in the turmoil of this 'house party' of yours, we almost never see each other alone, do we?" "no; and i'm sorry. but you're enjoying it, aren't you, patty?" "yes, indeed! i love it! people running in and out all the time, and a lot of people all over the house,--oh, yes, it's gay." "patty, i'm bothered about this pageant business. how does it happen that daisy has taken your part?" "it wasn't my part. it had never been assigned, until guy persuaded daisy to take it." "persuaded fiddlesticks! she made him give it to her." "no, she didn't. she was determined not to have that part, but he coaxed her into it. she told me so herself." "pooh! you don't know daisy as i do. you're so sweet and generous yourself you think everybody else is. i wish i hadn't asked her here. i thought she had outgrown her school-girl tricks. she was always like that." "like what?" "nothing; never mind. what does bill say about it?" "nothing. i don't believe he knows who's to be spirit of the sea. and probably he doesn't care." "probably he does! don't be a goose, patty fairfield! you know that great big angel bill adores the ground you walk on." "is he as fond of real estate as all that? well, i can't give it to him, for it's your ground that i'm on most of the time, and i suppose the beach is owned by the realty company or something." "funny girl! patty, you make me laugh boisterously with that wit of yours! well, miss sweetness, will you help me with my costume? guy has 'persuaded' me to be cleopatra on the nile float." "oh, mona, how lovely! you'll be a perfect cleopatra. indeed i will help you! what are you going to wear?" "whatever's the right thing. of course it must be magnificent in effect. i'm going to send for a dressmaker and two helpers to-morrow morning, and put them to work on it. they can fit linings while i send to new york for the material. lizette can go and select it. what do you think of gold-brocaded white satin?" "appropriate enough for cleopatra, but ridiculous for a pantomime costume! get white paper muslin or sateen, and trace a design on it with gold paint." "no, sir-ee! i don't get a chance to shine as a dramatic star often, and i'm going to have the finest costume i can think up!" "oh, mona, you have no sense of proportion," laughed patty; "go ahead then, and get your white satin, if it will make you happy." apparently it would, and the two girls discussed the cleopatra costume in all its details, until the little clock on the dressing-table held its two hands straight up in shocked surprise. after mona left her, patty gave herself a scolding. it was a habit of hers, when bothered, to sit down in front of a mirror and "have it out with herself" as she expressed it. "patty fairfield," she said to the disturbed looking reflection that confronted her, "you're a silly, childish old thing to feel disappointed because you weren't chosen to be spirit of the sea! and you're a mean-spirited, ill-tempered goose to feel as you do, because daisy dow has that part. she'll be awfully pretty in it, and guy martin had a perfect right to choose her, and she had a perfect right to change her mind and say she'd take it, even if she had told you she didn't want it! now, miss, what have you to say for yourself? nothing? i thought so. you're vain and conceited and silly, if you think that you'd be a better spirit of the sea than daisy, and you show a very small and disagreeable nature when you take it so to heart. now, will you brace up and forget it?" and so practical and just was patty's true nature that she smiled at herself, and agreed to her own remarks. then dismissing the whole subject from her mind, she went to bed and to sleep. next day she went in search of laurence cromer, and found that young man sketching in a corner of one of the picturesque terraces of "red chimneys." "why these shyness?" asked patty, as he quickly closed his sketch-book at her approach. "why these modest coquetry? art afraid of me? gentle little me? who wouldn't hurt a 'squito? or am it that i be unworthy to look upon a masterpiece created by one of our risingest young artists?" "i don't want you to see this sketch till it's finished," said cromer, honestly. "it's going to be an awfully pretty bit, but unfinished, it looks like the dickens. let me sketch you, miss fairfield, may i?" "yes, indeed; but can you talk at the same time? i want your advice." "oh, yes; the more i talk the better i work. turn a little more to the right, please. oh, that's perfect! rest your fingertips on the balustrade, so--now, don't move!" "huh," remarked patty, as cromer began to sketch in swiftly, "how long do i have to stand this way? it isn't such an awful lot of fun." "oh, don't move! this is only a beginning, but i'll make a wonderful picture from it. that shining white linen frock is fine against the gleaming, sunlit marble of the terrace." "all right, i'll stand," said patty, goodnaturedly. "now you can return the favour by helping me out of a quandary. won't you advise me what part to take in the pageant? as a matter of fact, i think all the best parts are assigned, and i don't want to be 'one of the populace,' or just 'a voice heard outside'! i want a picturesque part." "i should say you did! or, rather the picturesque parts all want you. now, _i_'m designing the niagara float. it's unfinished, as yet,--the scheme, i mean,--but i know i want a figure for it, a sort of a,--well, a maid of the mist, don't you know. a spirituelle girl, draped all in grey misty tulle, and dull silver wings,--long, curving ones, and a star in her hair." "lovely!" cried patty. "and do you think i could be it?" "well, i had a brown-haired girl in mind. your colouring is more like 'dawn' or 'spring' or 'sunshine.'" "oh, i hate my tow-head!" exclaimed patty. "i wish i was a nut-brown maid." "don't be foolish," said cromer, in a matter-of-fact way. "you are the perfection of your own type. i never saw such true romney colouring. pardon me, miss fairfield, i'm really speaking of you quite impersonally. don't be offended, will you?" "no, indeed," said patty. "i quite understand, mr. cromer. but what part am i adapted for in the pageant?" "if you will, i'd like you to be maid of the mist. as i say, i had thought of a darker type, but with a floating veil of misty grey, and grey, diaphanous draperies, you would be very effective. turn the least bit this way, please." patty obeyed directions, while she thought over his idea. "maid of the mist" sounded pretty, and the artist's float was sure to be a beautiful one. "yes, i'll take that part, if you want me to," she said, and mr. cromer said he would design her costume that afternoon. "hello, apple blossom!" called a big, round voice, and bill farnsworth came strolling along the terrace. perched on his shoulder was baby may, her tiny hands grasping his thick, wavy hair, and her tiny feet kicking, as she squealed in glee. "misser bill my horsie," she announced. "me go ridy-by." "is there something on my shoulder?" asked bill, seemingly unconscious of his burden. "i thought a piece of thistledown lighted there, but it may have blown off." "there is a bit of thistledown there," said patty, "but don't brush it off. it's rather becoming to you." "indeed it is," agreed cromer. "i'd like to sketch you and that mite of humanity together." "you're ready to sketch anybody that comes along, seems to me," observed bill. "isn't this miss fairfield's turn?" "i expect she's about tired of holding her pose," said the artist. "i'll give her a rest, and make a lightning sketch of you two. baby's mother may like to have it." "oh, give it to me!" begged patty. "i'd love to have a picture of baby may." "but there'll be so much more of me in it than baby may," said bill, gravely. "never mind," laughed patty. "i shan't object to your presence there. now, i'll run away while you pose, for i might make you laugh at the wrong time." "don't go," pleaded bill, but patty had already gone. "what a beautiful thing she is," said cromer, as he worked away at his sketch-block. he spoke quite as if referring to some inanimate object, for he looked at patty only with an artist's eye. "she is," agreed bill. "she's all of that, and then some. she'll make a perfect spirit of the sea. i say, cromer, help me rig up my neptune togs, will you?" "of course i will, old chap. but miss fairfield isn't going to be on your float. she's agreed to be my maid of the mist." "she has! i say, cromer, that's too bad of you! how did you persuade her to change her plan?" "she didn't change. she had no idea of being on your float. she asked me what i thought she'd better be, and she said all the most desirable parts were already assigned." "h'm, quite so! oh, of course,--certainly! yes, yes, indeed!" "what's the matter with you, bill? are you raving? your speech is a bit incoherent." "incoherent, is it? lucky for you! if i were coherent, or said what i'm thinking, you'd be some surprised! you go on making your pencil marks while i think this thing out. all right, baby; did uncle bill joggle you too much? there,--now you're comfy again, aren't you? i say, laurence, i'll have my picture taken some other day. excuse me now, won't you? i have a few small fish to fry. come, babykins, let's go find mummy." "h'm," said laurence cromer to himself, as bill swung off with mighty strides toward the house. "somehow, i fancy he'll regain his lost spirit of the sea, or there'll be something doing!" baby may was gently, if somewhat unceremoniously, deposited in her mother's lap, and bill said gaily, "much obliged for this dance. reserve me one for to-morrow morning at the same hour. and, i say, mrs. kenerley, could you put me on the trail of miss fairfield?" "she went off in her runabout with roger farrington. i think she's heading for the telegraph office to order much materials and gewgaws for the pageant." "then, do you know where daisy dow is? i must flirt with somebody!" "try me," said pretty little mrs. kenerley, demurely. "i would, but i'm afraid baby may would tell her father." "that's so; she might. well, daisy is at the telephone in the library; i hear her talking." "thank you," said big bill, abruptly, and started for the library. "yes," he heard daisy saying as he entered the room, "a long, light green veil, floating backward, held by a wreath of silver stars ... certainly ... oh, yes, i understand ... good-bye." she hung up the receiver, and turned to see bill looking at her with a peculiar expression on his handsome, honest face. "what are you going to represent in your light green veil, daisy?" he asked. "the spirit of the sea," she replied. "i've arranged for the loveliest costume,--all green and shimmery, and dripping with seaweed." "how did you happen to be chosen for that part, daisy?" "guy martin insisted upon it. he said there was no one else just right for it." "how about patty fairfield?" "oh, she wouldn't take it. she told guy so." "she did! i wonder why she wouldn't take it?" "i don't know, bill, i'm sure. it couldn't have been because you're neptune, could it?" "it might be," bill flung out, between closed teeth, and turning, he strode quickly away. "bill," called daisy, and he returned. "what is it?" he said, and his face showed a hurt, pained look, rather than anger. "only this: patty asked guy as a special favour not to mention this matter to her. so i daresay you'll feel in honour bound not to speak of it." "h'm; i don't know as my honour binds me very strongly in that direction." "but it must, bill!" and daisy looked distinctly troubled. "i oughtn't to have told you, for patty trusted me not to tell anybody." "patty ought to know better than to trust you at all!" and with this parting shaft, bill walked away. on the veranda he met guy martin, who had called for a moment to discuss some pageant plans with mona. guy was just leaving, and bill walked by his side, down the path to the gate. "just a moment, martin, please. as man to man, tell me if patty fairfield refused to take the part of the spirit of the sea?" "why, yes; she did," said guy, looking perplexed. "it's a queer business and very unlike patty. but she wrote me a note, saying she didn't want the part, and asking me not to mention the matter to her at all." "she did? thank you. good-bye." and bill returned to the house, apparently thinking deeply. "hello, billy boy, what's the matter?" called mona, gaily, as he came up the veranda steps. "i'm pining for you," returned bill. "do shed the light of your countenance on me for a few blissful moments. you're the most unattainable hostess i ever house-partied with!" "all right, i'll walk down to the lower terrace and back with you. now, tell me what's on your mind." "how sympathetic you are, mona. well, i will tell you. i'm all broken up over this pageant business. i wanted patty fairfield on the float with me, and she won't take the part, and now daisy has cabbaged it." "i know it. but patty says guy martin chose daisy in preference to her. and she says it's all right." "great jumping anacondas! she says that, does she? and she says it's all right, does she? well, it's just about as far from all right as the north pole is from the south pole! oh--ho! e--hee! wow, wow! i perceive a small beam of light breaking in upon this black cat's pocket of a situation! mona, will you excuse me while i go to raise large and elegant ructions among your lady friends?" "now, bill, don't stir up a fuss. i know your wild western way of giving people 'a piece of your mind,' but spring beach society doesn't approve of such methods. what's it all about, bill? tell me, and let's settle it quietly." "settle it quietly! when an injustice has been done that ought to be blazoned from east to west!" "yes, and make matters most uncomfortable for the victim of that injustice." big bill calmed down. the anger faded from his face, his hands unclenched themselves, and he sat down on the terrace balustrade. "you're right, mona," he said, in a low, tense voice. "i'm nothing but an untamed cowboy! i have no refinement, no culture, no judgment. but i'll do as you say; i'll settle this thing quietly." as a matter of fact, bill's quiet, stern face and firm-set jaw betokened an even more strenuous "settlement" than his blustering mood had done; but he dropped the whole subject, and began to talk to mona, interestedly, about her own part in the pageant. chapter xv in the arbour after returning from her motor ride with roger, patty went to her room to write some letters. but she had written only so far as "my dearest nan," when a big pink rose came flying through the open window and fell right on the paper. patty looked up, laughing, for she knew it was bill who threw the blossom. the bay window of patty's boudoir opened on a particularly pleasant corner of the upper veranda,--a corner provided with wicker seats and tables, and screened by awnings from the midday sun. and when patty was seated by her desk in that same bay window, half-hidden by the thin, fluttering curtain draperies, big bill farnsworth had an incurable habit of strolling by. but he did not respond to patty's laughter in kind. "come out here," he said, and his tone was not peremptory, but beseechingly in earnest. wondering a little, patty rose and stepped over the low sill to the veranda. bill took her two little hands in his own two big ones, and looked her straight in the eyes. "what part are you going to take in this foolish racket they're getting up?" he asked. "i'm going to be maid of the mist," answered patty, trying to speak as if she didn't care. "why aren't you going to be spirit of the sea?" "because guy asked daisy to take that part." "yes! he asked her after you had refused to take it!" "refused! what do you mean?" "oh, i know all about it! you wrote a note to martin, telling him you wouldn't take the part, and asking him not to mention the subject to you again." "what!" and all the colour went out of patty's face as the thought flashed across her mind what this meant. she saw at once that daisy had given that note to guy, as coming from her! she saw that daisy must have done this intentionally! and this knowledge of a deed so despicable, so impossible, from patty's standpoint, stunned her like a blow. but she quickly recovered herself. patty's mind always jumped from one thought to another, and she knew, instantly, that however contemptible daisy's act had been, she could not and would not disclose it. "oh, that note," she said, striving to speak carelessly. "yes, that note," repeated bill, still gazing straight at her. "tell me about it." "there's nothing to tell," said patty, her voice trembling a little at this true statement of fact. "you wrote it?" "yes,--i wrote it," patty declared, for she could not tell the circumstance of her writing it. bill let go her hands, and a vanquished look came into his eyes. "i--i hoped you didn't," he said, simply; "but as you did, then i know why you did it. because you didn't want to be on the float with me." "oh, no,-no, bill!" cried patty, shocked at this added injustice. "it wasn't that,--truly it wasn't!" gladness lighted up bill's face, and his big blue eyes beamed again. "wasn't it?" he said. "wasn't it, apple blossom? then, tell me, why did you write it?" "but i don't want to tell you," and patty pouted one of her very prettiest pouts. "but you shall tell me! if you don't,"--bill came a step nearer,--"i'll pick you up and toss you up into the top branches of that biggest pine tree over there!" "pooh! who's afraid?" patty's saucy smile was too much for bill, and, catching her up, he cradled her in his strong arms, and swung her back and forth, as if preparatory to pitching her into the tree. "here you go!" he said, laughing at her surprised face. "one,--two--" "mr. farnsworth!" exclaimed a shocked voice, and aunt adelaide came hastening toward them. bill set patty down, not hastily, but very deliberately, and then said, with an anxious air: "how did it go, mrs. parsons? we're practising for our great scene in the pageant--the spirit of the sea, tossed by old father neptune. i do my part all right, but miss fairfield needs more practice, don't you think so?" aunt adelaide looked scrutinisingly at the young man, but his expression was so earnest that she couldn't doubt him. "patty looked scared to death," she said, with reminiscent criticism. "oughtn't she to look more gay and careless?" "she certainly ought," assented bill. "will you try the scene once more, miss fairfield, with mrs. parsons for audience?" "i will not!" exclaimed patty, and trying hard to repress her giggles, she fled back through her window, and drew the curtains. "i didn't know you were to have acting on the floats," said aunt adelaide, innocently. "i'm not sure that we shall," returned farnsworth, easily. "i had a notion it would be effective, but perhaps not. do you know where miss dow is, by any chance?" "why, i think she's just starting for the sayres'. yes, there she goes now,--walking down the path." "will you excuse me then, mrs. parsons, if i make a hurried exit? i want to see her on a most important matter." big bill fairly flung himself down the little staircase that led from the upper veranda to the lower one, and in a few moments, with long strides, he had overtaken daisy, who was alone. "whoop-ee! daisy, wait a minute!" he cried, as he neared her. "what for?" and daisy turned, smiling, but her smile faded as she caught sight of bill's face. "because i tell you to!" thundered bill. "because i want to talk to you,--and, right now!" "i--i'm going on an errand--" faltered daisy, fairly frightened at his vehemence. "i don't care if you're going on an errand for the czar of russia; you turn around, and walk along with me." "where to?" "wherever i lead you! here's a rose arbour, this will do. in with you!" daisy entered the arbour, trembling. she had never seen farnsworth so angry before, and her guilty conscience made her feel sure he had discovered her treachery. in the arbour they were screened from observation, and bill lowered his voice. "now," said he, "tell me all about this 'spirit of the sea' business. what underhanded game did you play to get the part away from patty fairfield?" "i didn't! she told guy martin she wouldn't take it." "yes; she wrote him a note. now, in some way or other, you made her write that note. how did you do it?" "did she tell you i made her write it?" "no, she didn't! she said she wrote it, but she wouldn't tell me why." daisy's eyes opened wide. then patty knew the note had been given to guy in her name, and yet she didn't denounce daisy! such generosity was almost outside daisy's comprehension, and she paused to think it out. at last she said: "why do you think she wouldn't tell you?" "i don't think, i know! a man has only to look into patty fairfield's clear, honest eyes to know that she's incapable of meanness or deceit. while you,--forgive me, daisy, but i've known you for years,--and you are capable of gaining your own ends by underhanded methods." "what do you accuse me of?" and daisy's air of injured innocence was well assumed. "i don't know," and bill looked exceedingly perplexed. "but i do know that in some way you persuaded patty to give up that part, because you wanted it yourself." daisy drew a long breath of relief. then, she thought, he didn't know, after all, just what she had done, and perhaps she could carry it through yet. "you're mistaken," she said, in a kind way, "patty did write that note, but she had her own reasons, and she desired, especially, that no one should mention the subject to her." "yes," said bill, "and it's that strange reluctance to having the subject mentioned that makes me suspect your hand in the matter. patty refused to discuss it with me, but the look of blank astonishment in her face, when i referred to that note, convinced me there's a bit of deviltry somewhere. and i ascribe it to you!" "you do me an injustice," and now daisy's tone was haughty and distant; "but i cannot resent it. for patty's sake, i too must refuse to discuss this matter. think of me as you will,--i cannot defend myself." daisy's face grew so sad and martyr-like that generous-hearted bill was almost convinced of her innocence. "i say, daisy," he began, "if i'm wronging you in this matter, i'll never forgive myself." "oh, never mind, bill; i'm used to being misunderstood. but i'll forgive you, if you'll promise never to refer to the subject again to me, or to any one else." bill might have promised this, but the too eager gleam in daisy's eyes again roused his suspicions. and just then he saw patty crossing a bit of lawn near them. "whoo-ee!" he called, and as patty turned, he beckoned for her to come to them. "what's wanted?" called patty, gaily, as she neared the arbour. "you," said bill, while daisy sank down on the arbour seat, and seemed to crumple up in abject fear of what was about to happen. "now, miss fairfield," bill began, "there's a little matter i want cleared up. it's the note you wrote to mr. martin saying you didn't wish to be spirit of the sea." daisy cast one piteous, despairing glance at patty, and then covered her face in her hands. at first, patty's blue eyes flashed with a righteous indignation, to think how daisy had abused her kindness in writing that note at dictation. then a great wave of compassion swept through her heart. the deed was so foreign to her own nature that she felt deep pity for one who was capable of such a thing. and daisy's evident misery roused her sympathy. she didn't stop to think that probably daisy's regret was at being found out and not for the deed itself, but patty's forgiveness was full and free, even before it was asked. in her unbounded generosity of heart, she resolved to shield daisy from farnsworth's wrath. "what about the note?" she asked, simply. "did you write it?" "i did." "did any one force or persuade you to write it?" "i did it willingly, and without compulsion." "did daisy know you wrote it?" "she knew it, yes. she gave it to guy martin." bill was nonplussed. he knew there was some secret about that note, but he couldn't quite fathom it. and every word patty spoke, though quite true, and seeming to exonerate daisy, made the guilty girl more and more amazed that one she had so injured could be so forgiving. "didn't you want to be spirit of the sea?" bill said at last, desperately anxious on that point. patty hesitated. she couldn't truly say she didn't, and to say she did would bring up the question of the note again. "i did want to," she said, slowly, "but, since daisy has that part,--and i have another, and a very pretty part,--i am quite content." "then there is nothing more to be said," farnsworth muttered. "the incident is closed." he started to leave the arbour, and daisy lifted her troubled eyes to patty's face. patty tried to smile, but there must have been an involuntary shadow of reproach in her blue eyes, which, for some reason, went straight to daisy's heart. "don't look at me like that, patty," she cried out; "i can't bear it! bill, come back! the incident isn't closed. i want to tell you, bill, what i did. patty wrote that note, at my dictation, thinking it was for me,--i had a hurt finger,--and i told her i'd sign it,--and i didn't sign it,--i gave it to guy as if it was from her--oh, patty--will you forgive me? will you?" "there, there, daisy," and patty put her arms around the sobbing girl. "never mind, it's all right." "it isn't all right!" exclaimed farnsworth, his eyes blazing. "daisy dow, do you mean to tell me--" "she doesn't mean to tell you anything," interrupted patty. "she's only going to tell me. i wish you'd go away. this note matter is entirely between daisy and myself. it's--it's a sort of a--a joke, you see." daisy sat up straight, and stared at patty. what sort of a girl was this, anyhow, who could forgive so freely and fully, and then call it all a joke! but daisy knew generosity when she saw it, and with her heart overflowing with gratitude at patty's kindness, she bravely acknowledged her own fault. "it isn't a joke, bill," she said, in an unsteady voice. "i did a horrid, hateful thing, and patty is so angelic and forgiving she makes me feel too mean to live." "nonsense," said patty, "there's no harm done, i'm glad you owned up, daisy, for now we can forget the whole episode, and start fresh." but farnsworth couldn't toss the matter aside so easily. "daisy," he said, looking at her sternly, "i never heard of such a mean piece of business in my life! i think--" "never mind what you think!" cried patty, turning on him like a little fury. "you're the mean one,--to rub it in when daisy is feeling so bad over it." "she ought to feel bad," growled bill. "well, she does, if that's such a comfort to you," retorted patty. "now, go away, and leave us girls alone, won't you? this is our own little sewing circle, and we don't want any men at it." patty was really so relieved at the turn things had taken, that she gave bill a happy smile, which contradicted her crusty words. "no, i won't go away," he declared; "you girls want to weep on each other's shoulders,--that's what you want. i'm going to stay and see the performance." "you can't stay, unless you'll say you forgive daisy, and love her just the same." "just the same as who?" demanded bill, quickly, and patty blushed adorably. "just the same as you always did," she returned, severely. "do forgive me, bill," said daisy, contritely; "i'm awfully sorry." farnsworth looked at her, squarely. "i'll forgive you, daisy," he said, "if you'll make good. let patty take the spirit of the sea part, and you take something else." "i won't do it," said patty, quickly, but daisy said, "yes, you must. i shan't feel that you've really forgiven me unless you do." as a matter of fact, daisy saw little prospect of pleasure for herself in being spirit of the sea, after all this, and she doubted whether bill would be neptune if she did. patty demurred further, but both the others coaxed so hard that she finally yielded to their persuasions. "what will the others say?" she asked, at last. "nothing at all," responded bill, promptly. "simply announce that you and daisy have agreed to change parts. then daisy can be 'maid of the mist,' and you can be the water sprite of old neptune's float." "i'll do it, on one condition," said patty; "and that is, that no one else is let into our secret. let guy continue to think that i sent him that note, but that i changed my mind about it. and don't tell anybody at all, not even mona, the truth of the matter." "gee! you're a wonder!" exclaimed farnsworth, and daisy threw her arms round patty's neck and kissed her. "oh, don't give me undue credit," patty said, laughing; "but, you see, i just naturally hate a 'fuss,' and i want to forget all about this affair right away. daisy, you're just the sort of brown hair and eyes mr. cromer wants for his maid of the mist. you'll be perfectly sweet in that." "you're perfectly sweet in everything, patty; i never saw any one like you!" "neither did i," said farnsworth, with emphasis. "oh, here you are," drawled a slow voice, and laurence cromer came sauntering along in search of patty. "don't you want to discuss your costume now? there's only a half-hour before luncheon time." "well, you see, mr. cromer," said patty, smiling at him, "you said you wanted a more brownish lady for your misty maid. so miss dow and i have decided to change places." "all right," agreed cromer. "it makes no difference to me, personally, of course. i'm merely designing the niagara float as an architect would. i think perhaps a brunette would be better adapted to the part of maid of the mist, as i have planned it, but it's as you choose." "then we choose this way," declared patty. "run along, daisy, and mr. cromer will tell you just what to get for your misty robes." daisy went away, and farnsworth turned to patty with a reproachful glance. "you let her off too easy," he said. "a girl who would do a thing like that ought to be punished." "punished, how?" said patty, quietly. "her deceit ought to be exposed before the others. it oughtn't to be hushed up,--it makes it too easy for her." "her deceit, as you call it, affected no one but me. therefore, there's no reason for any one else to know of it. and daisy has been punished quite enough. i read in her eyes the sorrow and remorse she has suffered for what she did. and i know she did it on a sudden impulse,--an uncontrollable desire to have that particular part in the pageant. now, i have forgiven and forgotten it all, it's but a trifle. and i can see no reason why you should still hold it against her." farnsworth looked steadily into patty's eyes, and a sort of shamed flush rose to his cheeks. "you're bigger than i am, little girl," he said, as he held out his hand. patty put her little hand into his, and in that understanding clasp, they buried the subject never to refer to it again. "oh, no, i'm not really bigger than you," she said, lightly. "not physically, no," he returned, looking down at her. "if you were, i couldn't toss you into a treetop!" "you got out of that beautifully with aunt adelaide," and patty laughed at the recollection. "but i'm going to scold you for picking me up in that unceremonious fashion." "i know,--it was dreadful! but,--perhaps i did it on a sudden impulse,--you know,--you forgive those!" patty remembered her defence of daisy, and couldn't repress a smile at the boy's wheedlesome argument. "well, don't let it happen again," she said with an attempt at extreme hauteur. but farnsworth replied, "when i get a real good chance, i'm going to pick you up and carry you a million miles away." "catch me first!" cried patty, and darting away from him, she ran like a deer toward the house. farnsworth stood looking after her, but made no move to follow. the big fellow was thinking to himself, wondering and pondering in his slow, honest way, on why that little scrap of pink and white humanity had all unconsciously twined herself around his very heartstrings. "apple blossom!" he murmured, beneath his breath, and then sauntered slowly toward the house. chapter xvi the spirit of the sea the night of the pageant was as beautiful as the most exacting young person could desire. there was no moon, but there seemed to be an extra bright scattering of stars to make up for it. a soft, cool ocean breeze stirred the air, there was no dampness, and everybody pronounced the evening as perfect as if specially made for the occasion. an early dinner was served at "red chimneys," and then the guests dispersed to don their carnival costumes. with her usual promptness, patty was ready first, and coming down to the drawing-room, found nobody there. so she took opportunity to admire her own effects in the multitude of mirrors. it was an exquisite reflection that faced her. she had not adopted daisy's idea of fishnet, as that seemed to her too heavy. laurence cromer had approved of her own suggestions, and together they had designed her costume. it was of pale green chiffon, trailing away in long, wavy lines. over it, hung from the shoulders a tunic-like drapery of white chiffon. this was frosted, here and there, with broken, shimmering lines of silver, and the whole effect hinted of moonlight on the sea. patty's wonderful hair fell in curling, tumbling masses over her shoulders and far down her back. in it were twined a few strands of seaweed,--beautifully coloured french work, which laurence cromer had procured from somewhere by a very special order. across the top of her head a silver band confined the riotous curls, and from it, in the centre, rose an upright silver star. though simple, the whole costume was harmonious and picturesque, and suited patty's fair beauty to perfection. her bare arms and throat were soft and rounded as a baby's, and her lovely face had a pink glow of happiness, while her eyes were like two starlit violets. she peacocked about the room, frankly delighted at her own reflection in the mirrors, and practised the pose she was to assume on the float. in the mirror she saw that a majestic figure was entering the room, and wheeling swiftly about, she beheld father neptune himself smiling at her. farnsworth had sent to a theatrical costumer in the city for his garb, and very handsome he looked in a dark green velvet robe that hung in classic folds. he wore a snow-white wig and long white beard, and a gold and jewelled crown that was dazzlingly regal. he carried a trident, and in all respects, looked the part as neptune is so often pictured. patty gazed at him a moment in silent admiration, and then sprang to her pose, lightly poised forward, her weight on one foot, and her arms gracefully outspread. big bill held his breath. always lithe and graceful, to-night patty looked like a veritable spirit. her floating draperies, her golden hair, and her perfect face, crowned with the single silver star, seemed to belong to some super-human being, not to a mere mortal. big bill walked slowly toward her. "patty!" he murmured, almost beneath his breath. "apple blossom! i want you so!" a lovelier pink rose to patty's cheeks, for it was impossible to mistake the earnestness in bill's voice. she smiled at him, gently for a moment, and then roguishly, and her dimples flashed into view, as she danced lightly away from him, calling back over her shoulder, "catch me first!" "you'll say that once too often yet, my lady!" declared farnsworth, as he stood with folded arms looking after her, but not following her dancing footsteps. at the hall doorway, patty turned and looked back, down the long room. farnsworth stood where she had left him, and his majestic pose, as he held his gilded trident, suited well his stalwart, magnificent physique. "come back here," he said, and his voice was not dictatorial, but quietly compelling. slowly patty danced down the room, swaying, as if in rhythm with unheard music. as she came to a pause in front of farnsworth, she made him a sweeping, mocking courtesy. "father neptune, god of the sea!" she said, as if offering homage. farnsworth raised his hand, dramatically. "spirit of the sea," he said, "nymph of the silver-crested waves, kneel before me!" catching his mood, patty sank gracefully on one knee, bowing her fair head before the majestic sea-god. "i crown thee," neptune went on, "fairest of all nymphs, loveliest of all goddesses. spirit of the sea, but also, maiden of the apple blossoms." patty felt a light touch on her bowed head, but did not move, until a moment later, neptune held out his hand. "rise, spirit of the sea, crowned by neptune, god of the ocean!" patty rose, and in a nearby mirror saw her crown. it was a slender wreath of wonderfully fine workmanship. leaves of fairy-like silver filigree, and tiny apple blossoms, of pink and white enamel. light in weight, soft, yet sparkling in effect, it rested on her fair head, in no way interfering with the silver star that flashed above it. indeed, it seemed the last touch needed to perfect the beauty of patty's costume, and her face was more than ever like an apple blossom as she turned to thank farnsworth for his gift. but before she could do so, several people sprang in from the hall, where they had been watching the coronation ceremony. "hooray for you two!" cried roger. "you show true dramatic genius! patty, you're a peach to-night! bill, you're a hummer!" only daisy was unsmiling. a pang of jealousy thrilled her heart, as she saw the exquisite picture patty made, and saw, too, the lovely gift farnsworth had given her. daisy's costume was beautiful and exceedingly artistic, but the grey, misty garb seemed tame beside patty's clear coloured draperies and bright, sea-weed tangled hair. "patty, you're wonderful!" mona exclaimed. "if i weren't so weighted down with this dragging train, i'd hug you!" mona looked regal in her cleopatra costume. she had chosen a rich white and gold brocaded satin, and the gold lace on the train which hung from her shoulders, made it heavy indeed. she was loaded with jewels, both real and paste, and her egyptian headdress was both gorgeous and becoming. mona had never looked so well, and roger, who was father nile, expressed his admiration frankly. "i say, mona," he declared, "if the real cleo pat looked like you, i don't blame old mark for flirting with her. maybe i'll flirt with you before the evening is over." "ha! minion! methinks thou art presumptuous!" said mona, marching about theatrically. but she smiled at roger, for the two had become good friends. adele and jim kenerley were dutch young people, and in blue and white cotton costumes, looked as if they had just alighted from an old delft platter. laurence cromer took no costume part, as he had to direct the posing of the characters and the scenic details of the parade. mrs. parsons was enchanted with the gorgeousness of her party of young people, and when patty gave her a sprig of seaweed to tuck in her bodice, she felt as if she belonged to the water carnival. motors carried the laughing crowd to the sayres' house, from where the floats were to start. of course old ocean's float led the parade. though not very realistic, it was a theatrical representation of the sea, and the great billows, made of green muslin crested with cotton batting and stretched over somewhat wabbly framework, tossed and swayed almost like the atlantic breakers. at the back end of the float was a great canopied throne, on which sat the gold-crowned neptune holding his firmly planted trident. before him seemed to dance the spirit of the sea, for patty, now in one pose and now in another, was outlined against the dark billows with charming effect. a bright electric light streaming from a point above the throne, illuminated both characters and threw into relief the shells and seaweed that decorated the sides of the float. the other floats were equally well done,--some even better in artistic conception. each received uproarious applause as it rolled slowly along the line of march. hotels and cottages were all illuminated, and the whole population of spring beach was out admiring the pageant. "aren't you tired, patty?" asked farnsworth, gently, as she changed her pose. "yes, i am," she confessed; "but it isn't the posing,--it's the jolting. i had no idea the ocean was so rickety!" "poor little girlie! i wish i could do something for you. but we have to go a couple of miles further yet. can you stand it!" "yes; but i'd rather sit it!" "do! come and sit on this throne beside me. there's plenty of room." "oh, nonsense, i couldn't. what would the people think?" "do you want to know what they'd think?" returned farnsworth, promptly. "they'd think that you were old neptune's queen, and that you meant to sit beside him all the rest of your life. let them think that, patty,--and, let it be true! will you, my apple blossom girl?" "no, bill," said patty, quietly, and changed her pose so that she did not face him. his words had startled her. above the rumbling of the float, she had heard him clearly, though, of course, they could not be overheard by the laughing, chattering bystanders. his earnest tones had left no room for doubt of his meaning, and after patty's first shock of surprise, she felt a deep regret that he should have spoken thus. but in an instant her quick wit told her that she must not think about it now. she must turn a laughing, careless face to the passing audience. "nay, nay, neptune," she said, facing him again, "i must play my own part. if a life on the ocean wave is not as easy as i had hoped, yet must i brave it out to the end." farnsworth took his cue. he knew he ought not to have spoken so seriously at this time, but it was really involuntary. he had fallen deeply in love with the eastern girl, and his western whole-heartedness made it difficult for him to conceal his feelings. he flashed a warm, sunny smile at her and said heartily: "all right, sea sprite! i know your pluck and perseverance. you'll get there, with bells on! take the easiest pose you can, and hang on to that foam-crested wave near you. it sways a bit, but it's firmly anchored. i looked out for that, before i trusted you to this ramshackle old hay wagon!" patty smiled back, really helped by his hearty sympathy and strong, ringing voice. "i hate to be so,--so unable to stand things!" she exclaimed, pouting a little. "you're no sandow girl," he replied; "but--one can't expect an apple blossom to be as strong as a--a cabbage!" "nor as strong as a great big westerner," she returned, looking admiringly at the stalwart neptune, and thereby pleasing him greatly, for big bill was honestly proud of his pounds and inches. at last they reached the country club, which was their destination, and the parade was over; though as the carnival was to conclude with a supper and a dance for the participators, the best part of the fun was yet to come. aunt adelaide, who had reached the clubhouse a little earlier, was waiting for her charges, and bill promptly escorted patty to her. "look after this little girl, won't you, mrs. parsons?" he said. "she'll be o. k. after a few moments' rest, but a seafaring life is a hard one, and this little craft is glad to get into port." patty gave him a grateful glance, and said: "nonsense, aunt adelaide, i'm not really tired, but i just want to sit down a while. my feet have a headache!" "i don't wonder!" declared mona. "it was awful for you to perch on one toe for a hundred million mile ride! and i reclined at ease on a roman trident, or whatever you call it!" "tripod, you mean," said adele, laughing, "or is it trireme?" "dunno," said mona, who was arranging patty in a soft easy-chair in the dressing-room of the club. "now, you sit there, you sea witch," she commanded, "and i'll have a maid bring you a hot bouillon or a weak tea, whichever you prefer. you can't have coffee, it might spoil that pinky-winky complexion of yours." "nothing can spoil that!" said daisy, and though the remark sounded complimentary, it was prompted by a spirit of jealousy. daisy had truly appreciated patty's generosity in the matter of the note but she couldn't gracefully submit to having her own brunette beauty eclipsed by what she called a doll-face. patty's weariness was purely muscular, and so of short duration, and after ten minutes' rest, she was feeling as fresh as ever. "now, what do we do?" she asked, shaking her draperies into place and adjusting the new wreath on her hair. "now comes the supper," said mona, "and i'm glad of it. come on, girls." the long dining hall at the club was a pretty sight. the guests were all in their pageant costumes, and as the various float groups mingled, the contrasts were effective. a venetian gondolier escorted a fisher girl of the seine, or a bold buccaneer from the spanish main clanked his sword in time with the clatter of the wooden sabots of a holland lass. neptune was waiting to escort the spirit of the sea to a table, but as patty came through the dressing-room door, captain sayre bowed before her, and asked the honour of taking her to supper. as farnsworth had made no engagement with patty, merely taking it for granted that she would go with him, she saw no reason to decline captain sayre's invitation, and went gaily away with him. farnsworth gazed after her with a look of dazed bewilderment. "had you asked her?" said an amused voice, and turning, he saw mrs. parsons at his elbow. "no! i was too stupid to think of it!" "patty is so very popular, you know, it's difficult to secure her favours. have you engaged any dances?" "no! what an idiot i am! you see, mrs. parsons, i'm not really a 'society man,' and in these formal affairs, i'm a bit out of my element. will you do me the honour to go to supper with me?" aunt adelaide looked at the towering figure in its regal velvet robes. "i oughtn't to," she said, with a little laugh, "but i can't resist the temptation. so i will! the idea of my going with the king of the whole show!" "excepting miss fairfield, there's no one i'd rather have," said big bill, honestly, and so father neptune strode majestically to his seat at the head of the table, and at his right sat primly, fluttering aunt adelaide, instead of the witching sprite he had expected to place there. patty was really glad, for she didn't wish to appear too exclusively with farnsworth, and yet she was a little disappointed, too, for as the spirit of the sea, her place was by father neptune. but captain sayre made himself very entertaining, and as jack pennington was on her other side, she soon forgot all about little billee, and gave herself up to the fun of the moment. "i well remember your beautiful dancing," said the captain. "will you give me some waltzes?" "i don't give them plurally," said patty, smiling at him. "i'll give you one, perhaps; a half one, anyway." "not enough!" said captain sayre, decidedly. "i must have more than that, by fair means--or otherwise. where is your card?" "i haven't any yet; won't it be time enough to get one after supper?" "yes, if you let me see it before any one else. i find it's a trick with the young men here to make dance engagements surreptitiously at the supper table." patty glanced about, and saw more than one tasselled card appearing and disappearing from hand to hand. a moment later, she heard a voice behind her chair. "apple blossom," it whispered, "i've brought you a dance card. say 'thank you, bill.'" "thank you, father neptune," said patty, flashing a smile at him, as she took the card, and turned back to the captain. chapter xvii the apple blossom dance "now i have a programme, captain sayre," patty said. "if you really want a part of a dance--" "i don't!" declared the captain, positively. "there are some ladies i'd dance half a dance with, but not with you." "then i suppose i'll have to give you a whole one," patty sighed, "and i know i won't have enough to go 'round. you know it's late, and there are only ten dances on the list." "and they're half gone!" exclaimed captain sayre, as he looked at the card patty had handed him. "what!" she cried, looking at it herself. sure enough there was a very big black b. f. written against every other dance! "bill farnsworth!" she exclaimed. "well, if he hasn't a nerve! he wants the earth!" "and the sea, and all that in them is!" said captain sayre. "look here, miss fairfield, i'll be satisfied with the other five. thus, you're dividing your dances evenly, don't you see?" "nonsense! i'll agree to no such highway robbery! you may have a dance, captain sayre,--take a waltz, if you like; and then give me my card again. do you want one, jack?" "do i? does a squirrel want nuts? only one, sea spirit?" "yes, only one. it's such a short programme to-night." "and is big bill to have five?" "indeed, no! i shall cross those all off but one." learning, somehow, of what was going on, most of the men at the table began to beg patty for a dance, and in a few moments her card was filled. she shook her head reprovingly at farnsworth, who quite understood the reason. supper over, the dancing began, and as it was a summer evening, the dances alternated with cooling strolls on the long verandas of the club house. patty loved to dance, and greatly preferred good dancers for partners. captain sayre was especially proficient in the art, and as their dance was followed by an "extra," he persuaded patty to do a fancy dance with him, like they had danced at the sayres' garden party. soon most of the dancers had paused to watch the two, swaying and pirouetting in a dance, partly impromptu, and partly fashioned on some they had previously learned. it was a pretty sight. patty, whose step was light as thistledown, followed any hint of captain sayre's, and so clever were his leads that the audience broke into loud applause. it was almost more than farnsworth could bear. he stood looking at them with such a wistful expression that patty concluded to stop. "i'm a little tired," she whispered to her partner, "but i want to dance a moment alone. will you let me? and ask the orchestra to play the spring song." "i'll love to look at you," declared the captain, and at the end of a measure, he gracefully danced away from her, and patty stood alone. the rest had all ceased dancing now, preferring to watch, and as they were nearly all patty's friends and acquaintances, she felt no embarrassment. "the apple blossom dance," she said, and flung herself into a series of wonderful rhythmic motions that seemed to give hint of all the charms of spring. one could almost see flowers and hear birds as the light draperies swayed like veils in a soft breeze. and then, with a fleeting glance and smile at farnsworth, patty plucked apple blossoms from overhanging boughs, and tossed them to the audience. there were no trees, and there were no blossoms, but so exquisite was her portrayal of blossom time, and so lovely her swaying arms and tossing hair that many were ready to declare they could even detect the fragrance of the flowers. but when patty essayed to stop, the riotous applause that followed and the cries of "encore! encore!" persuaded her to dance once more, though very tired. more languidly this time the apple blossoms were plucked from the branches, more slowly the springtime steps were taken, and before she reached a point in the music where she could stop, patty was swaying from faintness, not by design. farnsworth saw this, and acting on a sudden impulse, he swung the great folds of his trailing velvet over his arm, and with a few gliding steps, reached her side, threw an arm round her, and suiting his steps to hers, continued the figure she had begun. but he supported her weary little form, he held her in a strong, firm clasp, and, a fine dancer himself, he completed the "apple blossom dance" with her, which she never could have done alone. then, after bowing together to the delighted and tumultuously applauding audience, he led her to a seat, and shielded her from the unthinking crowd, who begged her to dance for them again. "little billee, you're a dear!" said patty, as the next dance took the people away again. "how did you know i was going to sink through the floor in just one more minute?" "i saw how tired you were, and though i hated to 'butt in' on your performance, i just felt i had to, to save you from collapse." "you didn't 'butt in'! you're a beautiful dancer, better than captain sayre, in some ways, though you don't know so many fancy steps. but you picked up my idea of the apple blossom steps at once!" "because that's our dance. and you're my property to-night, anyway. didn't neptune crown the spirit of the sea?" "yes, and i haven't yet thanked you for this lovely wreath! it's the most beautiful thing! where did you get it?" "i had it made, to replace the one i stole from you the night of the storm." "you didn't steal that,--i gave it to you." "well, and so i give you this one in return. will you wear it sometimes?" "i'll wear it often, it's so lovely. and so becoming,--isn't it?" naughty patty smiled most provokingly up into the big blue eyes that looked intently at her. "becoming?" he said. "yes, it is! what isn't becoming to you, you little beauty?" "there, there, don't flatter me!" and patty cast down her eyes demurely. "oh, jack, is this our dance?" and with a saucy bow, patty left big bill, and strolled away on jack pennington's arm. "you're a regular out and out belle to-night, patty," he said, frankly. "all the men are crazy over you, and all the girls are envious." "'tisn't me," said patty, meekly. "it's this ridiculous green rig and my unkempt hair." "shouldn't wonder," returned jack, teasingly; "girls always look best in fancy dress." "so do the boys," patty retorted. "isn't bill farnsworth stunning in that neptune toga,--or whatever it's called?" "pooh, you'd think he was stunning in anything, wouldn't you?" "oh,--i don't know--" and patty put her fingertip in her mouth, and looked so exaggeratedly shy that jack burst into laughter. "you're a rogue, patty," he declared. "if you don't look out you'll grow up a flirt." "am i flirting with you?" and patty opened her eyes very wide in mock horror at such an idea. "no,--not exactly. but you may, if you like." "i don't like!" said patty, decidedly. "we're good chums, jack, and i want to stay so. no flirt nonsense about us, is there?" "no," said jack; "let's dance," and away they whirled in a gay two-step. when the dancing was over, the "red chimneys" party started for home in various motors. patty thought bill would ask her to ride with him, but he didn't come near her, and she wondered if he were annoyed or offended in any way. she confessed to feeling a little tired, and rode quietly beside aunt adelaide, leaning her sunny head on that lady's shoulder. "but it was lovely!" she said, with a sort of purr like a contented kitten. "i'd like to have a pageant every night!" "yes, you would!" exclaimed roger, who sat in front of her in the big motor. "you'd be dancing in a sanitarium next thing you knew." "pooh!" retorted patty. "i'm not a decrepit old invalid yet, am i, aunt adelaide?" "no, dearie; but you must take care of yourself. i think a cold compress on your forehead to-night would do you good." "and a hot compress on my chin, and two lukewarm ones on my ears," teased patty, laughing at the solicitous tones of the older lady. "no, sir-ee! i'll catch a nap or two, and tomorrow i'll be as right as a--as a--what's that thing that's so awfully right?" "a trivet," said mona. "yes, a trivet. i've no idea what it is, but i'll be one!" there was a light supper set out in the dining-room at "red chimneys," but no one wanted any, so good-nights were said almost immediately and the wearied revellers sought their rooms. "no kimono parties to-night, girls," said patty, firmly. "i'm going straight to bed." "all right," agreed mona and daisy, "we'll save our gossip till morning." but patty didn't go straight to bed. she flashed on the lights in her rose-coloured boudoir, drew the curtains of the bay window, and then threw herself into a big easy-chair. she was thinking of mr. william farnsworth. she wished he hadn't said what he had. it worried her, somehow. and when he said good-night just now, he had a look in his eyes that meant,--well, perhaps it didn't mean anything after all. perhaps he was only flirting,--as patty herself was. but was she? she had just asked herself this question, really seriously, when a rose came flying in at the window and fell at her feet. she looked up quickly,--she was sure she had drawn the curtains. yes, she had done so, but there was just a little space between them, where they didn't quite join. well, it must have been a good marksman who could throw so accurately! westerners were accounted good marksmen,--it might be-- and then a second rose followed the first, and others, at intervals, until a good-sized heap lay at patty's feet. laughing in spite of herself, she went to the window, and peeped out between the curtains. "why, it's you!" she exclaimed, as if she hadn't known it all the time. "yes," and big bill smiled at her over the armful of roses he still held. "i've completely stripped the rose garden, but i had to bombard you with something!" "are you a bombardier?" "no, i'm a beggar. i'm begging you to come out here for a few minutes and see the moonlight on the ocean." "why, there isn't any moon!" "that's so! i mean the sun." "well, the sun isn't quite up yet!" "that's so! well, i mean the--the stars,--there, i knew something was shining!" bill's laugh was so infectious that patty couldn't help joining it, but she said: "i can't, little billee. it's too late, and i'm too tired, and--" "but i'm going away to-morrow." "you are! i didn't know." "do you care? oh, patty, come out for a minute, i want to tell you something." still in her green draperies and silver wreath, patty stepped out on the veranda, saying, "just for a tiny minute, then." bill had discarded his neptune trappings, and in evening dress, was his handsome self again. "you were fine as neptune," said patty, looking at him critically as he stood against a veranda pillar, "but you're better as a plain man." "thank you!" said bill, ironically. "fishing! well, i didn't mean that you're plain, but,--i won't say what i did mean." "oh, dear! another fond hope shattered! i wish i knew what you did mean!" "don't be silly, or i'll run back. if you'll promise not to be silly, i'll stay another minute." "but, you see, i never know when i am silly." "almost always! now let's talk about the pageant. didn't daisy look pretty?" "yes. but i fancy blondes myself." "now that's ambiguous. i don't know whether you mean because you're one or because i'm one." "why! so you are a blonde, aren't you? i never noticed it before!" "really? how nice! i've always wondered how i'd strike an entire stranger!" "why strike him at all?" "now you're silly again! but i mean, i'd like to know what an utter stranger would think of me." "i hate to be called an utter stranger, but i haven't the least objection to saying what i think of you. in fact, i'd like to! may i?" "is it nice?" asked patty, frightened a little at bill's quiet tones. "judge for yourself. i think you are the most beautiful girl i have ever seen,--and the most fascinating. i think you have the sweetest nature and disposition imaginable. i think you have just enough perversity to give you the zip you need." "what is zip?" "never mind; don't interrupt. i think you are the most adorable fluff of femininity in the world,--and i know i love you, and i want you for all my very own. patty,--darling,--tell me now what you think of me." "oh, bill, don't say such things to me,--please, don't!" and patty's overstrung nerves gave way, and she began to cry. "i won't, dear,--i won't, if it bothers you," and big bill's arm went round her in such a comforting way that patty wept on his broad shoulder. "don't,--don't think me a silly," she said, smiling up at him through her tears, "but--i'm so tired, and sleepy,--if you could just wait till morning,--i'd tell you then what i think of you." "very well, dear, i'll wait." "no, you needn't, i'll tell you now," and patty suddenly drew away from bill's arm and faced him bravely. "i'm a coward,--that's what i am! and i cried because,--because i can't say what you want me to, and--and i hate to hurt your feelings,--because i like you so much." "patty! do you know what you're talking about?" "yes, i do! but i can't seem to say it out plain, without hurting your nice, big, kind heart." "let me say it for you, little girl. is it this? is it that you like me as a friend, and a comrade--chum, but you don't love me as i love you, and you're afraid it will hurt me to know it?" "yes, yes, that's it! how did you know?" "you told me yourself, unconsciously. now, listen, my girl. i only love you more for being brave and honest about it. and i love you more still for your dear, kind heart that can't bear to hurt anybody. and to prove that love, i'm not going to say any more to you on this subject,--at least, not now. forget what i have said; let us go back to our good comradeship. i startled you; i spoke too soon, i know. so forget it, my apple blossom, and remember only that little billee is your friend, who would do anything in the world for you." "you're an awfully nice man," said patty, not coyly, but sincerely, as she laid her hand on his arm a moment. "now you have told me what you think of me!" cried farnsworth, gaily, and taking the little hand he held it lightly clasped in his own. "and i thank you, lady, for those kind words! now, you can look at the moon just a minute longer, and then you must fly, little bird, to your nest in the tree." "yes, i must go. tell me, little billee, where did you learn to dance so well?" "it's mostly my natural grace! i took a few lessons of a wandering minstrel, out home, but i don't know the technique of it, as you and that ornamental captain do." "but you could learn easily. shall i teach you?" "no,--apple blossom, i think not." "oh, there won't be time. you said you're leaving to-morrow! must you go?" "it doesn't matter whether i must or not. if you look at me like that, i won't! there, there, sea witch, run away, or--or i'll flirt with you!" "yes, it's time i went," said patty, demurely, gathering up her draperies. "but, billee, how can i thank you for the dear, sweet lovely wreath?" "well, there are several ways in which you could thank me,--though i'm not sure you would. suppose we just consider me thanked?" "that doesn't seem much. shall i write you a note?" "that doesn't seem very much. why don't you give me a gift in return?" "i will! what do you want? a penknife?" "mercy, no! i'll have to think it over. wait! i have it! have your picture taken--with the wreath on, and give me that." "all right, i will. or perhaps mr. cromer would sketch me in this whole rig." "perhaps he would!" and farnsworth caught his breath, as he looked at the vision of loveliness before him. "but we'll see about that later. skip to bed now, apple blossom, and don't appear below decks before noon to-morrow." "no, i won't. i'm awful tired. good-night, little billee." "good-night, apple blossom girl," and farnsworth held aside the curtain as patty stepped through the window. a shower of flowers flew after her, for bill had picked up his remaining posies, and patty laughed softly, as the curtain fell and she stood in her room, surrounded by a scattered heap of roses. "just like a theatrical lady," she said, smiling and bowing to an imaginary audience, for patty loved to "make-believe." and then she took off her silver wreath and put it carefully away. "little billee is such a nice boy," she said, reflectively, as she closed the box. chapter xviii a coquettish cook "hello, pattypet," said mona, appearing at patty's bedside next morning. "how's your chocolate? does it suit you?" "delicious," said patty, who was luxuriously nestling among her pillows while she ate her breakfast. "well, make the most of it, for you'll never get anything more fit to eat or drink in this happy home." "what do you mean?" "listen to my tale of woe. the chef and his wife have both left." "francois? and marie! why, whatever for?" "your english is a bit damaged, but i'll tell you. you see, aunt adelaide flew into one of her biggest tantrums, because her shirred egg was shirred too full, or her waffles didn't waff,--or something,--and she sent for francois and gave him such a large piece of her mind that he picked up his marie and walked off." "have they really gone?" "they really have. i've telephoned to the intelligence place, and i can't get a first-class cook down here at all. i shall have to send to the city for one, but, meantime--what to do! what to do!" "h'm,--and you've guests for luncheon!" "yes, the whole sayre tribe. the captain just can't keep away from you! patty, do you know you're a real belle? everybody was crazy about you last night." "fiddlesticks! just because i had on a green frock and let my hair hang down." "your hair is wonderful. but i didn't come up here to tell you of your own attractions! i want your able advice on how to have a luncheon party without a cook." "oh, pooh! that's too easy! give me a helper of some sort, and i'll cook your old luncheon. and i'll promise you it will be just grand!" "cook! you? i won't let you. what do you take me for? no, you come with me, and we'll go somewhere where cooks grow and buy one." "there won't be time, mona. what time is luncheon to be?" "half-past one; and it's about ten now." "oceans of time, then; i tell you, i'll see to the kitchen for luncheon. but of course, you must have a cook, for permanent use." "well, rather. but i'll get one from new york by to-morrow morning. and you know adele kenerley's friends are coming to dinner to-night. what about that?" "leave all to me. i will arrange. but i want somebody to help me. how about daisy?" "daisy's no good at that sort of thing. and i don't like to ask adele. say, patty, let bill help you; he's a fine cook, i've been on camp picnics with him, and i know. and maybe he wouldn't be glad to help you in anything! ah, there, patty, you're blushing! i feared as much! oh, patty, do you like him?" "'course i like him. he's a jolly chap, and we're good chums." "but is that all? patty, tell me; i won't tell." "there's nothing to tell, mona. i like little billee a whole lot, but i'm not in love with him, if that's what you mean." "yes, that's what i mean. i hoped you were." "well, i'm not. and i'm not going to be in love with anybody for years and years. i'm fancy-free, and i mean to stay so. so don't try to tease me, for you won't get any fun out of it." "that's so; you're too straightforward to be teased successfully. patty, you've been a real lesson to me this summer. i've learned a lot from you. i don't mean to gush, but i do want to tell you how i appreciate and cherish all the kindness you've shown me." "dear old mona, i'm glad if i've said or done anything to make you feel like that! you're a trump, girl, and i'm glad to have you for a friend. now, vanish, my lady, and as soon as i can scrabble into a costume, i'll meet you below stairs, and solve all your kitchen problems for you." "but, patty, i can't let you go into the kitchen!" "you can't keep me out, you mean! i'm delighted to have the chance. aprons are terribly becoming to me." "do you want one of the parlourmaid's aprons?" "i do not! i want a big, all-enveloping cook's apron." "well, i suppose you don't want a man's. i'll find you one of marie's." "i don't care whose it is, if it's big. skip, now!" mona vanished, and patty jumped out of bed, and dressed for her new work. she chose a pink-sprigged dimity, simply made, with short sleeves and collarless neck. a dainty breakfast cap surmounted her coil of curls, donned, it must be confessed, because of its extreme becomingness. mona provided a large, plain white apron, and going to the kitchen, patty considered the situation. the viands for the luncheon had arrived, but were not in the least prepared for use. a large basket showed a quantity of live crabs, which lay quietly enough, but a twitching claw here and there betrayed their activity. "mercy!" cried mona, "let's throw these away! you can't do anything with these creatures!" "nonsense," said patty, "i'm versed in the ways of crabs. i'll attend to them. what else, mona?" "oh, here are some queer looking things from the butcher's. i don't know what they are. can they be brains?" "no, they're sweetbreads, and fine ones, too. and here is the romaine for the salad, and lovely squabs to roast. oh, mona, i'm just in my element! i love to do these things; you know i'm a born cook. but i must have a helper." "i know; marie always helped francois. they were a splendid pair. it's a pity aunt adelaide had to stir them up so,--and all over nothing." "well, don't cry over spilt eggs. i'll do up this luncheon, and i'll fix it so i can slip up and dress, and appear at the table as if nothing had happened. the waitress and the butler can manage the serving process?" "oh, yes. i hate to have you do it, patty, but i don't know what else to do. here, i'll help you." patty had already filled a huge kettle with boiling water, and was about to put the crabs in it. "all right, mona; catch that side of the basket, and slide them in, all together. it seems awful to scald them, but the sooner the quicker. now,--in they go!" but in they didn't go! one frisky crab shot out a long claw and nearly grabbed mona's finger, which so scared her that she dropped her side of the flat basket, and the crabs all slid out on the floor instead of into the kettle. with suddenly aroused agility they scuttled in every direction, some waggling to cover under tables and chairs, and some dancing about in the middle of the floor. hearing mona's shrieks and patty's laughter, daisy came running down. but the sight was too horrifying for her, and she turned and sped back upstairs. poor daisy was not so much to be blamed, for having lived all her life in chicago, she had never chanced to see live crabs before, and the strange creatures were a bit startling. she flew out on the veranda and caught big bill by one sleeve, and roger by another. "come! come!" she cried. "patty and mona are nearly killed! oh, hurry! you'll be too late!" "where, where?" cried roger, while farnsworth turned white with the sudden shock of daisy's words. he thought some dreadful accident had happened, and fear for patty's welfare nearly paralysed him. "this way! that way!" screamed daisy, darting toward the kitchen stairway, and then flying back again. down the stairs raced the two men, and into the kitchen. there they found patty standing on a side table, armed with a long poker, while mona danced about on the large table, brandishing a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. patty was in paroxysms of laughter at mona's antics, but mona herself was in terror of her life, and yelled like a wild indian. "get down! go 'way!" she cried, as an adventurous crab tried, most ineffectually, to climb the table leg. roger sprang on to the table beside mona. "there, there," he said, "you rest a while, and i'll holler for you. go 'way! get down! go 'way, you!" his imitation of mona's frightened voice was so funny patty began to laugh afresh, and farnsworth joined her. "get up here on my table, little billee," cried patty. "you'll be captured and swallowed alive by these monsters!" big bill sat on the corner of patty's table and looked at her. "you make a charming little housewife," he said, glancing at the cap and apron. "help me, won't you?" patty returned, blushing a little, but ignoring his words. "i'm going to cook the luncheon, and first of all we must boil these crabs. can't you corral them and invite them into that kettle of water? we had them started in the right direction, but somehow they got away." "right-o!" agreed bill, and placing the toe of his big shoe gently on a passing crab, he picked it up by the hinge of its left hind leg, and deftly dropped it in the boiling water. "that's just the right way!" said patty, nodding approval. "i can pick them up that way, too, but there are so many sprinkled around this floor, i'm afraid they'll pick me up first." "yes, they might, apple blossom. you sit tight, till i round them all up. lend a hand, farrington." so roger poked out the unwilling creatures from their lairs, and bill assisted them to their destination, while the two girls looked on. "good work!" cried patty as the last shelly specimen disappeared beneath the bubbles. "now, they must boil for twenty minutes. they don't mind it now." the girls came down from their tables, and explained the situation. "don't worry, mona," said farnsworth, in his kind way. "patty and i will cook luncheon, and this afternoon i'll go out and get you a cook if i have to kidnap one." "all right, bill," said mona, laughing. "come on, roger, let's leave these two. you know too many cooks spoil the broth!" "so they do!" called bill, gaily, as mona, after this parting shaft, fled upstairs. "do i understand, little apple blossom," he observed, gently, "that you're really going to cook this elaborate luncheon all yourself?" "yes, sir," said patty, looking very meek and demure. "can you do it?" "yes, sir." patty dropped her eyes, and drew her toe along a crack in the floor, like a bashful child. "you little rascal! i believe you can! well, then, you can be chef and i'll be assistant. i was going to arrange it the other way." "oh, no, sir! i'll give the orders." and patty looked as wise and dignified as a small bluebird on a twig. "you bet you will, my lady! now, first and foremost, shall i pare the potatoes?" "oh, billee, there must be a scullery maid or something for that!" "don't see any, and don't want any! i'm not afraid of staining my lily-white fingers. you'd better put those sweetbreads in cold water to blanch them, and cut up some bread to dry out a little for the squab stuffing." "for goodness gracious sake! do you know it all?" exclaimed patty, looking at him in amazement. "yes, i know everything in all the world. i'm a terrible knower!" "you are so! how did you learn it all?" "born so. are you going to have that sort of a grape fruit muddle in glasses?" "yes; with candied cherries in it. don't you love it?" "yes, if you do. what thou lovest, i will love, and thy discards shall be mine also." "amiable boy! now, don't talk to me, i have to measure these things very carefully." "oh, i say! let me make the salad dressing. i'm a hummer at it, and i don't measure a thing." patty looked at him coldly. "if you turn out to be a better cook than i am," she said, "i'll never speak to you again!" "oh, i'm not! i'm a fearful cook! i spoil everything i touch! don't ask me to make that dressing! don't!" patty couldn't help laughing at his foolishness, and the work went merrily on. but picking out the crabs was a tedious task. it was easy enough, and patty was deft and dainty, but it took a long time, and the sharp shells cut her fingers now and then. "let me do it, dear," said farnsworth, quietly, and he took from her the fork she was using. "oh, thank you!" she said, gratefully. "you are a help, little billee." "i'm always ready to help you, patty girl; call on me any time, anywhere; if ever you want me,--i'm right there." "i think somebody else might have helped us with these crabs, anyway." "they would, if we asked them. i like it better this way. alone with thee,--just you and me,--the crabs to free,--is bliss for we!" "speak for yourself, john! i don't see any bliss in picking out crabs. i've cut and scratched every single solitary finger i possess!" "poor little girl! but, you see, i offer you my hand,--both hands, in fact,--there's ten extra fingers at your disposal, if you want them. and all willing and eager to work for you." "mr. farnsworth, how do you suppose i can make croquettes if you talk to me like that? one tablespoonful of flour,--two of butter, three eggs--" "pooh, can't you read a recipe and be proposed to at the same time?" "yes, i can," patty flashed back, "but,--i pay attention only to the recipe!" "'twas ever thus," bill sighed. "what! every time you've proposed?" said patty, roguishly. "no, because i've never proposed before. don't you think i do it well for a beginner?" "not very." "not very! you little scamp, what do you know about it? have you had a wide experience in proposals?" "i shouldn't tell you if i had. one of flour, two of butter, three--" "three blithering wheelbarrows! apple blossom, have you any idea how i love you?" "don't put me out, bill. one of flour, two of butter, three eggs--" "now, isn't she the limit?" mused bill, apparently addressing the crabs. "i express my devotion in terms of endearment, and she babbles like a parrot of flour and butter!" "if i don't, you'll have no croquettes," and patty moulded the mixture into oval balls, and arranged them in a frying sieve. as the time grew shorter they worked away in earnest, and soon after one o'clock everything was ready. the finishing touches and the serving of the hot dishes were left to the butler and waitress, who were none too willing to do anything outside their own restricted sphere, but whom patty cajoled by smiles, till they were her abject slaves. "now go and tidy yourself up," patty said to bill, "and i will too, and see who can get down to the drawing-room first." "huh, i haven't to arrange a lot of furbelows. i'll beat you all to pieces." but he little knew patty's powers of haste in emergency, and when fifteen minutes later he descended to the drawing-room, where the guests were already arriving, patty was there before him. she was in a soft, frilly white frock, with knots of pale blue ribbon here and there, the knots holding sprays of tiny pink rosebuds. a blue ribbon banded her head, and save for an extra moist curliness in the soft rings of hair on her temples, no one could have guessed that the serene looking girl had worked hard and steadily for three hours in a kitchen. "i surrender," whispered bill; "you're the swiftest little piece of property i ever saw!" "please address me in less undignified language," said patty, slowly waving a feather fan. bill bent a trifle lower, and murmured close to her ear, "mademoiselle apple blossom, you are the sweetest thing in the world." chapter xix a forced march after luncheon they all strolled out on the verandas or through the gardens, and patty and mona slipped away to hold a council of war by themselves. "you're a darling, patty," mona said, "and i was perfectly amazed at those wonderful messes you fixed up for luncheon." "i don't approve of the term you apply to my confections!" "well, you know what i mean. they were all perfect, you fairly outdid francois." "that's better. now, mona mine, we must acquire some servants, and that right speedily." "yes, but how? i think i'd better telephone the dinner guests not to come." "i'd hate to do that. they're adele's friends, and she's so anxious to have them come here." "i know it, but what can we do? i won't let you cook again." "no, i don't want to cook dinner. luncheon seems different, somehow. but i do believe if i take camilla, and scour all the plains around spring beach, i can catch something that can cook." "i'd hate to have a poor cook." "yes, i know; i mean a first-class cook, though, perhaps not a chef." "well, go ahead, patty, but you'll have to start at once. your cook ought to be here by four, and it's almost three now." "'i slip, i slide, i gleam, i glance,'--what comes next? never mind, i'll just scoot." throwing on a white pongee dust cloak over her pretty frock, patty declared herself ready to start, and mona ordered an electric runabout brought from the garage. but miss patricia fairfield had no intention of going alone upon her quest. walking up to a group of men talking on the veranda, she paused in front of farnsworth. "i want you," she said, calmly. "i am yours," he responded with equal calm, and throwing away his cigar, turned to go with her. "don't you want me?" asked captain sayre, eagerly. "and me?" added cromer. "i know you want me," put in roger, "but you're too shy to say so." "i want you all," said patty, beaming on the group, "but i like you one at a time, and this is little billee's turn." "what's up, my lady?" said farnsworth, as he started the swift little car. "why, just this. turn toward the main road, please. we've simply got to find a cook for mona within an hour. i know we can do it,--but, you tell me how." "dead easy, child. we'll just go out and kidnap one." "but cooks aren't found sitting in deserted baby carriages, to be tempted with candy. now be sensible. can't you think of any plan?" "not a plan! can you?" "well, all i can think of is to go to see susan." "susan it is! where does the lady reside?" "down this way two blocks, then turn to the right." "she is won! we are gone! over bank, bush and scar, they'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young lochinvar.'" "i know susan wouldn't come, but she may know of some one else," went on patty. "here we are; stop at this house." "no, miss patty," said susan, when the case was laid before her, "i don't rightly know of anny wan for the place. i'd go mesilf,--for i'm a good, fair cook,--but i can't be afther makin' them fiddly-faddly contraptions miss galbraith has." "well, susan, if we can find a cook, will you come as helper? just for a few days, till miss galbraith can get some people down from new york." "yes, miss patty; i'll do that. now, i'm bethinkin' me, there's the cartwrights' cook. she's a perfessional, and the family has gone away for three days, sure. cuddent she do ye?" "fine!" cried patty. "where do the cartwrights live?" "up the road a piece, an' thin down beyant a couple o' miles. don't ye know the big grey stone house, wid towers?" "oh, yes; i know where you mean. and is the cook there? what's her name?" "yes, she's there. an' her name is o'brien. it's irish she is, but she knows more cookin' than manny frinch jumpin'-jacks! if she'll go wid yez, i'll go." "well, i'll tell you, susan. you go on over to miss galbraith's now. tell her i sent you, and that i'll bring mrs. o'brien in about half an hour. then you go to the kitchen and get things started." "my, it's the foine head ye have on ye, miss patty! that's a grand plan!" susan turned back to her sister's house, and the motor-car darted forward. "so far, so good," said patty. "but now to get the o'brien. suppose she won't come?" "don't borrow trouble, apple blossom. let's suppose she will come, and meanwhile let's enjoy our ride. it was dear of you to ask me to come with you." "well, you see, i didn't know but it might require force to persuade a cook to go back with us, and,--and you're so big, you know." "then i'm glad i'm so big, since brawn and strength win favour in my lady's sight." "you are strong, aren't you?" and patty looked at the giant beside her. "i think," she went on slowly, "your strength must be as the strength of ten." "i hope so," and farnsworth's voice took or a graver note, "and for the right reason." just then they came in sight of the cartwright place. "good gracious!" cried patty, as they drove in. "here are four thousand dogs coming to meet us!" patty's estimate of their number was extravagant, but there were five or six dogs, and they were large and full-lunged specimens of their kind. "i'm frightened," said patty. "they're watchdogs, you know, turned loose because the people are away. don't get out, billee, they'll bit you! they're bloodhounds, i'm sure!" "then i'll play i'm eliza crossing the ice, and you can sit here and be little eva." patty had to laugh at his foolishness, but the dogs were fierce, and she was glad when at last his repeated rings at the doorbell were answered. "nobody at home," said a voice, as the door opened only a narrow crack, and but part of a face could be seen. "is that so?" said bill, pleasantly. "but you're at home, aren't you? and perhaps you're the very one i want to see. are you mrs. o'brien?" "yes, i am," and the door opened just a trifle wider; "but the family is away, an' me ordhers is to admit nobody at all, at all." "well, we don't want to be admitted, but won't you step outside a moment?" farnsworth emphasised his remarks by pushing the door wide open, and, partly out of curiosity, mrs. o'brien stepped outside. she was a small woman, but her face wore a look of grim determination, as if she were afraid of nothing. she quieted the barking dogs, and turned to patty. "don't be afraid, miss," she said; "they won't hurt ye, now that they see me a-talkin' to yez. did ye want to see mrs. cartwright? she ain't home, an' won't be till day after tomorrah." "no," said patty, "i don't know mrs. cartwright. i want to see you. susan hastings, my own cook, said your people were away, and so perhaps you would go out to cook for a couple of days to oblige a neighbour." "oblige a neighbour, is it? sure no lady would come afther another lady's cook, underhanded like, when the lady's away!" patty's face flushed with righteous indignation. "it isn't underhanded!" she exclaimed, "you don't understand! i don't want you permanently, but only for a day, or two days at most,--because our cook has left." "arrah, ma'am, you said your cook was susan hastings! yer a quare leddy, i'm thinkin', an' yer husband here, is another! sthrivin' to entice away a cook as is satisfied wid her place, and who manes honest by her employers!" farnsworth was grinning broadly at the assumption of his and patty's relationship, but patty was enraged at the implication of underhandedness. "he isn't my husband!" she cried, "and i don't want a cook for myself, but for another lady!" "are ye runnin' an intilligence office, belike?" "here!" cried bill, sharply. "don't you speak like that to that lady! now, you listen to me. we are both visitors at miss galbraith's. her cook left suddenly, and we want you to come and cook for us, two days if you will,--but one day anyway! see? do you understand that? you're to go over to miss galbraith's now, with us, and cook dinner tonight. after dinner, you may do as you like about staying longer. we'll pay you well, and there's no reason whatever why you shouldn't oblige us." at first the irishwoman looked a little intimidated at bill's manner and his gruff tones, but in a moment she flared up. "i'll do nothin' of the sort! i'm left here in charge of this place, an' here i'll shtay!" "is there no one else to guard the place?" "yis, there's the second gardener, an' the coachman. i cooks their meals for them. the other servants is away for two days." "well, the second coachman and third gardener, or whatever their numbers are, can cook for themselves to-night. you're going with us,--see? with us,--now!" "i'll not go, sor--" began mrs. o'brien, but big bill picked the little woman up in his arms, as if she had been a child. "this is a case of kidnapping a cook, patty," he said. "i told you i'd do it!" paying no attention to his struggling burden, farnsworth pulled shut the door of the cartwrights' house, shook it to make sure it closed with a snap lock, and then gently but firmly carried mrs. o'brien to the motor-car. "take the driving seat, patty," he directed, and, as she did so, he deposited the cook in the seat beside her. then he climbed into the small seat at the rear and remarked: "let her go, patty; and unless you sit still and behave yourself, mrs. o'brien, you'll fall out and get damaged. now be a nice cook, and make the best of this. you're kidnapped, you see,--you can't help yourself,--and so, what are you going to do about it?" the cook sat bolt upright, her hard, unsmiling face looking straight ahead, and she replied, between clenched teeth, "wanst i get out, i'll go straight back home, if it's a hundherd miles yez do be takin' me!" "oh, don't do that," and patty's voice was sweet and coaxing. "let me tell you something, mrs. o'brien. you know susan hastings,--what a nice woman she is. well, once i was in a great emergency, worse even than to-day, and knowing the warm, kind hearts of the irish, i went to susan and asked her to help me out. and she did,--splendidly! now, i know you've got that same warm irish heart, but for some reason you don't want to help me out of my trouble. won't you tell me what that reason is?" mrs. o'brien turned and looked at her. "me heart's warrum enough," she said, "an' i'd be glad to sarve the likes of such a pretty leddy as yersilf,--but, i won't shtand bein' carried off by kidnappers!" "but listen," said patty, who was beginning to hope she could cajole the woman into a good humour; "you must realise that the gentleman is a western man. now they do things very differently out there from what men do here. if they want anything or anybody they just take them!" "h'm, h'm," murmured farnsworth, affirmatively over patty's shoulder. she paid no attention to his interruption, and went on, "so, you see, mrs. o'brien, you mustn't mind the rude and untutored manners of the savage tribes. this gentleman is a--is an indian!" "you don't tell me, miss!" "yes, he is. and though you're perfectly safe if you do just as he tells you, if you rebel, he might--he might tomahawk you!" "lor', miss, is he as bad as that?" "oh, he's awful bad! he's terrible! he's--why, he's irresistible!" big bill was shaking with laughter, but mrs. o'brien couldn't see him, and patty herself looked half scared out of her wits. "now, i'll tell you what, mrs. o'brien," she went on, "you let me be your friend; trust to me, and i'll see that no harm comes to you. if you'll cook this dinner to-night, i'll promise to send you home safely to-morrow morning, and miss galbraith will pay you well beside. susan hastings will be with you as a helper, and--and if you only make your mind up to it, you can have a real good time!" patty felt that she ended her speech rather lamely, but her eloquence had given out. and the sound of bill's chuckles, behind her, made it difficult not to laugh herself. but either patty's friendliness or fear of bill's ferocity seemed to conquer mrs. o'brien's rebellious spirit, and she sat calmly in her place, though making no further observations. nor could farnsworth and patty converse, for as bill sat behind, and they were flying rapidly along, speech was inconvenient if not impossible. farnsworth kept a sharp eye on his captive; though he knew she could not escape now, he wasn't sure what strange turn her temper might take. but patty felt sure that if she could once get the cook into the kitchen at "red chimneys," and under the influence of susan's common sense and powers of persuasion, all would be well. she drove round to the kitchen entrance, and as she stopped the car, farnsworth jumped down to assist their passenger out. uncertain just how to show her unwillingness to do their bidding, mrs. o'brien sat still and refused to move. whereupon, patty jumped down and ran into the kitchen. "susan," she cried, "here's the cook! come out and make her behave herself!" susan followed patty out, and saw the new arrival. "is it yersilf, ann o'brien?" she cried, joyfully. "come on in, now." "i'll not come! these vilyans kidnapped me, and i'll cook no dinner fer the likes o' thim!" "arrah now, it's yersilf is the vilyan! ye ought to be proud to be kidnapped by miss patty, and misther bill! get down here, ye gossoon, an' behave like a dacint woman!" susan's authoritative voice, and farnsworth's apparent readiness to assist her, if she delayed, persuaded mrs. o'brien to leave the car. she went into the kitchen with susan, and patty turned a beaming face to bill. "it's all right now," she said. "susan will bring her around. but, oh, billee, how did you dare to do such a thing?" "i'd dare anything to get you what you want. and you said you wanted that particular cook. so i got her." "but you'll be arrested for kidnapping!" "oh, i think not. i'll telephone over to that second-rate gardener, and i fancy i can make it all right." then bill and patty sauntered round the house to the veranda. "where's your cook?" cried mona. "in the kitchen, where she belongs," replied patty. "do you want her here?" "no, but how did you get one?" "kidnapped her!" declared patty, and then amid the laughter of their hearers, they told the whole story. "i never heard of such a thing!" said aunt adelaide, with a disapproving frown. "but it was that, or no dinner," said patty, plaintively. "i think it's great!" said roger. "and the end is not yet! in an hour, all sorts of police and detectives and weird things like that will come up here and arrest us." "they'll only take patty and me," said farnsworth, "and we can look out for ourselves, can't we, a. b.?" but patty only smiled, and ran away to her own room. chapter xx good-bye for now it was the day of farnsworth's departure. in fact, the whole house party was leaving. roger had already gone, and the kenerleys and daisy dow were to go next day, while cromer, who had become attached to spring beach, had concluded to transfer himself to a hotel and stay the rest of the summer. "i hate to have you all go," said mona, dolefully. "now that i've new servants, and such good ones, i'd like to have you all stay on indefinitely." "there are others," suggested jim kenerley. "i know, but i don't want others. this crowd has become so chummy and nice it's a pity to break it up. aren't you sorry to go, bill?" "haven't gone yet!" said farnsworth, cheerfully. "but your things are all packed, and you're to go this afternoon," said mona. "well, it's morning now; why borrow trouble? let's have some fun instead." "yes, let's!" and mona brightened up. "let's go on a picnic!" "i hate picnics," said daisy; "they're no fun. let's motor over to lakeville." "i hate lakeville," said patty. "let's have a dress-up party of some kind." "we can't get up a fancy dress party in a few hours," objected adele kenerley. "let's have a contest of some sort,--with prizes. tennis,--or basket ball." "oh, it's too warm for those things," said laurence cromer. "let's do something quieter. i'll tell you what,--let's play human parcheesi! just the thing." "what is human parcheesi?" asked patty, interested at once. "oh, it's a new game," explained cromer; "in fact, i just made it up this instant." "how do you play it?" asked mona. "i don't quite know myself yet. i haven't finished making it up. anyway, you have to have more people. let me see, we have seven here. can you get some more, mona? we won't play till after luncheon. it will take the rest of the morning for me to finish making up the game. we'll play on the west lawn. oh, it's going to be lovely! i want four billion yards of red ribbon and cosy decorations and a lot of things! skip to the telephone, mona, and invite enough people to make twenty of us all together. tell 'em to come at three o'clock, i'll be ready then." "bill has to go away about six," said mona, doubtfully. "well, make 'em come at two, then. the game won't take long, once we get started. now, i'll select four players. mona will be one, and daisy dow, jim kenerley and i will be the others." mona was already at the telephone, and the other selected players drew around cromer to learn what they were to do. "it's going to be the greatest fun ever," he declared. "if we can't get red ribbon, we'll take twine. guess it'll be better, anyhow. mona, will you send a slave to the general store to buy a lot of balls of twine?" "i'll attend to it," said patty, "mona's telephoning." when patty returned from this errand, the others were all out on the west lawn. farnsworth and jim kenerley were measuring off spaces, and a gardener was driving in pegs. when the twine arrived, it was stretched on these pegs, until the whole lawn was diagrammed like a parcheesi board. there were the four squares in the corners, representing "homes," there was a large square in the centre, and the paths were marked into regular rectangles with a "safety spot" in every fifth space. so carefully was the measuring done that at a short distance it looked exactly like a parcheesi board, except the colouring. "now," said cromer, when the ground was ready, "each of you four 'players' must fix up your corner 'homes' with a different colour." so daisy chose pink, and mona blue, and mr. kenerley yellow, and laurence cromer green. rugs of appropriate colours were brought from the house for these "homes," and a few wicker chairs or campstools were placed in them. then the spirit of emulation was roused, and the "players" sought for little tables, vases of flowers, or potted palms to decorate their "homes." mrs. kenerley helped her husband, and patty assisted cromer, with their feminine tastes and ideas, and patty prevailed on the head gardener to cut his choicest flowers to decorate the game. "you see," laurence said, "we could get this thing up beautifully, with canopies and flags of the four colours, and turkey red strips down these paths and all that. but this will do for a makeshift game." the central square was prettily arranged with a set of furniture brought from a veranda, a tea table, a stand of flowers, and a flagpole and flag. comfortable seats were arranged here for mrs. parsons, and any one else who was merely a spectator of the game. under cromer's directions, the girls made sixteen caps and sashes of cheesecloth, four of each colour. the guests whom mona invited all came, and soon after two o'clock the game began. the four "players," each decorated with his or her own colour, went to their respective homes, and from there called out the names of those whom they wished for "counters." mona called first, and promptly chose patty. when patty came to mona's "home" she was given a blue cap and sash, which she immediately donned. daisy was next, and she chose farnsworth, who went forward to receive his pink cap and sash. after a time each "player" had chosen four counters, and the caps and sashes were all proudly worn. "now we 'players,'" cromer directed, "stay here in our 'homes,' and we send out our 'counters,' just as if we were playing real parcheesi. daisy, you throw your dice first." daisy threw the dice which had been provided, and she threw a five and a three. "put a counter out with the five," said cromer, "and let him march three squares for the three." amid much laughter and fun, daisy sent big bill farnsworth out first, and ordered him to march three spaces. this farnsworth did, and stood waiting for his next move. then jim kenerley threw, but threw only a three and a four, so he had to wait another turn. the game proved to be great fun. a five thrown allowed another counter started out, and all other throws meant movements of the counters. a counter on a "safety spot" was secure against invaders, but on an unprotected square one might be sent back "home" to start all over again. of course the great central square was the goal, and there refreshing lemonade or iced tea awaited the "counters." many were the amusing exigencies. daisy had just triumphantly put out her last counter when two others were returned ignominiously "home." counters chatted affably with other counters who chanced to be on adjoining squares, or gleefully sent them home, as they invaded the same square. patty stood comfortably on a "safety spot," with captain sayre on the next space but one. "this is a great game," said she. "isn't mr. cromer clever to invent it? do you know i already see great possibilities in it. i'm going to get up a fine one for a charity or something." "yes, do; i'll help you. make people pay to be 'counters,' and then have prizes for those who get all the way around." "yes, and then have--" but captain sayre had been moved four spaces away, and was out of hearing distance, though he could still smile and wave his hand at patty on her "safety spot." as the game progressed, one after another reached the central square, but as jim kenerley got all four of his "counters" in first he was declared winner. then all ran into the central square and soon discovered that "parcheesi" gave them a good appetite for tea and cakes. soon after five the spring beach guests went home, charmed with the new game, and promising to play it again some day. the "red chimneys" party congratulated cromer heartily on his clever entertainment, and renewed their lamentations that the house party would be so soon only a memory. "let's all go over to the country club for a farewell dinner and dance," suggested jim kenerley. "all right," agreed patty, who was always ready for a dance. "i can't go," said farnsworth. "i have to take the six-thirty train,--but you others go on." "too bad, old fellow," said kenerley; "wish you could go. but the rest of you will, won't you?" they all accepted the invitation, and went away to dress. patty hung back a moment to say good-bye to bill, but daisy forestalled her. "oh, bill," she said, "walk with me as far as the rose garden. i want to say my farewells to you." farnsworth couldn't well refuse, so he went off with daisy, giving patty a pleading look over his shoulder which she rightly read to mean that he wanted to see her again before he left. but daisy prolonged her interview as much as possible, with the amiable intention of keeping patty and bill apart. at last bill said, as they stood on the terrace, "you ought to be dressing, daisy. you'll be late for the club dinner party." "no hurry," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "i can go over later." "how?" asked farnsworth, suddenly interested. "oh, barker will take me over in a runabout." "but barker's to take me to the station. you'd better go with the rest, daisy." something in bill's tone made daisy acquiesce, so she said, shortly, "oh, very well," and turned toward the house. she went to her room, and farnsworth looked about for patty. she was nowhere to be seen, and all the first floor rooms were empty save for a servant here and there. finally bill said to a parlourmaid, "please go to miss fairfield and ask her if she will come down and see mr. farnsworth just a minute." the maid departed, and a moment later patty came down. she was all dressed for the dinner, in a soft, shimmering, pale blue chiffon, and she wore bill's wreath in her hair. "apple blossom," he said, softly, and his voice choked in his throat. "i've been trying to get you a moment alone all day," he said, "but i couldn't. i believe you evaded me on purpose!" "why should i?" and patty looked a little scared. "i'll tell you why! because you knew what i wanted to say to you! because you know--confound that butler! he's everywhere at once! patty, come in the drawing-room." "jane's in there," said patty, demurely, and smiling up at bill from under her long lashes. "well, come,--oh, come anywhere, where i can speak to you alone a minute!" "just one minute," said patty, "no more!" "all right, but where can we go?" "here!" said patty, and leading him through the dining-room, she opened the door of the butler's pantry, a spacious and attractive room of itself. "james won't be in here to-night," she said, "as we are dining out. but i'll only stay a minute." "but, patty, darling, i want to tell you,--you know i'm going away, and i won't see you again,--and i must tell you,--i must ask you--" "patty--pat-ty! bill! where are you both?" mona's voice rose high as she called, and it was joined by others calling the same two names. "they're calling, we must go!" exclaimed patty. "go! nothing!" cried big bill, savagely. he glanced round,--he saw the dumb-waiter, built large and roomy in accordance with all the plans of "red chimneys." in about three seconds he had picked patty up, and before she knew it, she found herself sitting on the top shelf of that big dumb-waiter, and, moreover, she found herself being lowered, at first slowly, and then rapidly. she was about to scream when she heard big bill whisper softly, but commandingly, "not a word! not a sound! i'll pull you up in a few minutes." she heard the doors above her close. she was in total darkness. she had no desire to scream, but she was consumed with laughter. farnsworth had hidden her! hidden her from mona and the others, in the dumb-waiter! what a man he was! she had no idea what he intended to do next, but she was not afraid. it was an escapade, and of all things patty loved an escapade! after closing the doors, bill put out the light in the butler's pantry, opened the door, slipped through the dimly lighted dining-room, and came around by a side hall to the group in the main hall. "calling me?" he said. "i was just coming to say good-bye to you all. where's patty?" "that's what we want to know," said mona. "we thought she was with you." "she isn't," said bill, truthfully enough. "well, where can she be? i've looked everywhere! even in the pantries." "hasn't one load already started?" "yes, aunt adelaide and the kenerleys have gone." "didn't she go with them?" "why, she must have done so. well, good-bye, dear old bill, come and see us again next summer, won't you?" "i will so!" and bill shook mona's hand mightily, as an earnest of his words. "and i'm sorry to go off and leave you, but you go to the station in a few minutes, don't you?" "yes, and barker will look after me. run along, mona, i'll write you in a day or two, and tell you how much i've enjoyed my visit here." some further cordial good-byes were said, and then the car started off with daisy, mona, and cromer to the country club. farnsworth flew back to the pantry. "hello," he said, as he drew up the dumb-waiter, "you will evade me, will you, you little bunch of perversity?" patty, who was still laughing at his daring deed, said, "have they all gone?" "they sure have! you and i are here all alone." "oh, bill!" and patty's lip quivered a little. "how could you do that? what shall i do?" "now don't get ruffled, little one; my train goes in twenty minutes. you're going to the station to see me off, and then barker will take you on to the country club to join the rest of them. you won't be half an hour late!" this wasn't a very dreadful outlook, so patty smiled again. "why stay in this queer place?" she said. "why not go out on the veranda?" "no; there are eleven hundred servants bobbing up everywhere! here i can have you all to myself long enough to make you answer one question. apple blossom, will you marry me?" "no, sir; thank you," and patty blushed, but looked straight into farnsworth's eyes. "you mean it, don't you?" he said, returning her gaze. "and why not, little girl?" "because, billee, i don't want to marry anybody,--at least, not for years and years. i like you awfully,--and i appreciate all your kindness, and your,--your liking for me----" "don't say liking, sweetheart; it's love,--deep, true, big love for you,--you little sunbeam. oh, patty, can't you?" "no, little billee, i can't,--but,--but i do like to have you love me like that!" "then i shall wait, dear!" and bill's voice was full of triumphant gladness. "if you like to have me love you, i can hope and believe that some day you'll love me. you are too young, dear, you're just a little girl, i know." "why, i'm not even 'out,'" said patty. "i'm to come out next winter, you know." "yes, and then you'll have lots of admirers, and they'll flatter you, but they won't spoil you. i know your sweet, simple, generous nature; it can't be spoiled, even by the foolishnesses of society." "will you come to my coming-out party, bill?" "i don't know, perhaps so. i may see you before then. and i'll write to you, mayn't i, apple blossom?" "oh, yes, do! i love to get letters, and i know i'll love yours." "do love them, dear, and perhaps, through them, learn to love,--jiminetty christmas, apple blossom, i've just ten minutes to catch that train! come on, dear, fly with me, at least to the railroad station!" they flew, and by speeding the car, barker just managed to reach the station in time. the ride was a silent one, but farnsworth held patty's hand in a close, warm pressure all the way. as they reached the platform, he bent over her and whispered: "good-bye, sweetheart, dear little apple blossom. some day i shall come back and win you for my own. until then, i shall just wait,--and love you." a light kiss fell on the little hand he had been holding, and then farnsworth flung himself out of the motor-car, and on to the platform of the already moving train. "to the country club, barker," said patty. proofreaders note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h.zip) us and the bottle man by edith ballinger price author of "silver shoal light," "blue magic," etc. with illustrations by the author list of illustrations greg rigged himself up as an excavator we hoped the bottle man would like the letter "hang on, chris!" jerry said. "i can get it" "ye be three poore mariners" chapter i it began with jerry's finishing off all the olives that were left, "like a pig would do," as greg said. his finishing the olives left us the bottle, of course, and there is only one natural thing to do with an empty olive-bottle when you're on a water picnic. that is, to write a message as though you were a shipwrecked mariner, and seal it up in the bottle and chuck it as far out as ever you can. we'd all gone over to wecanicut on the ferry,--mother and aunt ailsa and jerry and greg and i,--and we were picnicking beside the big fallen-over slab that looks just like the entrance to a pirate cave. we had a fire, of course, and a lot of things to eat, including the olives, which were a fancy addition bought by aunt ailsa as we were running for the ferry. when we asked her if she had any paper, she tore a perfectly nice leaf out of her sketch-book, and gave me her b drawing-pencil to write with. it was very soft, and the paper was the roughish kind that comes in sketch-books, so that the writing was smeary and looked quite as if shipwrecked mariners had written it with charred twigs out of the fire. we'd done lots of messages when we were on other water picnics, but we'd never heard from any of them, although one reason for that was that we never put our address on them. we decided we would this time, because jerry had just been reading about a fisherman in newfoundland picking up a message that somebody had chucked from a yacht in the gulf of mexico months and months before. i wrote the date at the top, near the raggedy place where the leaf was torn out of aunt ailsa's sketch-book, and then i put, "we be three poore mariners," like the song in "pan-pipes." jerry and greg kept telling me things to write, till the page was quite full and went something like this: "we be three poore mariners, cast away upon the lone and desolate shore of wecanicut, an island in the atlantic ocean, lat. and long. unknown. our position is very perilous, as we have exhausted all our supplies, including large stores of olives, and are now forced to exist on beach-peas, barnacles, and--and--" "eiligugs' eggs," said greg, dreamily. jerry pounced on him and said they only grew on the irish coast, but i said: "all right! beach-peas, barnacles, and eiligugs' eggs, of which only a small supply is to be had on this bleak and dismal coast. our ship, the good ferry-boat _wecanicut_, left us marooned, and there is no hope of our being picked up for the next two hours. any person finding this message, please come to our assistance by dropping us a line," (i must honestly say that this was jerry's, and much better than usual) "as the surf is too heavy for boats to land on this end of the island. signed:--" "don't sign it 'christine'," jerry said. "put 'chris,' if we're to be real mariners." so i put "chris holford, aet. ," which i thought might look more dignified and scholarly than "aged," and jerry wrote "gerald m. holford," and put "aet. " after it, but i'm sure he didn't know what it meant until i did it. then we stuck the paper at greg, and he stared at it ever so long and finally said: "ate eleven! he ate lots more than that; i saw him." jerry pounced again,--i was laughing too hard to,--and said: "it's not olives, silly; it's an abbreviated french way of saying how old we are." then i had to pounce on _him_, and tell him it was latin, as he might know by the diphthong. by that time greg had written "gregory holford, ate ," across the bottom, very large, and jerry said he might as well have put and had done with it. we folded the paper up in the tinfoil that the chocolate came in and jammed it into the bottle and pounded the cork in tight with a stone. greg was all for chucking it immediately, but jerry said it would have a better chance if we dropped it right into the current from the ferry going home. so we cocked the bottle up on a rock and went back to the pirate-cave-entrance place to finish a game of smugglers. wecanicut is a nice place to smuggle and do other dark deeds in, and i don't believe we'll ever be too old to think it's fun. this time we cut the rest of the tinfoil into roundish pieces with jerry's jackknife, and stowed them into a cranny in the cave. they shone rather faintly and looked exactly like double moidores, except that those are gold, i think. we also borrowed aunt ailsa's hatpin with the persian coin on the end. by running the pin down into the sand all the way, you can make it look just like a goldpiece lying on the floor of the cave. she is a very obliging aunt and doesn't mind our doing this sort of thing,--in fact, she plays lots of the games, too, and she can groan more hollowly than any of us, when groans are needed. this time we didn't ask her to, because she was reading a book by h.g. wells to mother, and anyway all our proceedings were supposed to be going on in the most stealthy and silent secrecy. the moidores and the persian coin were all that was left of an enormous lot of things which the villainous band had buried,--golden chains, and uncut jewels, and pots of louis d'ors, and church chalices (jerry says chasubles, but i think not). greg and jerry had dragged all these things up from the edge of the water in big empty armfuls, and we stamped the sand down over them. it really looked exactly as if the tinfoil moidores were a handful that was left over. greg was just giving the final stamp, when jerry crooked his hand over his ear and said: "hist, men! what was that?" they were having artillery practice down at the fort, and just then a terrific volley went sputtering off. "'tis a broadside from the english vessel!" jerry said. "we are pursued!" we crept out from the cave and made off up the shore as fast as possible. jerry went ahead and jumped up on a rock to reconnoiter. he did look quite piratical, with my black sailor tie bound tight over his head and two buttons of his shirt undone. greg had his own necktie wrapped around his head, but several locks of hair had escaped from under it. he always manages to have something not quite right about his costumes. he has very nice hair--curly, and quite amberish colored--but it's not at all like a pirate's. i poked him from behind to make him hurry, for jerry was pointing at a big schooner that was coming down the harbor. we all lay down flat behind the rock until she had gone slowly around the point. we could see the sun winking on something that might have been a cannon in her waist--that's the place where cannon always are--and of course the captain must have been keeping a sharp lookout landward with his spy-glass. "eh, mon," said jerry, when the schooner had passed, "but yon was a verra close thing!" that's one of the worst things about jerry,--the way he mixes up language. we'd been reading "kidnapped," and i suppose he forgot he wasn't _alan_. "silence, dog!" i said, to remind him of who we were. "very like she's but hove to in the offing, and for aught you know she's maybe sending ashore the jolly-boat by now." "then let's go to the end of the point and have a look," greg suggested. he doesn't often make speeches, because jerry is apt to pounce on him and tell him he's "too plain american," but i think it isn't fair, because he hasn't read as many books as jerry and i. so i hurried up and said: "bravely spoke, my lad; so we will, my hearty!" and we crawled and clambered along till we came to the end of the point where it's all stones and seaweed and big surf sometimes. the surf was not very high this time,--just waves that went _whoosh_ and then pulled the pebbles back with a nice scrawpy sound. the schooner was half-way down to the headland, not paying any attention to us. "ah ha!" jerry said, "safe once more from an ignominious death. but, chris, look at the sea monster! what's happened to it?" the sea monster is a bare black rock-island off the end of wecanicut. we called it that because it looks like one, and it hasn't any other name that we know of. we'd always wanted awfully to go out there and explore it, but the only time we ever asked old captain moss, who has boats for hire, he said, "thunderin' bad landin'. nothin' to see there but a clutter o' gulls' nests," and went on painting the _jolly nancy_, which is his nicest boat. but the thing that jerry was pointing out now was very queer indeed. it was just a little too far away to see clearly what had happened, but it seemed as if a piece of rock had fallen away on the side toward us, leaving a jaggedy opening as black as a hat and high enough for a person to stand upright in. "the entrance to a subaground tunnel!" greg shouted, leaping up and down in the edge of a wave. he _will_ say "subaground," and it really is quite as sensible as some words. "the entrance to a real pirate cave, you mean!" said jerry. "glory, chris, i really shouldn't wonder if it were. captain kidd was up and down the coast here. what if they buried stuff in there and then propped a big chunk of rock up against the hole?" "i wish we had a telescope," i said, "though i don't suppose we could see into the blackness with it. mercy, i wish we _could_ get out there! it's more worth exploring than ever." "let's tell mother and aunt!" said greg, and started running back down the beach, shouting something all the way. mother said, "nonsense!" and, "of course it's a natural cave in the rock. you probably only noticed it today." but she and aunt ailsa shut up the h.g. wells book and came to look. they did think, when they saw it, that it was something new. aunt ailsa thought it looked very exciting and mysterious, but she agreed with mother that it was no sort of place to go to in a boat. "just look at the white foam flinging around those rocks," she said; "and there's practically no surf on today." we had to admit that it wasn't a nice-looking place to land on from a rowboat, but we did wish that we were hardy adventuring men, bold of heart and undeterred by grown-ups. we knew, too, that captain moss would say, "pshaw!" if we told him there might be treasure on the sea monster, and he certainly wouldn't risk the _jolly nancy_ on those rocks in her nice new green paint. we were so much excited about the sea monster suddenly having a big black hole in it that we almost forgot to take the bottle when we went home. we did forget aunt ailsa's hatpin, and greg had to run back for it, because he can run faster than any of the rest of us, and captain lewis held the ferry for him. everybody leaned out from the rail and peered up the landing, because they thought it must be a fire or the president or something. they all looked awfully disappointed when it was only greg, with the black necktie still around his head and aunt's hatpin held very far away from him so that it wouldn't hurt him if he fell down. he tumbled on board just as the nice brown portuguese man who works the rattley chain thing at the landings was pushing the collapsible gate shut, and greg gasped: "i brought--the moidores--too!" but jerry collared him and pulled the necktie off his head. jerry hates to have his relatives look silly in public, but i thought greg looked very nice. we chucked the bottle overboard from the upper deck, just when the _wecanicut_ was halfway over. the nice portuguese man shouted up, "hey! you drop something?" but we told him it was just an old bottle we didn't want, and not to mind. we watched it go bob-bobbing along beside an old barrel-head that was floating by, and we wondered how far it would go, and if it would leak and sink. the tide was exactly right to carry it outside, if all went well. "perhaps," said greg, when we were halfway up luke street, going home, and had almost forgotten the bottle, "perhaps it will land on the sea monster, and the pirates will find it." "glory!" said jerry, "perhaps it will." chapter ii just in the middle of the rainiest week came the thing that made aunt ailsa so sad. she read it in the newspaper, in the casualty list. it was the last summer of the war, and there were great long casualty lists every day. this said that somebody-or-other westland was "wounded and missing." we didn't know why it made her so sad, because we'd never heard of such a person, but of course it was up to us to cheer her up as much as possible. picnics being out of the question, it had to be indoor cheering, which is harder. greg succeeded better than the rest of us, i think. he is still little enough to sit on people's laps (though his legs spill over, quantities). he sat on aunt ailsa's lap and told her long stories which she seemed to like much better than the h.g. wells books. he also dragged her off to join in attic games, and she liked those, too, and laughed sometimes quite like herself. attic games aren't so bad, though summer's not the proper time for them, really. there is a long cornery sort of closet full of carpets that runs back under the eaves in our attic, and if you strew handfuls of beads and tin washers among the carpets and then dig for them in the dark with a hockey-stick and a pocket flash-light, it's not poor fun. unfortunately, my head knocks against the highest part of the roof now, yet i still do think it's fun. but aunt ailsa is twenty-six and she likes it, so i suppose i needn't give up. the day aunt ailsa really laughed was when greg rigged himself up as an excavator. that is, he said he was an excavator, but i never saw anything before that looked at all like him. he had the round indian basket from mother's work-table on his head, and some automobile goggles, and yards and yards of green braid wound over his jumper, and mother's carriage-boots, which came just below the tops of his socks. in his hand he had what i think was a rake-handle--it was much taller than he--and he had the queerest, glassy, goggling expression under the basket. he never will learn to fix proper clothes. he might have seen what he should have done by looking at jerry, who had an old felt hat with a bit of candle-end (not lit) stuck in the ribbon, and a bandana tied askew around his neck. but aunt ailsa laughed and laughed, which was what we wanted her to do, so neither of us remonstrated with greg that time. father plays the 'cello,--that is, he does when he has time,--and he found time to play it with aunt, who does piano. i think she really liked that better than the attic games, and we did, too, in a way. the living-room of our house is quite low-ceilinged, and part of it is under the roof, so that you can hear the rain on it. the boys lay on the floor, and mother and i sat on the couch, and we listened to the rain on the roof and the sound--something like rain--of the piano, and father's 'cello booming along with it. they played a thing called "air religieux" that i think none of us will ever hear again without thinking of the humming on the roof and the candles all around the room and one big one on the piano beside aunt ailsa, making her hair all shiny. her hair is amberish, too, like greg's, but her eyes are a very golden kind of brown, while his are dark blue. we thought she'd forgotten about being sad, but one night when i couldn't sleep because it was so hot i heard her crying, and mother talking the way she does to us when something makes us unhappy. i felt rather frightened, somehow, and wretched, and i covered up my ears because i didn't think aunt would want me to hear them talking there. the next day the sun really came out and stayed out. all of _us_ came out, too, and explored the garden. the grass had grown till it stood up like hay, and there were such tall green weeds in the flowerbeds that mother couldn't believe they'd grown during the rain and thought they were some phlox she'd overlooked. the phlox itself was staggering with flowers, and all the lupin leaves held round water-drops in the hollows of their five-fingered hands. greg said that they were fairy wash-basins. he also found a drowned field-mouse and a sparrow. he was frightfully sorry about it, and carried them around wrapped up in a warm flannel till mother begged him to give them a military funeral. jerry soaked all the labels off a cigar-box, and then burned a most beautiful inscription on the lid with his pyrography outfit. part of the inscription was a poem by greg, which went like this: "o little sparrow, perhaps to-morrow you will fly in a blue house. and perhaps you will run in the sun, little field-mouse." jerry didn't see what greg meant by a "blue house," but i did, and i think it was rather nice. i copied the poem secretly, before the cigar-box was buried at the end of the rose-bed. i think greg really cried, but he had so much black mosquito netting hanging over the brim of his best hat that i couldn't be sure. fourth of july came and went--the very patriotic one, when everybody saved their fireworks-money to buy w.s.s. with. we bought w.s.s. and made very grand fireworks out of joss-sticks. joss-sticks have wonderful possibilities that most people don't know about. the three of us went down to the foot of the garden after dark and did an exhibition for the others. by whisking the joss-sticks around by their floppy handles you can make all sorts of fiery circles. i made two little ones for eyes, and greg did a nose in the middle, and jerry twirled a curvy one underneath for a mouth that could be either smiling or ferocious. a little way off you can't see the people who do it at all, and it looks just like a great fiery face with a changing, wobbly expression. then greg did a fire dance with two sparklers. he dances rather well,--not real one-steps and waltzes, but weird things he makes up himself. this one lasted as long as the sparklers burned, and it was quite gorgeous. after that we had a candle-light procession around the garden, and the grown people said that the candles looked very mysterious bobbing in and out between the trees. we felt more like high priests than patriots, but it was very festive and wonderful, and when we ended by having cakes and lime-juice on the porch at half-past nine, everybody agreed that it had been a real celebration and quite different. in spite of being up so late the night before, greg was the first one down to breakfast next morning. our postman always brings the mail just before the end of breakfast, and we can hear him click the gate as he comes in. this morning jerry and greg dashed for the mail together, and greg squeezed through where jerry thought he couldn't and got there first. when they came back, jerry was saying: "let me have it, won't you; it'll take you all day!" and dodging his arm over greg's shoulder. "messrs. christopher, gerald, and gregory holford; luke street," greg read slowly. then he tripped over the threshold and floundered on to me, flourishing the big envelope and shouting: "it's funny paper, and it's funny writing, and i _know_ it's from the bottle!" "my stars!" said jerry, with a final snatch. but i had the envelope, and i looked at it very carefully. "boys," i said, "i truly believe that it is." chapter iii the envelope was a square, thinnish one, addressed in very small, black handwriting. "it _must_ be from the bottle," jerry said; "otherwise they wouldn't have thought you were a boy and put christopher." i had been thinking just the same thing while i was trying to open the envelope. it was one of the very tightly stuck kind that scrumples up when you try to rip it with your finger, and we had to slit it with a fruit-knife before we could get at the letter. there were sheets of thin paper all covered with writing, and when jerry and greg saw that, they both fell upon it so that none of us could read it at all. i persuaded them that the quickest thing to do would be to let me read it aloud, and as we'd finished breakfast anyway, we each took our last piece of toast in our hands and went out and sat on the bottom step of the porch. i read: _fellow adventurers and mariners in distress:_ by this time there may be naught left of you but a whitening huddle of bones, surf bleached on the end of wecanicut,--for i know well what meager fare are eiligugs' eggs and barnacles. however, i take the chance of finding at least one of you alive, and address you fraternally as a companion in distress. i am myself stranded on a cheerless island where, against my will, i am kept captive--for how long a time i cannot guess. i was brought here at night, only forty-eight hours ago, and landed from a vessel which almost immediately departed whence it had come, into the darkness. my captors left me to go with the vessel, the chief of them threatening to return every week to torment me unless i obeyed his slightest command. i stand in great fear of this man, who is tall and bearded, for he brings with him instruments of torture and bottles containing, without doubt, poison. can you imagine my joy when, tottering down the beach this morning, supporting my frame upon two sticks, i beheld your bottle cast up on the sands? now, thought i, i can unburden myself to these three unfortunate men, obviously in even greater distress than my own, and we can, perhaps, ease each other's monotonous maroonity. scholars, too, i perceive you to be,--witness the latin following your signatures. ah well, _grata superveniet quae non sperabitur hora_, as the poet so truly says, and i cannot express to you how eager, how happy i am, in the thought of communicating with some one other than the natives of this desolate isle. these inhabitants, though friendly on the whole, are uncouth and barbaric. they spend their entire time fishing from boats which they build themselves, or squatting beside their huts mending their fishing implements. the good soul with whom i am lodging is calling me to my scanty repast. in the rude language of the place she tells me that there is "krabss al ad an dunny." how can i live long, i ask, on such fare? hopefully, your castaway comrade. p.s. my address--mail reaches me from time to time, by aforesaid vessel--is p.o. box , blue harbor, me. me stands for mid equator, but the abbreviation is sufficient. blue harbor is my own literal translation of the native bluar boor. box refers to the native system of delivering messages. p.o. has, i think, something to do with the p. & o. steamers, which, however, do not very often touch here. "i _told_ you it would go around the world!" greg said, when i had finished, and jerry and i were staring at each other. "_well!_" jerry said at last. "_what_ luck!" "i should rather say so," i said; "suppose a fisherman had found it, or no one at all." "bless his old heart," said jerry, taking the letter. i wanted to know why "old." "he must be ancient if he has to totter along on two sticks," jerry said. "besides, he has a stately, professorish sort of style. do you suppose he really does want us to write to him?" "of course he does," greg said; "he tells us to often enough. think of being alone out there with savages, and that bearded chief coming with poison bottles and all." "shut up, greg," said jerry; "you don't understand. there's more in this than meets the eye, chris. i didn't get on to this crab salad business when you read it." neither had i; in fact, i hadn't got on to it until jerry said it in proper english. "he's a good sort, poor old dear," i said. "why do you suppose they keep him out there?" "he's there of his own free will, right enough," jerry said. but i didn't think so. we were still confabbing over the letter, and explaining bits to greg, who was hopelessly mystified, when mother came out to transplant some columbine that had wandered into the lawn. we did a quick secret consultation and then decided to let her in on the castaway. so we bolted after her and took away the trowel and showed her the letter. she read it through twice, and then said: "oh, ailsa must hear this, and father!" but what we wanted to know was whether or not we might write to the castaway, because we didn't quite want to without letting her know about it. she laughed some more and said, "yes, we might," and that he was "a dear," which was what we thought. we decided that we would write immediately, so jerry dashed off to father's study and got two sheets of nice thin paper with " luke street" at the top in humpy green letters, and i borrowed aunt ailsa's fountain-pen, which turned out to be empty. i might have known it, for they always are empty when you need them most. jerry, like a goose, filled it over the clean paper we were going to use for the letter, and it slobbered blue ink all over the top sheet. but the under one wasn't hurt, and we thought one page full would be all we could write, anyway. we took the things out to the porch table, and greg held down the corner of the paper so it wouldn't flap while i wrote. jerry sat on the arm of my chair and thought so excitedly that it jiggled me. but minutes went on, and the fountain pen began to ooze from being too full, and none of us could think of a single thing to say. "if we just write to him ourselves,--in our own form, i mean," jerry said, "it'll be stupid. and i don't feel maroonish here on the porch. we'll have to wait till we go to wecanicut again, and write from there." i felt somehow the way jerry did, so we put away the things again and went out under the hemlock tree to talk about the castaway. greg didn't come, and we supposed he'd gone to feed a tame toad he had that year, or something. the toad lived under the syringa bush beside the gate, and greg insisted that it came out when he whistled for it, but it never would perform when we went on purpose to watch it, so i don't know whether it did or not. under the hemlock is one of the best places in the garden for councils and such. the branches quite touch the grass, and when you creep under them you are in a dark, golden sort of tent, crackley and sweet-smelling. you can slither pine-needles through your fingers as you discuss, too, and it helps you to think. we thought for quite a long time, and then i got out the letter and spread it down in one of the wavy patches of sunlight, and we read it again. "did you really think anybody'd find it?" jerry asked suddenly, and i told him i hadn't thought so. "neither did i," he said; "let alone such a jolly old soul. why, he'd be better than aunt on a picnic." "i do wonder why he has to stay there," i said. "perhaps he's a fugitive from justice," jerry suggested; "or perhaps he's a prisoner and the bearded person comes out with spanish inquisition things to make him confess his horrible crime." "he _sounds_ like a person who'd done a horrible crime, doesn't he!" i said in scorn. "well, then," said jerry, who really has the most inspired ideas for plots, "perhaps he's an innocent old man whose wicked nephews want to frighten him into changing his will, leaving an enormous fortune to them. and they're keeping him on the island till he'll do it." "well, whatever it is," i said, "i don't think he's awfully happy somehow, and it's nice of him to write such a gorgeous thing." so we both decided that whether he was staying on the island of his own free will, or in bondage, in any case it must be frightfully dull for him and that our letter ought to be interesting and cheerful. just then the hemlock branches thrashed apart and greg crawled under with pine-needles in his hair. he sat back on his heels and blinked at us, because he'd just come out of the sunlight. "i thought _some_body ought to write to the bottle man," he said, "so i did." "well, i never!" jerry said. greg fished up a bent piece of paper from inside his jumper and handed it to me. "you can see it," he said, "but not jerry." "as if i'd want to!" jerry said; but he did, fearfully. greg is the most unexpected person i ever knew. he's always doing things like that, when everyone else has given up. i spread his paper out on top of the other letter, and he sprawled down beside me, all ready to explain with his finger. what with his dreadfully bad writing and the sunlight moving off the paper all the time as the branches swayed, it took me ever so long to read the thing. this is what it was: dear bottle man: to-day we got your leter wich surprised us very much. although i kept hopeing and hopeing some body would find the bottle. we are not so distresed now because we were picked up and now have toast and other things beter than barnicles. i mesured from here to the equater on the big map and it is an aufuly far way for the bottle to go. only i thought it would. i am sorry you are so imprisined on the iland and please dont let the cheif with the beard poisen you because we would like to hear from you agan. if there is tresure on that iland i should think you could look for it and it would be exiting. but prehaps there is none. we hope there is some on wecanicut. but it is hard to know sirtainly. chris and jerry are going to do a leter. but i thought i would first. i hope the saviges will be frendly allways. your respecfull comrade, gregory holford. p.s. none of us are bones yet. "will it do?" greg asked anxiously, when i folded it up. his eyes grow very dark when he's anxious, and they were perfectly inky now. you never would have guessed that they were really blue. "it'll do splendidly," i said, for i did think the castaway man would like greg's letter tremendously. "better let me see it, my lad," said jerry, rolling over among the pine-cones and sitting up. greg got his precious letter with a snatch and a squeak, and scurried off with it. i pitched jerry back on to the pine-needles, because i knew he'd never let the thing go if he saw it. "oh, _let_ him send it," i said. "it's perfectly all right, and it will do the bottle man heaps of good." but jerry growled about "beastly scrawls" and wasn't pleased with me until supper-time. somehow we all began calling our island person the "bottle man" after greg did, for it seemed as good a name as any for him, seeing that we didn't know his real one. we read the letter from him after supper to aunt ailsa, and she laughed and liked it, and so did father. we also asked father what the latin meant, and he made a funny face and said he'd forgotten such things, but then he looked at it again and told us it meant something like this: "the happy hour shall come, all the more appreciated because it comes unexpectedly." so we went to bed thinking about our poor old bottle man consoling himself out there on his island with latin quotations. chapter iv we all went to wecanicut next day, which was a glorious one, and when the food had disappeared we three walked up the point and wrote to the bottle man from there. we'd decided that the paper with " luke street" on it was much too grand for "poore mariners" anyway, so we'd just brought brownish paper that comes in a block. we told the bottle man how wonderful we thought it was that he had found our message, and how his letter had cheered our lonely watching for a sail. also, how we had been picked up and were returned now to wecanicut of our own will, seeking rich treasure. we described the "sea monster" very carefully, and wrote about the black cave-entrance-looking place that had happened, where no boat would dare to venture. jerry's description of it was quite wild. he dictated it to me above the shrieking of a lot of gulls which were flying over us all the time. it went like this: "the sea monster was quite terrific enough looking before, like the slimy black head of something huge coming out of the water. now it looks as if it had opened a cavernous maw" (i'm sure he nabbed that from some book) "as black as ink, ready to swallow any unfortunate mariner which came near. below the base of this fearsome hole roars the cruel surf, ready to engulf a boat which would never be seen more if it was once caught in this deadly eddy." i thought "deadly eddy" sounded like illiteration, or something you shouldn't do, in the rhetoric books, but jerry was much excited over his description. he sat on top of a rock, pointing out at the sea monster like a prophet. he has quite black hair which blows around wildly, and he looked very strange sitting up there raving about the cavern. the letter was very long by the time we'd put in everything, and we hoped the bottle man would like it. just before we signed it, i said: "do you think we'd better tell him i'm really christine and not christopher?" "_no_," jerry said; "put chris, the way you did before. he's writing now as man to man. he might be disgusted if he knew it was just a mere female." "oh, _thank_ you," i said; but i did put "chris," on account of our all being fellow castaways. when we'd finished the letter we walked a long way down the other shore toward the fort. the wind was blowing right, and we could hear bits of what the band was playing and now and then peppery sounds from the rifle practice. it's not a very big fort, but it squats on the other side of wecanicut, watching the bay, and real cannon stick out at loopholes in the wall. the ferry really only goes to wecanicut on account of the fort, because there's nothing else there but a few farm houses and some ugly summer cottages near the ferry-slip. the point from which you see the monster is not near the fort or the houses at all, and is much the wildest part of wecanicut. when you're standing on the very end you might think you really were on a deserted island, because you can look straight out to sea. we cut back cross-country through the bay-bushes and the dry, tickly grass to our usual part of wecanicut, where the grown-ups were just beginning to collect the baskets and things and to look at their watches. we posted the letter on the way home, and greg jiggled the flap of the letter-box twice to make sure that it wasn't stuck. it was that week that jerry sprained his ankle jumping off the porch-roof and had to sit in the big wicker chair with his foot on a pillow for days. he hated it, but he didn't make any fuss at all, which was decent of him considering that the weather was the best we'd had all summer. we played chess, which he likes because he can always beat me, and also "pounce," which pulls your eyes out after a little while and burns holes in your brain. it's that frightful card game where you try to get rid of thirteen cards before any one else, and snatch at aces in the middle, on top of everybody. jerry is horribly clever at it and shouts "pounce!" first almost every time. greg always has at least twelve of his thirteen cards left and explains to you very carefully how he had it all planned very far ahead and would have won if jerry hadn't said "pounce" so soon. also, father let jerry play the 'cello, and he made heavenly hideous sounds which he said were exactly like what the sea monster's voice would be if it had one. just when we were all rather despairing, because dr. topham said that jerry mustn't walk for two days more, the very thing happened which we'd been hoping for. greg came up all the porch steps at once with one bounce, brandishing a square envelope and shouting: "the bottle man!" it was addressed to all of us, but i turned it over to jerry to do the honors with, on account of his being a poor invalid and abused by fate. he had the envelope open in two shakes, with the complicated knife he always carries, and pulled out any amount of paper. he stared at the top page for a minute, and then said: "here, greg, this is for you. you can be pawing over it while we're reading the proper one." but i said, "not so fast," and "let's hear it all, one at a time." so i took greg's and read it aloud, because he takes such an everlasting time over handwriting and this writing was rather queer and hard to read. this is his letter: _respected comrade gregory holford:_ i am writing to you separately because you wrote to me separately, and very much i liked your letter. i cannot tell you how much relieved i am to hear that toast has been substituted for barnacles in your diet. in the long run, toast is far better for a mariner, however hardy he may be. it is indeed a long way from wecanicut to the equator,--but are you sure you measured to me.--_mid_ equator? it is very different, you know. the bearded one is pleased with me and has not brought his poison bottles of late, but thank you for not wanting me to die just now. i do not know of any treasure in bluar boor, but i refer you to the enclosed letter which tells something of treasure elsewhere. i hope your search on wecanicut, my dear sir, will be richly rewarded. please note that i refer to _natives_, not _savages_. there is a vasty difference; more than you perhaps might suppose. may i inscribe myself your most humble servant, the bottle man. p.s. i'm so glad your bones are still where they belong. greg was counting elaborately on his fingers, and said: "i believe he answered _everything_ in my letter, but please let me have it, because there are some things i need to work out myself." "now for the business," jerry said. "this must be the whole sad story of his life,--there's pages of it. coil yourself up comfortably, chris, and i'll fire away." so i coiled up beside greg on the gloucester hammock, and jerry began to read. chapter v from my desolate island refuge i salute the intrepid trio! good sirs, what you tell me of the "sea monster" makes my flesh creep and my hair stir with terror. a murderous bad place i should call it, and not one to trifle with. yet it might well be, as you think, that the sudden-appearing cavern is the mouth of a pirate cave fairly bursting with treasure, and only now exposed to the eyes of such daring adventurers as yourselves by a trick of the elements. strange things there be above and below the waters of the world--which serves to remind me of a tale you might not scorn to hear. you may take it or leave it, as you will, but at least the penning of it will pass some of my hours of banishment in a pleasant fashion. in the year of grace -- (i shudder to think how long ago) i was a bold youth of perhaps the age of the valiant christopher. here jerry paused to give a muffled hoot at me. i chucked a hammock cushion at him, and he went on: my father's house stood on a rambling street in an old waterside town, and from the windows of my room i could see the topmasts of sailing ships thrusting upward above gray roofs. small marvel that my head should be filled with the ways of the sea and the wonder of it, or that i should spend long hours dreaming over books that told of adventures thereon. it was over such a book that i was poring one summer's evening as i sat in the library bow-window. the breeze from the harbor came in and stirred the curtains beside my head, and brought with it the last westering ripple of sunlight and a smell of climbing roses. the book had dropped from my hand and i was well-nigh drowsing, when i saw, as plain as day, the queerest figure possible clicking open our garden gate. he looked to be some sort of south american half-breed,--swart face under rough black hair, and striped blanket gathered over dirty white trousers. now i had seen many a strange man disembark from ships, but, never such a one as this, and when i saw that he was coming straight toward my window, i was half tempted to make an escape. he leaned on the sill of the open casement with his dark face just below mine and began to pour out, in halting english, a tale which at first i had some trouble in understanding. the most that i made of it was that he, and he alone, knew the whereabouts of a city buried ages since under the sea and filled with treasure of an unbelievable description. but you may imagine that even the hint of such a thing was enough to set me all athrill, and i was not greatly surprised at myself when i found that i was following the queer, slinking figure down our bare little new england street. he led me to a ship, an old brigantine heavy with age and barnacles and hung about with the sorriest gray rags of canvas that ever did duty for sails. no wonder that nine days out we lost our fore tops'l. but stay; i fear i go too fast! for you must know that i went aboard that brigantine, and once aboard i could not go ashore again, partly because the strange, ill-assorted crew detained me at every turn, and partly because the longing was so strong upon me to see the things i had read of so often. and that night found me still upon the vessel, nosing down to the harbor light, with the lamps of my father's house winking less and less brightly on the dim shore astern. well, sirs, it would weary you to tell much of that voyage, and besides, many's the time you yourselves must have weathered the horn. for it was 'round cape stiff we went--no panama canal in those days--and i served a bitter apprenticeship on ice-coated yards, clutching numbly at battering sails frozen stiff as iron. it was peru we were bound for,--peru where the submarine city lay beneath uncounted fathoms waiting for us. the captain and i were the only ones acuma, the half-breed, had taken into his confidence; all the others sailed on a blind errand, trusting to the skipper, who was a shrewd man and severe. and the brigantine wallowed around the cape and toiled on and on up the coast, and every day acuma grew more restless; every day he cast about the water with eyes that seemed to pierce to the very bottom of the pacific. one day of blue sky and little breeze, when we were pushing the brigantine with all sails set, acuma flung himself at a bound to the quarterdeck, and a moment later the skipper shouted quick orders that the crew could not understand for the life of them. for to heave the ship to, just when we all had been whistling for enough breeze to give her something more than steerage way, seemed nothing short of insane. acuma climbed to the maintop and looked at the coast of peru with a telescope, and the captain took bearings with his instruments. it was acuma and i who went over the side in diving suits, for no others save the captain knew what we sought, as i have said. down i went and down, with the weight of water crushing ever more strongly against me, till i stood upon the sea's floor. that in itself was quite wonderful enough--the green whiteness of the sand and the strange, multi-colored forest of weed and coral through which my searchlight bored a single, luminous pathway. but right ahead, looming and wavering, seen for an instant, lost again when a deep vibration stirred and swayed the water, shone the faintly golden shape of a great portal. acuma i had lost sight of, but i had no need to ask him what lay before me. the wild pounding of my heart told me that i stood at the gateway of the city that had been covered a thousand thousand years ago by the unheeding sea. leaning at an angle against the tide, i struggled forward till the great gate towered above me, its arch half lost in the green, swimming shadow of the water. but as i flashed my light up across its pillars, it answered with the shifting sparkle of gems crusted thick upon it. i walked then, breathless, into a street paved with rough silver ingots, each one surely weighing a quintal, between tremulous shapes of buildings which pointed lustrous towers upward through fathoms of green water. it was many minutes before i dared enter one of those great silent halls. dragging my heavy leaden-soled boots, i pushed through a shapely silver doorway, and a fish darted past me as i entered. who could imagine the wonder of that vast room! the mosaic that covered the walls and ceilings was of gold and jewels, not porphyry and serpentine, such as delight the wondering visitor to venice, but precious stones--rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts as richly purple as grape clusters, topaz as clear and mellow as honey. behind a traceried grillwork lay heaped a mound of treasures such as no human eye will ever see again. i lifted a little tree fashioned all of gold,--each leaf wrought of the metal--and strung with jewelled fruits on which ruby-eyed golden birds fed. in despairing rapture i clutched after a neck ornament hung with pendulous pearls as large as plums. but as i reached for it, i felt that something was looking at me from the corner. not acuma; no human being was in sight. peering out through the glass visor of my helmet, i saw fixed on me from low down beside the doorway two inky, moveless eyes as large as saucers. they were not human eyes, nor did they belong to any sea creature i had ever beheld or read of. they were round and fixed, pools of bottomless blackness, staring at me through two varas of clear, swaying water. i took an uncertain step backwards, and as i did so i felt something soft and heavy laid slowly and slimily upon my shoulder.... ah me, here is an interruption! a native child approaches, bearing as an offering a lol ipop (one of the native fruits). just before he reaches me he falls face down, doubtless out of respect for my gray hairs, and, on arising, proffers me the lol ipop, now coated with sand. in this state i am expected to eat it, and, being in great awe and fear of the inhabitants, i proceed to do so, which incapacitates me for further epistolatory effort. so, till i recover from the effects of my enforced meal, believe me your devoted correspondent, the bottle man. "well, of all mean tricks!" jerry said. "it's worse than a continued story," i said. "bother the horrid native child! do you suppose that's really why he stopped?" "probably not; he knew it was the excitingest place to stop. what did i tell you about his being ancient? now he _says_ he has gray hairs, so that proves it." "i should think he might," i said, "after such experiences. what do you think it could have been that stared at him?" "an octopus, most likely," jerry said. "they have goggly black eyes; i've read it." "but he said he'd never seen such eyes on any sea beast he knew of, and he's read as much as you have; that's sure." "that treasure! oh, my eye!" jerry sighed. "do you suppose he brought home hunks of it?" "just the same hunks that we dig up on wecanicut, i suppose," i said. "you mean you think he's making up the whole yarn?" jerry asked. "well, even if he is, it's a mighty good one, and it might have happened to him, at that." greg looked up suddenly from beside me, and said: "_i_ think the thing what stared at him was a mer-person." "my child," said jerry, "i believe you're right." chapter vi next day jerry was well enough to walk around with a cane, and when he'd broken father's second-best malacca stick by vaulting over the box border with it, we decided that he was quite all right, and the summer went on again as usual. of course we wrote to the bottle man at once, and told him, as respectfully as we could, just what we thought of him for letting the native child interrupt him in such an exciting part. we also begged him to write again as soon as possible, and to choose a place where the inhabitants weren't likely to come with offerings. we kept waiting and waiting, and no letter came, so we settled ourselves to grim resignation, as jerry said. it was worse than waiting for the next number of a serial story, because you're pretty certain when that will come, but we had no idea how long it would be before the bottle man wrote to us. aunt ailsa still needed cheering up a good deal, and that kept us busy. the cheering was great fun for us, because it consisted mostly of picnics and long, long walks,--the kind where you take a stick and a kit-bag and eat your lunch under a hedge, like a tinker. we also wrote a story which we used to put in instalments under her plate at breakfast every other day. we took turns writing the story, and greg's instalments always made aunt ailsa the most cheered up of all. the story was much too long to put in here, and rather ridiculous, besides. by this time it was almost september, and asters were beginning to bloom in the garden and the hollyhocks were almost gone. wecanicut was turning the dry, russetty color that it does late in the summer, and the harbor seemed bluer every day. captain moss took us out in the _jolly nancy_ one afternoon just for kindness--we didn't hire her at all. she is a sixteen-footer and quite fast, in spite of being rather broad in the beam. he let each of us steer her and told us a great many names of things on her, which i forgot immediately. jerry always remembers things like that and can talk about reef-cringles and topping-lift as if he really knew what they were for. we went quite far out and saw the sea monster from a different side in the distance, and tacked down to the other end of wecanicut under the fort guns. it was when we got in from the gorgeous sail, with greg carrying the little basket all made of twisted-up rope captain moss had done for him, that we found a big, square envelope lying on the hall table. and, to our despair, supper was just ready and we couldn't read the letter till afterward. supper was good, i must admit,--baked eggs, all crusty and buttery on top, and muffins, and cherry jam. we ate hugely, because of the _jolly nancy_ making us so hungry. when we'd finished we went into father's study, where he wasn't, and turned on the desk-light and got at the letter. i read it, while the boys crouched about expectantly. here it is: _dear comrades_: i should have answered your frantic appeals for news of me long since, had i not been slavishly occupied in carrying out the demands of the man of torture from whom i am now completely released, praises be. i am even contemplating escape from bluar boor by stealth. but no doubt you have no desire for these modern details and are all agog to find out whether or not i met a wretched death at the bottom of the sea. i think you left me--or i left you--with a soft and hideous something resting upon my shoulder. sirs, it was a hand, a webbed hand, and turning, i looked straight down into another pair of flat dark eyes. they belonged to a creature not as tall as i, and certainly not human in shape. arms and legs it had, of a sort, and scales, also, and finny spines, and a soft slimy body. then, through the door which led to the silver street, i saw more of the creatures, and more,--a soft, hurrying crowd patting over the ingot blocks which paved the road, peering in at the door, beckoning with webby fingers. my helmet smothered the cry i gave as i struggled against the horrible resistance of the water toward the door. out in the street the mer-crowd surrounded me, fingered my arms, looking at me with unfathomable, disc-like eyes, black as ink. with dawning comprehension it came over me that these creatures inhabited the desolate, sea-filled city, lived in the mighty golden halls that once had echoed to the footsteps of peruvian kings, fared about the rich streets where coral now grew instead of tree and flower. the things were speechless, with no seeming means of communication, and i saw, too, that they could not leave the sea-bottom, but walked upon it as we do upon earth, and could no more rise than we can leap into the air and swim upon it. i tried to push my difficult way through the clinging swarm, who seemed friendly enough in a weird, inhuman way, but i could not pass through. dimly through the swinging water i could see others coming from every carven doorway down the silent street. i thought then of the weights attached to me, and i decided to cut them loose at once and rise from the ghostly place, of which i had seen quite enough to suit me. but i determined to take with me at least one thing from the vast mounds of treasure which held me breathless with utter bewilderment. so i turned and with my long knife began prying from its doorway a ruby as large as my fist. instantly, without warning, the creature nearest me raised its scaly hand in a flinging gesture, and i felt a hot and rushing pain just above my right elbow. i felt, too, a coldness of water spurting down my arm and clutched wildly at the sleeve of my diving-suit to seal the little hole which i saw in it. holding it tightly with my left hand, i slashed with my right at the creatures who were now moving upon me menacingly, pressing me close. if they forced me back into the doorway, all hope would be gone. i cut desperately at the fastenings that secured the weights; felt myself rising; felt my legs pull out from the clinging, slimy arms; looked down at them--a sea of bobbing smooth heads, of round, expressionless, black eyes; saw them waving their tentacle-like arms in fury; saw at last the dim, golden crest of the tallest tower below my feet; burst above the blessed sea-level and saw good blue waves slapping the bow of the brigantine drifting lazily down toward me. i know nothing of the voyage home. i must have been poisoned by the missile, whatever it was, that the sea-creature flung at me. (i bear the scar to this day.) for i have no recollection of much more, until i sat in the library bow-window of my father's house, very tired and stiff and thoroughly thankful that the voyage was over. it was dark, and my mother sat sewing beside a shaded lamp and singing to herself. i fingered the book that lay beside me, on the window-seat, and said: "mother, did you keep the book just here all the time i was gone because you were sorry i went and wanted to remember me?" she laughed, and said: "yes, all the time while you were sailing to the port of stars. come now to supper, my dear." so i got up very stiffly, for i felt weak and dizzy still, and went with her. i said: "i'm sorry, mother, that after all i couldn't bring you any of the jewels." whereupon she laughed again and said something about "cornelia" which i am too modest to repeat, but which, being scholars, you will know by heart, and said that she was glad enough to have me back at all. sirs, you cannot think how beautiful our little dining-room looked to me, with the old brass-handled highboy in the corner and the pots of flowers on the sill--far more beautiful than the fretted golden towers and gem-girdled walls of the city under the sea. so take my advice, young sirs, the advice of a man many years older than you bold young blades: don't you ever go listening to a half-breed peruvian that comes slinking to your window, no matter how enticing may be his tales of treasure. your most faithful bottle man. "_do_ you think he dreamed it?" jerry said. "whatever it was, he must have been glad to get back," i said, switching off the light so that we could talk in the dark, which is more creepy and pleasant. "but the treasure!" jerry said. "do you suppose there ever was such treasure in the world? that's something like! imagine finding gold trees and birds eating jewels on the sea monster! by the way, do you know about 'cornelia'?" i said i thought she had something to do with sitting on a hill and her children turning to stone one after the other, but jerry said that was niobe and that it was she who turned to stone, not the children. he has a fearfully long memory. so we put on the light again and looked it up in "the reader's handbook," because we didn't want to bother the grown-ups, and we found, of course, that she was the roman lady who pointed at her sons and said, "these are my jewels!" when somebody asked her where her gold and ornaments were. so naturally the bottle man didn't feel like repeating such a complimentary thing, being an un-stuck-up person, but we did think it was nice of his mother. we put away the "handbook" and made the room dark again and were arguing over all the exciting places in the bottle man's story, when greg spoke up suddenly from the corner where we'd almost forgotten him. "if _i_ found a thing like those mer-persons," he said drowsily, "i wouldn't let it bite me. i'd keep it in the bath-tub and teach it how to do things." "like your precious toad, i suppose," said jerry. "don't be idiotic." so we all went to bed, and i, for one, dreamed about all kinds of glittering treasures and heaps of jewels each as big as your hat, and of our nice old bottle man, with his long white beard flowing in the wind. * * * * * and now comes the perfectly awful part. chapter vii i must say at the beginning that it was all my fault. jerry says that it was just as much his, but it wasn't, because i'm the oldest and i ought to have known better. to begin with, father had to go to new york to give a talk at the american architects' league, or something, and mother decided to go with him. at the last minute aunt ailsa got a weekend invitation from somebody she hadn't seen for ages and went away, too, which left us alone with katy and lena. katy has been with us next to forever and took care of jerry and greg when they were infant babes, so that mother never imagined, of course, that anything could happen in two days. it wasn't katy's fault either. the first day was foggy, and the garden dripped, so we went down to call on captain moss, who lives near the ferry-landing. besides having boats for hire, he sells such things as fishing-tackle and very strong-smelling rope, and sometimes salt herring on a stick. the things he sells are all mixed up with parts of his own boats and pieces of canvas and rope-ends, and curly shavings that skitter across the floor when the wind blows in from the harbor. there is a window at one end of his shop-place that goes all the way to the floor, like a doorway, and it is always open. his shop is half on the ferry-wharf so that the window hangs right over the water, very high above it. it is quite a dizzyish place, but wonderful to look out at. far away you see boats coming in, and wecanicut all flat and gray, and then right below is nice sloshy green water with old boxes and straws floating by, and sometimes horrid orange-peels that picnic people throw in. that afternoon captain moss was mending the stern of one of his boats, and when we asked him what he was fitting on, he said: "rudder-gudgeons." he grunted it out so funnily that it sounded just like some queer old flounder trying to talk, and we thought he was joking. but he wasn't at all. sometimes he is very nice and tells us the longest yarns about when he shipped on a whaler, but this time he was busy and the rudder-gudgeons didn't behave right, i think, so he let us do all the talking. we told him a good deal about the bottle, and also something about the city under the sea. he said he shouldn't wonder at it, for there was powerful curious things under the sea. he also said he supposed now we'd be wanting to hire the _jolly nancy_ "fer to find submarine cities, sence he wouldn't let us have her to go a-stavin' in her bottom on them rocks off wecanicut." we decided that he really didn't want to be bothered, so we went away presently. to soothe him, jerry bought some of the dry herring things and carried them home in a pasteboard box that said " / doz. galvanized line cleats. extra quality" on the lid. lena cooked the herrings for supper, but i don't think she could have done it right, because they were quite horrid. the second day was the perfectly gorgeous kind that makes you want to go off to seek your fortune or dance on top of a high hill or do anything rather than stay at home, however nice your own garden may be. we agreed about this at breakfast, and i said: "let's go to wecanicut." we'd never gone to wecanicut alone, but i couldn't see any reason why we shouldn't. captain lewis, on the ferry, always watches over every one on board with a fatherly sort of eye, and wecanicut itself is a perfectly safe, mild place, without any quicksands or tigers or anything that mother would object to. "i tell you what," jerry said, "let's make it a real adventure and take some costumes along. we never had any proper ones there before." i thought this was a rather good idea, and after breakfast we went up to select things that wouldn't be too bothersome to carry, from the property basket. "is it to be pirates or smugglers or what?" greg asked, poking in the corner where he keeps his own special rigs. "explorers, my fine fellow," jerry said, "exploring after a submerged city." "oh!" greg said, evidently changing his ideas. jerry and i went down to ask katy to make us some lunch. "just food; nothing careful," jerry explained. "what are ye goin' to do with it?" katy asked. jerry was all ready to say, "eat it, of course," but i saw what katy meant and said: "we're going out; it's such a nice day. we thought we'd take our lunch with us to save lena trouble." "don't get streelin' off too far," katy said, "where are ye goin'?" "oh, down by the shore," i said, which was not quite the whole truth, because of course it was not our shore, but the shore of wecanicut i meant. yes, _all_ of it was my fault. just as we were putting the lunch into the kit-bag greg came staggering downstairs, trailing along the weirdest lot of stuff he'd collected. "what on earth is all that?" jerry asked him. "drop it and get your hat." "it's--my costume," greg explained, out of breath from having dragged all the things down from the attic. "glory!" jerry said, "you don't suppose you're going to lug all that rubbish on to the ferry, do you? not while _i'm_ with you, my boy." "you couldn't begin to put on half of it, gregs," i said. "let's weed it out a little." "and look sharp about it," jerry said, jingling the money for the ferry in his pocket. greg finally took a turkish fez thing, and a black-and-orange sash, and a white brocade waistcoat that father once had for a masque ball ages ago. we hadn't time to tell him that it was no sort of outfit for an explorer, so we bundled the things up with our own and stuffed them all into the kit-bag on top of the lunch. luke street has a turn in it just beyond our house, so neither katy nor lena could have seen which way we went; anyhow, i think they were both in the back kitchen, which looks out on the clothes-yard. i thought perhaps we should have told katy where we were going after all, but jerry said: "fiddlesticks, chris; we're not babies. i suppose you'd like katy to take us in a perambulator." this was horrid of him, but he made up for everything later on. our captain lewis was not in the pilot-house of the _wecanicut_. instead there was a strange captain, a scraggly, cross-looking person, staring at a little book and not watching the people who came on board, the way captain lewis does. jerry and i sat on campstools on the windy side, and greg went to watch the walking-beam, which he thinks will some day knock the top off its house. it always stops and plunges down just when he thinks it surely will forget and go smashing on up through the roof. he is quite disappointed that it never does. it behaved perfectly properly this time and paddled the old ferry-boat over to wecanicut as usual. we went up the hot little road that goes from the landing, and then ran through a prickly, stony short-cut that leads among wild rose-bushes and sweet fern to our part of the shore. there were tiny little wavelets splashing over the rocks, and you couldn't think which was bluer--the sea or the sky. the first thing we did was to bury our bottle of root-beer in a pool up to its neck and mark the place with two white stones. this is something we have learned by experience, for nothing is nastier than warm root-beer. then we put on the costumes and capered about a little. i had a tight, striped football jersey, and my gym bloomers, and a black, villainous-looking felt hat; and jerry had a ruffle pinned on the front of his shirt, and a wide belt with the big tinfoil-covered buckle that mother made for us once, and a felt hat fastened up on the sides so that it looked like a real three-cornered one. greg had arrayed himself in his things, and he did look too absurd, with more than a foot of the brocade waistcoat dangling below the sash, the end of which trailed on the ground behind. it gave us a queer, wild feeling, being there without the grown-ups, and we decided to tell them that as we'd proved we could do it, we might go again. we never did tell them that, as it happens. we all grew hungry so soon that we had lunch much earlier than the grown-ups would have had it. the food katy had fixed was wonderful, though rather squashed on account of all the costumes being on top of it in the kit-bag. while we ate we organized the submerged-city-seeking-expedition. jerry was "terry loganshaw," in charge of the party, and i was "christopher hole, shipmaster," and greg was "baroo, the madagascar cabin-boy," because we couldn't think of what else he could be, with such clothes. we tidied up all the picnic things so that there was nothing left, and put the root-beer bottle into the kit-bag, because it was a good one with a patent top. the kit-bag we took with us for duffle, and we set off for the point. we went by the longest way we could think of, to make it seem like a real expedition,--'cross country and back again. jerry led us through the scratchy, overgrown part of wecanicut, and we pretended that it was a long, weary _trek_ through the most poisonous jungles to the coast of peru; and when greg walked right into a spider's web with a huge yellow spider gloating in the middle of it, he said he'd been bitten by a tarantula. we told him that we should have to leave him there to die, for we must press on to the sea, but he cured himself by eating a magic sweet-fern leaf and came running after us, tripping over his sash. the _trekking_ took a long time, and when we reached the end of the point we were quite exhausted and flung our weary frames down on the tropic sand to rest. all at once jerry clutched my arm and said: "look yonder, hole! does not yon strange form appear to you like the topper-most minaret of a sunken tower?" he was pointing at the sea monster, and it really did look much more like a rough sort of dome than a monster's head. there was a lot of haze in the air, which made it look bluish and mysterious instead of rocky. "it do indeed, sir," i said. "could it be that city we be seeking?" "would that we had a boat!" said greg, which might have been quite proper if he'd been somebody else, instead of baroo. we'd been sprawling on the sand again for quite a while, when jerry suddenly jumped up and shouted: "glory! look, chris!" not at all like terry loganshaw. i did look, and saw what he had seen. it was an empty boat, a sort of dinghy, bobbing and butting along beside the rocks a little way down the shore. we all ran helter-skelter, and jerry pulled off his shoes like a flash and waded out and pulled the boat in. "it's one of those old tubs from around the ferry-landing," he said. "it must have got adrift and come down with the tide. oars in it and all." we stood there silently, jerry in the water holding the boat, and we were all thinking the same thing. it was greg who said it first, quite solemnly. "we could go out to the sea monster." of course it was then that i ought to have said that we couldn't, but jerry pulled the boat up the beach and ran back to the end of the point to see how high the waves were before i could say it. it was too late to say it afterwards, because when we saw that there was not even the faintest curl of white foam around the sea monster, it did seem as though we could do it. "it'll only take about five minutes to row out there," jerry said, "and then we'll have seen it at last. it couldn't be a better time. why, a newly hatched duckling could swim out there to-day." it did look very near, and the water was calm and shiny, with just a long, heaving roll now and then, as if something underneath were humping its shoulders. so i said, "all right; let's," and we climbed into the boat. jerry rows very well, and he pulled both the oars while i bailed with an old tin can that i found under the stern thwart. the boat didn't leak badly enough to worry about, but i thought it might be just as well to keep it bailed. we talked in a very nautical way, though jerry kept forgetting he was terry loganshaw and mixing up "treasure island" and captain moss. but i didn't feel so much like being chris hole, anyway, even to please the boys, and i didn't say much. the sea monster was much further away than you might suppose. when there was ever so much smooth, swelling water between us and wecanicut, the monster's head still seemed almost as far away as before. somehow the water looked very deep, although you couldn't see down into it, and it humped itself under the boat. chapter viii presently wecanicut began to drop further away, and then the sea monster loomed up suddenly right over us, and jerry had to fend the boat off with an oar. we had never guessed how big the thing really was,--not big at all for an island, but very large for a bare, off-shore rock. i should say that it was just about the bigness of an ordinary house, and very black and beetling, with not a spear of grass or anything on it. when jerry said, "my stars, _what_ a weird place!" his voice went booming and rumbling in among the rocks, and a lot of gulls flew up suddenly, flapping and shrieking. he held the boat up against the edge of a rock while greg and i got out. we took the kit-bag ashore, and jerry made the boat fast by putting a big piece of stone on top of the rope. there was nothing like a beach or even a shelving rock to pull it up on, so that was the best we could do. the boat backed away as far as it could, but the rope was firmly wedged between the rock and the stone so it couldn't get away. of course we went first to look at the black cave-entrance. sure enough, a great flat slab had fallen down from it and lay half in the water,--we could see scratchy marks and broken places where it had slid. the cave itself was about six feet deep, and very dank and dismal-looking. there was no sign of there ever having been treasure, for nobody could possibly have buried it, unless they'd hewn places in the living rock, like ancient egyptians. we might have thought of that before, but of course we didn't honestly believe that there was treasure. somehow the sea monster didn't seem nearly so jolly and exciting as it had from wecanicut. it was so real and big, and whenever a wave came in, it boomed and echoed under the hanging-over rocks. we climbed around to the other side and went up on top of the highest place, which was about three times as high as i am. from there we could see the headland, very far away and blue, and wecanicut behind us, safe and green and friendly-looking, but a long way off; and nothing else but a smeary line of smoke from a steamer at sea. "we named this place well," i said; "it _is_ a monster." "brrrr, hear it roar!" jerry said. "the waves must be bigger, or something. there weren't any when we came out." we looked down and saw that the water was behaving differently. instead of being smooth and rolling, there was a skitter of sharp ripples all over it, and the waves went _slap_ and frothed white when they hit the rock. the sky had changed, too. it was not so blue, and there were switchy mares' tails across it, and the wind was blowing from wecanicut, instead of toward it. "we'd better start back," i said. "i'm afraid we'll be late for the next ferry, as it is, and father and mother will be home on the six o'clock train." "whew!" said jerry, "i'd forgotten that. it's latish already, judging by the sun. come along, greg, and loop up your sash so you won't fall off this beast." it _was_ latish. the sun was quite low, and we saw that the sea monster threw a long, queer shadow on the water, as if the sea had been land. we hurried along to the boat, jerry ahead. "she's all right," he shouted, turning around. when he turned back he made a sort of wild spring that i didn't understand at first. then i saw the stone we had put over the rope rolling off the rock,--joggled off by the boat's pulling harder when a wave lifted it. the stone rolled in cornery bounces, with a dull noise, and the rope slipped after it slowly. i thought jerry would be in time. i couldn't believe that i really saw the rope floating its whole length on the water, dry at first, then darkening wetly. "hang on, chris!" jerry said. "i can get it." i caught his hand, and he snatched after the rope. but he plunged wildly, nearly pulling me in, and scrambled up at once with one leg wet to the hip. "there's no bottom at all," he said queerly. "i believe the thing rises straight out of the sea." by that time the boat was ten feet away from the monster. it circled once, very quietly, as if it were trying to decide which way to go, and then it drifted gently away toward the sea, with the rope trailing along like a snake swimming beside it. we stood there looking at the boat until it faded to a hazy speck, and by that time the sun was really low. i don't think greg altogether realized what had happened. we'd played at being marooned so often that i suppose he didn't quite see that this was different. i hope that i shall never, never forget, as long as i live, what a brick jerry was through the whole of that nightmarish thing. i know i never shall. "chris," he said, "you stay on this side. i'll go around to the headland side. greg, you climb up on top. if any of us sees a boat near enough to do any good, call the others, and we'll all yell and wave things." i'd never heard his voice so commanding, even in plays. he still had on the cocked hat, and it looked very strange indeed. we scattered as he ordered, and when the others had gone, i remembered that greg had on slippery-soled shoes instead of sneakers, which we usually wear. i thought of calling after him to be careful, but he never was a falling-down sort of person, even as a baby. i hoped, too, that he would have sense enough to loop up that sash or take it off entirely. i sat on the wecanicut side and stared at the shore and the water till my eyes ached. more and more wind was blowing all the time, straight from wecanicut. it blew so hard in my face that my eyes watered and i couldn't be sure whether or not i did see boats. in books, people think of all their past sins when they're in perilous positions, but all i could think of was that a boat _must_ come before dark. i did think of how much it all was my fault, but that was not far enough in the past to count. presently jerry came back and said that if we moved a little toward each other we could see just as much of the bay and consult at the same time. so we did, and sat down not very far apart. _i_ said that i supposed we ought to change off with greg, because it was horrid lonely up there, but jerry said: "nonsense; he likes to be alone. he's probably pretending he's the king of the cannibal isle, or something, and not worrying a bit." "i was looking us up in the dictionary the other day," i said, trying to forget the sea monster for a minute, "and _gregory_ means 'watchful, vigilant'." "now's the first time he's ever lived up to his name, then," said jerry. "keep looking, chris, and don't moon about." we sat there for quite a long time without saying anything, and the last little golden sliver of sun disappeared behind the point, and the lighthouse on the headland came out suddenly, though it was still quite light, and began to wink--two long flashes and two short ones. "isn't it queer," jerry said, "to think that people are there and we can't possibly tell them." "it's worse than queer," i said. then we were still again, till presently jerry said: "do you hear that funny noise, chris?" i had been listening to it just then, and said "yes" and that i supposed it was the horrid noise the water made around on the other side. for quite a time we didn't hear it, and then jerry said: "there it is again! the water must suck into those echoey hollows. it sounds almost like a person groaning." "don't!" i said. all at once he turned toward me and said in a queer, quick voice: "do you suppose it could possibly be greg?" i can't describe the way i felt when he said it, but if you've ever felt the same you know what i mean. it was a little as though something heavy dropped from my throat down to my toes, through me, leaving me all empty, with cold, tingly things rushing up again to my head. they were still rushing as we flew around the rock, and i kept saying: "it can't be greg.... it _can't_ be...." but it was. he was lying doubled up, just below the high place where jerry had told him to keep watch. we didn't dare to touch him, because we didn't know how badly he was hurt, and he couldn't seem to tell us. but when i tried to put my arm under him, he pushed me a little and said, "no, no," so i stopped. then i saw that his right arm was twisted under him horridly and that his shoulder looked all wrong. i touched it very gently and asked him if it was that, and he said, "yes; don't!" we had to get him out somehow from that jaggedy place in the rocks where he was lying. so jerry got him under the arm that wasn't hurt, and i took his legs, and we hauled him to a flattish part of the rock. i pulled off the football jersey and put it under him, and jerry ran back to get my skirt, which i'd put in the kit-bag when we fixed our costumes. just after jerry had gone something dreadful happened. quite suddenly greg seemed to shrink smaller, and his face grew rather greenish and not at all like his, and his hand was perfectly cold when i snatched it. i suppose he'd fainted from our carrying him so stupidly, but i'd never seen anybody do it before and i didn't know that was the way it looked. i'd never heard of people dying from hurting their arms, but i thought that perhaps he was hurt somewhere else that we didn't know about. but by the time jerry came back with the skirt greg had opened his eyes and looked at me a little like himself. there is a book in our medicine cupboard at home called, "hints on first aid." jerry and i used to like to look at it, and father said: "go ahead; you may need it some day." but neither of us could remember anything that was at all useful now. i could plainly see the picture of some queerly-drawn hands doing a "spanish windlass," but that wouldn't have done poor greg any good at all. jerry did remember that you ought to cut people's clothes and not try to take them off in the ordinary way, so he took out his knife and ripped up the sleeve of greg's jumper and the shoulder-seam of the white brocaded waistcoat. i don't see how people can stand being red cross nurses in france, for i'm sure i never could be one. greg's shoulder was quite awful,--what we could see, for it was almost dark now. there was nothing at all we dared to do. we couldn't even bathe it, for there was only sea-water, so i just sat and held greg's other hand and patted it. he didn't cry,--i think the hurting was too bad for that,--but he moaned a little, and sometimes he said, "hurts, chris." i tried to tell him a story, the way i did when we all had the measles and he was so much sicker than the rest of us, but he couldn't listen. so we just sat there in the dark--it was perfectly dark now and we couldn't see one another at all--and i began to count the flashes of the headland light--two long and two short, two long and two short--till i thought i should scream. suddenly jerry said: "are you hungry, chris?" i said that i wasn't, and asked him if he was. but he said: "no, not very." there were real waves on the wecanicut side of the monster now, and the wind was still blowing from that direction harder than ever. now and then a drop of spray would flick my cheek, and i think the sound of the wind around the rock was really more horrid than the noise the water made. it seemed like midnight, but it was really quite early in the evening, when jerry saw the lights bobbing along the shore of wecanicut. they were lanterns, two of them, and they stopped quite often, as if the people were looking for something. for a minute i couldn't even move. then i scrambled and slid after jerry to the place on the monster that most nearly faced the wecanicut point. i don't think greg really knew we'd left him; at least he didn't make a sound. the lanterns swung and bobbed nearer till they almost reached the point, and we could hear faint shouts. jerry and i braced our feet against the slimy rocks and shrieked into the dark, and the wind rushed down our throats and burned them. we could hear the people quite clearly now. "it's father's voice," jerry said. "oh, chris, the wind is dead against us. _now_ for it!" i'd always thought jerry could shout louder than any boy i ever heard, but you can't imagine how high and thin both our voices sounded out there on the sea monster. we heard father's voice quite distinctly: "chris-ti-ine ... jer-r-r-y ... ti-in-e!" we shouted till our chests felt scraped raw, the way you feel when you've run too hard, and the wind tore our voices straight out to sea, away from wecanicut. the lanterns stood quite still for a minute more, and then they bobbed away. at first i didn't believe that they were really growing smaller and smaller. but they were, and at last they were gone entirely, far down the shore. "are you crying, chris?" jerry said suddenly, in a queer, wheezy voice. he'd been shouting even harder than i had. "i think not," i said, and my own voice was very strange indeed. jerry whacked me hard on the back, and said: "good old chris! _good_ old chris!" the shore of wecanicut was so black that we might have dreamed the lanterns, but i still could hear the way father's own voice had sounded, calling "chris-ti-ine!" we almost stumbled over greg when we crawled back to him, and he said: "can we go home now, chris?" the wind gnashed around in a spiteful kind of way, and jerry touched my hand suddenly and said: "chris, it's raining." chapter ix it _was_ raining,--big cold splashes that came faster and faster. i felt my blouse stick coldly to my shoulder in the places where it was wet. "we _can't_ let greg lie there and have it rain on him," i said. jerry and i thought of the pirate cave at the same moment, but we didn't see how we could possibly carry greg to it in the dark. we thought that as it wasn't his legs that were hurt he might be able to walk there, if we helped him. he was very brave and quite willing to try, though a little dazed about why we wanted him to, but when we stood him carefully on his feet, he said, "chris--no--" and we had to lay him down again. by this time it was really raining, and i put the skirt over greg, instead of under him, while we tried to think. "it might work if we made a chair," jerry suggested. so we stooped down and clasped each other's wrists criss-cross, the way you do to make a human chair, and got greg on to it, with the arm that wasn't hurt around my neck. the darkness was perfectly pitchy, and we had to feel for every step to be sure that it was a solid place and not the slippery edge that went straight down into the sea. greg cried a little and said, "_please--_stop." i could feel his hair against my face. it was all wet, and his cheek was wet, too, and cold. the rain blew a little way into the cave, but not much, and we put greg as far back as we could. the bottom of the cave was very jaggy and not comfortable to lie on, but we made it as soft as we could with the skirt and the jersey. i tripped and stumbled against jerry, and when i caught him i felt that he was shivering. his shirt was quite wet. when i asked him if he was cold, he said "not very," and we crawled into the cave place beside greg, and sat as close together as possible to keep warm. we couldn't see the headland light, and i was rather glad, because it had made me almost crazy, flashing and flashing so steadily and not caring a bit. the rain went _plop_ into the pools, and made a flattish, spattery sound on the rock. i don't know why i thought of the "air religieux" just then, but i suppose it was because of the rain. i could see the straight yellow candle-flames all blue around the wick, and father's head tucked down looking at the 'cello, and his hands, nice and strong, playing it; then i got a little mixed and heard him calling "christi-ine," fainter and fainter. i think i must have been almost asleep, because i know the real rain surprised me, like something i'd forgotten, and a very sharp, cornery rock was poking into my back. it was then that greg said: "want--simpson." that frightened me more than anything almost, for simpson was a sort of stuffed flannel duck-thing that he'd had when he was very little, and he hadn't thought of it for years. none of us ever knew why he called it "simpson," but he adored the thing and made it sleep beside him in the crib every night. but that was when he was three, and "simpson" had been for ages on the top shelf where we keep the toys that we think we'll play with again sometime before we're really grown up. we never have done it yet, but there are certain ones that we couldn't possibly give away, not even to the deservingest poor children. so when greg said that, in a tired, far-off sort of way, it did frighten me, because i _had_ heard of people dying when they were ravingly delirious. greg wasn't raving exactly, but it was almost worse, because his voice was so small and different from his own dear usual one. when i told him i couldn't get simpson i tried to make my voice sound soft and cooey like mother's when she's sorry, but it went up into a queer squeak instead, and i couldn't finish somehow. greg kept saying, "simpson;--please--" and crying to himself. i heard jerry feeling around in the dark and then the click of his knife opening. i couldn't think what he was doing, but after quite a long time he pushed something into my hand and said: "does that feel anything like it?" "like what?" i said, but the next minute i knew. it _did_ feel like simpson--soft and flannelly, with a round, bumpy sort of head at one end. "oh, how did you do it!" i said. "oh, jerry, you brick!" "i chopped a big piece out of your skirt," he said. "i hope you don't mind. i happened to have the string off the sandwich bundle in my pocket, and i squeezed up a head and tied it." greg was a little frightened when jerry leaned over him suddenly. "it's just me, greg," jerry said; "just jerry-o. here's simpson, old lamb." i'd never heard jerry's voice at all like that before. i don't know whether greg really thought it was simpson, but he took it and sighed--a long, quivery sort of sigh, the way very little children do when they're asleep sometimes. then there was no sound at all but the different horrid noises that the monster made. presently i felt jerry start, and then he shuffled back a little so that he was quite tight against my knees. i asked him what was the matter, and he said "nothing." after a while, though, he said: "chris, i'd better tell you." "what? oh, what _is_ it?" i said. "do you remember how the tide was when we came out?" he asked. "yes," i said; "on the ebb. don't you remember the rocks at wecanicut, with bushels of wet sea-weed hanging off?" "well?" jerry said. i didn't understand for a minute, then i whispered: "do--you mean--" "a wave just hit my foot," said jerry in a low voice. the first thing that we did was a lot of quick figuring. we thought fearfully hard and remembered that turkshead rock was just coming out of water when we left wecanicut at four o'clock, so that the tide must have been within about an hour of ebb. therefore full flood would be at eleven o'clock. but we hadn't any idea of whether it was ten or eleven or twelve, because there was no light to see jerry's watch by. he had just an ordinary ingersoll, not the grand radiolite kind that you can see in the dark and it was perfectly maddening to hear it ticking away cheerfully, and no good to us at all. just then something cold wrapped itself around my ankle. it was the edge of another wavelet. we knew that if the cave was going to be flooded we must get greg out of it before the water came much higher, but it was still raining pitch-forks outside, and we didn't know whether to risk waiting a bit longer or not. "perhaps there's sea-weed and we can feel high watermark," i said. "try, jerry." we felt all the way around the sides of the cave toward the bottom, but as far as we could tell there was no sea-weed at all. "that doesn't help us much," jerry said, "because we don't know whether the tide is really full now and has covered it, or whether it just doesn't grow here." we curled our feet under us and waited. we could hear the water sloshing around very close to us. once when i put out my hand it went right into a cold pool. it was then that jerry had a most wonderful idea. i heard his knife snap open again and asked him what it was this time. "if i take the crystal off my watch," he said, "i can feel where the hands are." i heard the little clicking pop that the front of a watch makes when you pry it off, and i knew he was feeling the hands very gently. "the little one's in line with the winder stem thing," he said, "and the big one--chris, it's about twenty minutes of twelve. the water _can't_ come any higher. we must have had the worst of it." it was queer that i cried then, because i hadn't felt at all like crying when we thought that the cave would be flooded. greg had been quiet for so long that it frightened me suddenly, and i groped after him to be sure that he was all right. i found his hand, and i couldn't believe that it was really hot when ours were so cold. his forehead was hot, too, and dry, in spite of his hair being damp still from the rain. he curled his hand into mine and said very clearly: "will you please bring me a drink of water?" it was perfectly awful, because he said it so politely and very carefully, as if he were trying not to bother somebody. and there was no drink to give him. i thought of the people in stories who lie on deserts and battle-fields burning in agonies of fever, but i couldn't remember reading about anybody dying of fever on a rock in the middle of the sea. i dipped my handkerchief in the pool just beside me and laid it, all dripping, on greg's forehead. i didn't know whether it was a proper first aid thing to do, but he seemed to like it and was still again, holding my hand. presently he said: "mother, why isn't there a drink?" "this is awful, chris," jerry said. then i thought of the rain-pools. there were lots, of course, in the hollows of the monster, but we had nothing to scoop up the water with. greg's forehead was just as hot as ever, and he thrashed about and hurt his shoulder and cried miserably. i don't know how jerry could have thought of so many things; for it was he who thought of very carefully breaking the bottom off the root-beer bottle and using it for a cup. of course the bottom might have cracked all to pieces, but it was quite heavy and jerry was very careful. it came off wonderfully well, though rather jaggy. jerry tried to grind the cutty edges off by rubbing them against the rock, but it didn't work. then we remembered being very thirsty once on a long picnic-walk ages ago, and father wrapping his handkerchief around the top of the tin can the soup had come in and giving us a drink at a pump. so we knew that we could do that with the broken bottle. jerry dodged out into the rain through the tide-pools and came back after a while with some water. "i couldn't get much," he said, "because the place i found was very shallow, but i can go again." i remembered reading in books that you mustn't give much water to fever-stricken people in any case. we lifted greg's head up,--that is, jerry did, while i held the root-beer bottle glass, and said: "here's the drink, gregs, dear." it was very hard to tell what i was doing, and some of the water trickled over the handkerchief and down the front of greg's jumper. but he drank the rest, and said: "thank you very much" in the same careful voice. "oh, i wish he wouldn't be so blooming polite!" jerry said sharply, as we were laying greg back again, and i felt something wet and warm splash down on my wrist. but i didn't tell jerry i'd felt it. chapter x if i wrote volumes and volumes i couldn't begin to tell how long that night seemed. it was longer than years and years in prison; it was as long as a century. i think jerry slept a little, and perhaps i did, too, for when i peered out at the cave entrance again there were two or three bluish, wet stars in the piece of sky i could see, and the rain-sound had stopped. jerry was huddled up at my feet with his dear old head propped uncomfortably against me. he was snoring a little, and somehow it was the nicest sound i'd ever heard. greg's hand was still in mine, and it was not very hot. dawn always disappoints me a little. you think it's going to be perfectly gorgeous, and then it's usually nothing but one cold, pinkish streak, and the shadows all going the wrong way. but when i saw a faint wet grayness beginning to creep along the horizon beyond the headland, i thought it was the most wonderful thing i'd ever seen in my life. the gray spread till the whole sky was the color of zinc, with the sea a little darker, and then one spikey yellow strip began to show on the sky-line. i could see greg at last, with the jersey under his head, and the white brocade waistcoat all dark and stained at the shoulder, and his poor dear face ghastly white. and jerry asleep, with the ruffle still pinned to his wet shirt and a big hole torn in the knee of his knickerbockers. and i saw the slimy pools that the tide had left beside us--it was on the ebb again--and the pieces of the root-beer bottle that jerry had broken off, and the horrible, high, black head of the sea monster above us. there was no boat of any sort to be seen, near or far away, but i woke jerry so that we could both keep watch in case one came. just as jerry crawled out of the cave and stretched himself stiffly, greg took his hand away from mine and blinked out at the sky, and said in almost his own voice: "have we been here all the time?" "yes, all the time, ducky," i said, and then i cried, "don't try to move, gregs!" for i saw him trying to squirm over. he lay back and said "why?" but then in an instant he knew why. i couldn't do anything but cuddle my cheek down against his, and he sobbed: "make me stop crying, chris." the light grew stronger and stronger till there were shadows among the rocks and wecanicut came out green and brown. jerry came back presently, and i wondered if he'd seen anything, but he said: "chris, i just wanted to ask you. how long does it take for a person to starve?" i said days, i thought, and jerry sighed a little and went back to his watching-place. somehow i didn't feel very hungry, myself,--that is, not the kind of hungry you are when you've played tennis all morning and then gone in swimming. there was a sharp, sickish feeling inside me and my head felt a little queer, but it was not exactly like being hungry. i think greg's arm must have stopped hurting quite so badly, or else he was being tremendously spunky, because we talked a lot and i told him that father would come for us pretty soon. i didn't feel at all sure of this, because i knew that father would never have given up the sea monster the night before if he'd had any idea we were there. but it was so perfectly blessed to have greg talking sensibly at all, even with such a wobbly sort of voice, that i didn't much care what i said. all at once jerry came tumbling around the corner, shouting: "oh, chris, come quick! _hurry!_" i left greg and ran after jerry, and i'd been sitting so long humped up on the rocks that my knees gave way and i barked my shins against a sharp ledge. i didn't even know it until ever so long afterwards, when i found a bruise as big as a saucer and remembered then. jerry didn't need to point so wildly out across the water; i saw the boat before he could say a word. it was a catboat, quite far off, tacking down from the headland. the sail was orange, and we'd never seen an orange sail in our harbor or anywhere, in fact, so we knew it must be a strange boat. jerry pulled off his shirt like winking and stood there in his bare arms waving it madly. we both began to shout before the catboat people could possibly have heard us, but we thought that they might see the white shirt flying up and down. the boat was tacking a long leg and a short one. the long one carried it so far out that we thought it was going to cross the mouth of the bay and not come near enough to see us. jerry stopped shouting just long enough to gasp: "when she's all ready to go about on the short tack is the time to yell loudest." but the next short tack seemed to bring the boat no nearer than before, and the long leg carried it so far away that it was no more use shouting to the orange sail than to a stupid old herring-gull. "could you wave for a bit, chris?" jerry said. "my arms are off." so i took the shirt and waved it by its sleeves, and the catboat began another short tack. it was just then that we saw something black flap-flapping against the sail. "they've tied a coat or something to the flag halyard, and they're running it up and down," jerry said. "they're trying to get here, but they _have_ to tack. don't you _see_, chris?" of course i saw, but i didn't blame jerry for being snappy at the last minute. the next tack showed very plainly that the boat was really coming to the sea monster, and somebody stood up in the stern and shouted. we shouted back--one last howl--and then stood there panting, because there was no use in wasting any more breath and our throats were quite split as it was. when the catboat came a little nearer we saw that there was only one man in it, and, sure enough, an old blue jersey was tied to the flag halyard. the man turned the boat around very neatly--i don't know the right sailing word for it--and anchored. then he climbed into the dinghy that was trailing along behind and began rowing to the sea monster. i sat down on the rock and i had to keep swallowing, because i felt as if my heart were bumping up against my throat. to save time, before the man landed, jerry started to shout what had happened. there wasn't much left of his voice, but he managed to do it somehow. "we've been here all night," he called huskily. "we came out to explore this thing, and our boat got away, and our little brother fell off the top and is hurt awfully, and" (this was just as the man climbed ashore on the sea-weedy rocks) "and we'd always called this place the 'sea monster' because it looked like one, but now we know it _is_ one." the man was looking at us very hard, particularly at me, and he said: "the 'sea monster'!" then he looked again and said "oh!" he was a nice tall man, with a brown, squarish face, quite thin, and twinkly blue eyes and a lot of dark hair that blew around like jerry's. he looked from one to the other of us and nodded his head to himself. i suppose we did look very queer,--quite dirty, and jerry with the tin-foil-buckled belt still around him and no shirt; and my bloomers dangling down like a turkish person's because of the elastics having burst when i fell down. "it seems," said our man, "that i have arrived in the nick of time to perform a daring rescue." he said it in a funny make-believe way, as if he were doing one of our plays, and then suddenly the twinklyness went out of his eyes and he said: "but take me to gregory." if we hadn't been so perfectly bursting with thankfulness and so tired of shouting and the cold and the whole hideous place, we should have wondered how on earth he knew greg's name, because neither of us had mentioned it. but we didn't think of it then, and just snatched his hands and pulled him over the rocks, trying to tell him a little how glad we were to see him. when he saw greg, his face grew quite different--very sorry, and not twinkly at all and he went down on his knees (he couldn't have stood up in the back of the cave) and he said: "poor old man!" and then, "i wonder who had the worst night of it?" we said, "greg, of course." but our man said, "i wonder." then he changed again, and instead of being all sorry and gentle, he got quite commanding and very quick. "chris, you stay here," he said. "gerald, come with me,--and here, put this on." he pulled off his gray flannel coat and tossed it to jerry, and jerry did put it on and ran after him, tucking up the sleeves. i saw them get into the dinghy and row back to the boat, and i said: "oh, gregs, we're going home, we're going home!" and we both cried a little. they came back after what seemed a long time, and our man said: "while i'm fixing gregory, you and gerald tackle this." it was half a loaf of bread and some potted beef done up in oiled paper, and i'm sure jerry ate the oiled paper, too. i'd heard of starving people falling on food and rending it savagely, but i never knew exactly what rending was until we did it to the bread. we gave some of it to greg, too, while our man was fixing him. i never saw any one before who could do things so fast and so gently. he had nice, brown, quick hands, and he looked so grown up and useful. he'd brought a roll of bandage stuff--the kind with a blue wrapper that you keep in first aid kits--and a book that had "coast pilot guide and harbor entrances of new england" on the cover. i didn't see what he could want that for, except on the boat, till he put it under greg's armpit and bandaged his arm across it to keep it steady. the white waistcoat was in our man's way, so he ripped it down the side and got it off entirely. "i was an explorer," greg explained shakily. "he was baroo, the madagascar cabin-boy," jerry said, gnawing the loaf, and i thought it seemed years ago that we had _trekked_ across wecanicut. "i see," said our man, in his nice, kind, reliable way, and then he said to greg, "i didn't hurt you much, did i, old fellow?" and greg shook his head, and said: "thank you for coming." that was what we all felt, but none of us had put it so simply before. "what's this?" the man said, as he was gathering up the rest of the bandages. it was the simpson-thing, and it did look very funny by daylight, i must say,--just a wob of blue flannel tied with a string. i was going to explain, but jerry said, with his mouth full: "oh, just something we had," and stuffed it away in the kit-bag. he was quite red. boys are funny sometimes. "now," said our man, "comes the embarkation, and i'm afraid i'll have to hurt you a little, greg." he picked greg up in one swinging swoop, and i wished that jerry and i had been strong enough to do that last night. greg had only time for one gasp before he was quite comfortable against our man's shoulder. but he _was_ brave, because it must have hurt like anything, even then, and i could see his jaw set hard. jerry and i gathered up the kit-bag and the jersey and what was left of the skirt and followed along. just beside the dinghy our man paused and looked all around at the ugly blackness of the sea monster and up to the jaggedy top of it. then he looked down at greg and smiled a little sorry smile, and said very slowly and gently: "ye be three poore mariners." jerry and i stared at each other, and i said: "you must know that song, too. we used to pretend being marooned, but we never thought it would really happen." then jerry said suddenly: "by the way, what's your name, sir?" "you'll have to row, jerry," said our man, "because i must keep the wounded just the way he is." then he said: "some people call me andrew, but my intimate friends call me 'the bottle man'." chapter xi i thought that perhaps it might be a dream after all, because that's the way things happen in dreams, and that i would wake up and find it still night and the rain splashing down and poor greg crying. but the dinghy was real and so were the slippy slidy wet rocks, and i had to watch what i was about and not go staring in astonishment at our man. we all had to be careful about the rocks, and that's why none of us said anything till we were in the dinghy, except for one gasp of astonishment. "but how _could_ you be?" jerry and i asked together when we all were safely aboard, with our man in the stern holding greg carefully. "but how did you get un-oldened?" greg asked. "we thought you were a very old gentleman," i explained giddily. "_i am_," said the bottle man. "ancient." "but what about your gray hairs?" jerry demanded, tugging away at the oars. "if you've more than one gray hair you've gray hairs," said our man. "i have eleven." he ducked down his nice, dark, rumpled-up head for us to look, but i must say i couldn't see more than one little one all buried among the black. "you're grown up, but you're not old at all," i said. "we've been imagining you as an aged old man with a long white beard." "i never mentioned a long white beard," the bottle man said. "yes; but what about your tottering along on two sticks?" jerry said suddenly. but we had come alongside the catboat, and no one could talk for a little while until we were all arranged in the boat and our man had told jerry and me to pull a mattressy thing out of the tiny little cabin and had laid greg on it in the bottom of the boat. he gave him some stuff out of a little flasky bottle, too, and greg sputtered over it and said "ugh!" but afterward he said: "it's nice and hot inside when i thought it had gone." and we couldn't talk, either, when our man was hoisting the orange-painted sail and hauling up the anchor and running back and forth to pull ropes and things. but when he was settled at the tiller and all of us were cosy with sweaters and coats, jerry asked him again. "why, you see," the bottle man said, "something had hit me very hard and for a long time all that i was able to do was to totter along on the two sticks." "but what hit you?" i asked. he dropped his voice, because greg was actually asleep. "an inconsiderate shell," he said. for a minute, because i was so used to thinking of him on the lonely island, i imagined a big conch-shell being hurled at him from somewhere. then jerry and i both gasped: "you mean you were in the war?" "exactly," said our man. "and the bearded man was a doctor?" jerry asked. "that he was!" the bottle man said. we both asked him questions at once, but he was dreadfully vague, and kept looking at greg and the sail and the shore, but we managed to piece together that he'd been wounded twice and left for dead in no-man's-land (after doing all sorts of heroic things, we know) and finally sent home to america from a french hospital. we found out, too, that his aunt was the "good soul" he talked about in his letters, and that she half-owned the island and had a beautiful big old house on it where she made him come while he convalesced. it was very hard to find out all these things, because he _would_ be so mysterious and kept saying "ah!" and "that's another story!" he also wanted to hear all of our adventures, but we wouldn't tell him those until we'd heard some of his. jerry asked him suddenly about the scar where the sea-thing bit him, or stabbed him, or whatever it did, and our man twinkled and pulled up his sleeve. and there, just above his right elbow where the tan stopped, was a little white three-cornered scar, sure enough. jerry looked and said "oh!" and our man said "ah-ha!" and at the end of all the stories we realized that we didn't know, even now, how he happened to be sailing along just in time to rescue us. "_i_ sailed all the way from bluar boor," he said, "on purpose to see you. to tell the truth, i had designs on the 'sea monster' which will not be carried out now. i laid up last night inside the headland breakwater and made an early start this morning for the last leg of the trip. i recognized the 'sea monster' a long way off, but i must say i was surprised when i saw jerry's shirt signaling so distressfully. of course i knew who you were at once, when you called the place the 'sea monster,' but christine did stagger me for a minute." "stagger you?" i said. "why?" "i've been thinking you were 'christopher' all this time, you see," he said, "but, being a man of infinite resource and unparalleled sagacity, i immediately perceived the true state of affairs." "_are_ you a professor?" jerry asked. "heavens, no!" our man laughed. "why do you ask?" "on account of your style," jerry said. "it's so grand and stately. so are your letters, sometimes." "i am but a poor bridge-builder," the bottle man said, "but i can turn words on or off as i want 'em, like a hose." by this time the boat was almost in, and our man brought it up neatly to the float beside the ferry-slip, and some men came over and helped him to moor it. then he got out and came back in a minute with the man who always meets the ferry in an automobile to hire. the man looked as if he were in a dazy dream, which i don't blame him for at all, because we did look quite weird. he and the bottle man lifted gregg, mattress and all, and stowed him in on the back seat of the automobile. the rest of us perched on the front seat and the running-board, trying to conceal our strange appearance from the staring of quite a crowd which was gathering, as it was just ferry-time. our man said, " luke street, and go carefully." it surprised us for a second to hear him say our address as if he'd known it always, but then we realized that he _had_ known it for quite a long time. i think none of us will ever forget the way the house looked as we swung around the corner and came up luke street. just the end of the gable first, behind the two big beeches in the front garden,--oh, we hadn't seen it for years and centuries,--and then the living-room windows open, with the curtains blowing, and the little box-bush that grows in a fat jar on the porch-steps. mother was coming out at the front door, and she looked just the way she did when we got a telegram once saying that grannie was very ill. jerry jumped off the running-board before the automobile stopped, and he let mother hug him right there in the middle of the path, which is a thing he generally hates. by that time our man and the chauffeur were lifting greg and the mattress out, and mother let go of jerry and stood quite still, with her face all white and hollow-looking. we all began talking at once, and the bottle man managed to tell mother more about everything in a few minutes than you would think possible. he and the automobile man, who still looked flabbergasted, put greg on the big bed in mother's room while she was telephoning to dr. topham. we all felt fidgetty and unsettled until dr. topham came, which was really very soon. i think he must have broken all the speed rules. jerry and i, who had put on some other clothes, sat in the living-room with the bottle man while the doctor set greg's arm, which was fractured. mother stayed with greg. the bottle man told us things about the war and his island, and he played soft, wonderful music on the piano to make us forget about greg and the sea monster and all the awful things that had happened. chapter xii it was the queerest topsy-turvy morning i ever spent. after mother came down and told us that gregs was fixed and that doctor topham had given him something to make him sleep, we all went in and had lots of breakfast.--mother and the bottle man, too, for neither of them had had any. you would never have thought we'd eaten the bread and potted beef there on the monster, if you'd seen the way we devoured the eggs and bacon and honey and toast that katy and lena kept bringing in. they both brought the things, because they were so glad to see us and so afraid that it had been their fault that we went to wecanicut. but we told mother that it wasn't. while we ate. mother told us everything that had happened at home. she and father came in on the six o'clock train and found katy and lena quite worried because we hadn't come back yet, but no one got really frightened until later. father thought of wecanicut and went to the ferry to ask, but captain lewis wasn't there, and of course the cross new captain that we'd seen looking at the book hadn't even noticed us and wouldn't have known us if he had. our nice portuguese man remembered our going over and was perfectly certain that he'd seen us come back, too, which of course he hadn't. so, after setting the policeman and every one else to search town, father and captain moss went to wecanicut on the chance. they reached the point at a quarter after nine, which was when we saw the lights, and they never for a moment thought of the sea monster, because no one had missed the old dinghy from the ferry-slip and they didn't imagine that we could get there. they didn't find any trace of us at the usual picnic place on wecanicut, because we had everything with us, and though some of the fort soldiers searched, too, nothing could be found. father had been up all night and was still out, telephoning to all sorts of places. if i deserved any punishment for its being my fault, i think i had it when i thought of how hard father had been working and how wretched and anxious they all were. i hadn't quite realized that before. strangely enough, right after breakfast jerry and i began to yawn tremendously, and mother bundled us off to bed. we hadn't had time to think of it, but of course we hadn't slept particularly well on the sea monster. just as we were going upstairs, aunt ailsa came running in with her hat on, crying: "is katy telling the truth?" and then we both leaped on her from the stairs. when she ducked her head up from our hugs, the bottle man was standing in the doorway, looking queer. "ailsa!" he said; and that really did floor us, because we knew we'd never even mentioned her existence to him. she stood staring, and then put her hand up against her throat, exactly like somebody in a book. "andrew!" she said, in a faint little voice. mother looked at them, and then said: "bedtime, chicks! come along!" and went up with us. it was quite weird, going to bed at nine o'clock in the morning. we pulled down all the shades so we could sleep, though i don't really think we needed to, because i know that as soon as i shut my eyes i was sound asleep. when i woke up the room was quite dim, and mother and father were standing at the door talking. father looked awfully tired, but dear and glad, and he wouldn't let me tell him how sorry i was about it all. mother said that even more surprising things had been happening, and that if i'd slept enough for a time, i'd better come down to supper. that was queer, too,--dressing in the twilight and coming down to supper, instead of to breakfast. we all talked a lot at supper, of course, and people kept asking questions. i had to do most of the answering, because jerry always left out the parts about himself, and yet it was he who did all the wonderful things. we had bottles of ginger-pop, because it was a sort of feast, and father got up and proposed toasts, just like a real banquet. first he said: "jerry! i'm glad to have a son with a level head." then he said: "christine!" and looked at me very hard, till i wanted to turn away. but they all drank it just the same as jerry's, though i didn't deserve it at all. then father held up his glass and said very gently: "greg!" and when i tried to drink it, the ginger-pop choked me, and jerry banged me between the shoulders, which, of course, only made it worse, because it wasn't that sort of choke. then jerry jumped up and said: "we ought to drink to the bottle man, _i_ think. and, by the way, 'bottle man' looks all right in a letter, but it's queer, rather, to say to you. haven't you really a real name?" our man and aunt ailsa looked at each other as if they were going to say something, and then the bottle man twinkled, and said: "very soon you'll be able to call me uncle andrew." this part seems to be nothing but explanations, which are horrid, but there _were_ lots, and i can't help it. of course jerry and i sat staring in surprise, and there _had_ to be explanations. and what do you think! our own bottle man was that "somebody westland" that aunt ailsa had wept so about. the casualty list was perfectly right in saying that he was wounded and missing (though it came very late, because by that time he was in america), and she thought, of course, that he was dead, because she didn't hear from him. and he'd written to her from the french hospital and the letter never came. when he came back, all sick and wounded, to america, somebody who didn't know anything about it told him that aunt ailsa was going to marry mr. something-or-other, so our poor man went off sadly to his island and didn't write to her any more. he'd never heard of us, because of course her name isn't holford. and _she'd_ never heard of his aunt, nor blue harbor, nor the island, so of course she didn't know anything about it when we read his letters to her. oh, it was very tangly and bewildering and it took lots of explaining, but at the end of supper there was just enough ginger-pop left to drink to both of them. afterwards she and father played the 'cello and piano, because we asked them to, and the bottle man sat with his arm over jerry's shoulders, watching, with the light on his nice, brown, kind face. and father sat with his head tucked down over the 'cello, just the way i remembered there on the sea monster, and the candles shone on aunt ailsa's amberish-colored hair, and i thought she was the beautifullest person in the world, except mother. i thought about a lot of things while the music went on, and wondered whether we'd ever want to picnic on wecanicut again. but i knew we would, because wecanicut is a kind, friendly, safe place (and we do go there now lots, only we don't look at the sea monster much). i thought, too, that perhaps if we'd never thrown the message in the bottle into the harbor, aunt ailsa and uncle andrew would never have been married and lived happily ever after,--that is, they've lived happily so far and i think they'll keep on. because if we hadn't, the bottle man would never have come sailing down to see us, and he might still be thinking aunt ailsa had married the mr. thingummy, when she hadn't at all. he was such a nice bottle man! i sat there on the couch and thought how splendid it would be when he was our own uncle, and i laughed when i remembered how we'd imagined that he was an ancient old gentleman. the wind began to rise outside. i could hear it whisking around and bumping in the chimney, and i thought how glad i was--_oh_, how glad, _glad_ i was--that we were all at home, and i listened hard to the 'cello and tried not to remember the horrible old sea monster. mother slipped in and sat down beside me, and when the music ended, she said: "greg wants to see the 'bottle man'." we asked if we might come, too, because we hadn't seen greg since they carried him up to the house, all bloody and rumpled and dirty. so we all went up, and mother tip-toed in first with the lamp. he looked almost quite like himself, with clean pajamas and his hair brushed and all the frightened, hurt look gone out of his face. the bottle man (i almost forget to call him that, because we've been calling him uncle andrew for months) leaned over and said: "lots better now, old man?" greg said "lots," and then, "but what i _did_ want to ask you is, how you sailed all the way from the mid-equator to here in such a little boat?" the bottle man laughed, and then said very soberly: "but _are_ you sure you measured it right? to-morrow i'll show you on the map." we only stayed a minute, and then said good-night and went out. i was the last one, and just as i was going through the door, greg said: "chris! come back!" so i went and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, and greg put his good arm around my neck when i bent down. "do you know, chris," he said, "sometimes that night i think i thought you were mother. oh, chris, i _do_ love you awfully much!" and i was happier then than i'd been since--oh, it seemed centuries ago. none note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: annie pore has bloomed forth into a regular english rose!--_page _] vacation with the tucker twins by nell speed author of "at boarding school with the tucker twins," "the molly brown series," etc. with four half-tone illustrations by arthur o. scott new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by hurst & company contents chapter page i. the beach ii. "sleepy" iii. our first night at the beach iv. bubbles v. blanche vi. a romance vii. oh, you chaperone! viii. letters ix. the start x. the finish xi. cape henry xii. freckles and tan xiii. the turkey-tail fan xiv. a letter and its answer xv. the judge xvi. an axe to grind xvii. mr. arthur ponsonby pore xviii. the machinations of mabel xix. the wedding xx. the after-math xxi. settling up xxii. good-bye to the beach xxiii. until next time xxiv. a bread-and-butter letter xxv. bracken in august xxvi. the picnic illustrations page annie pore has bloomed forth into a regular english rose _frontispiece_ a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face peeping in, we saw the game in full swing "why don't you speak up, girl?" vacation with the tucker twins. chapter i. the beach. my first impression of willoughby beach gave me keen disappointment. it was so sandy, so flat, and so absolutely shadeless. i longed for the green hills far away and in my heart felt i could not stand a month of the lonesome stretches of sand and the pitiless glare of the summer sun. it took great self-control and some histrionic ability for me to conceal my emotions from my enthusiastic hostesses. the tuckers had been coming to willoughby for years and loved every grain of sand on the beach. they could hardly wait for the trolley from norfolk to stop before they jumped out and raced down to the water's edge just to dabble their hands in the ocean. "my gracious me! how i hate to grow up!" exclaimed dum. "one year ago i would have had off my shoes and been in bliss by this time." "well, maybe you are too grown up to wade, but i'm not," declared dee. "however, since zebedee has trusted us to come down and open up the cottage, i fancy we had better go do it and get things ready for our guests." we three girls were the fore-runners of the famous beach house-party that mr. jeffry tucker, father of the "heavenly twins," had promised to give us the winter before as reward of merit if we passed all of our exams at gresham and got through the year without any very serious mishaps. mishaps we had had in abundance, but not very serious ones, as all of us were alive to tell the tale; and mr. tucker, with his eternally youthful outlook on life, seemed to feel that a scrape that turned out all right was not such a terrible matter after all. "just so you can look me in the eye while you are telling me your troubles, it's all right," i have heard him say to his daughters. the cottage proved to be very attractive. the lower floor was chiefly a large living room with french windows that opened upon three deep, shady verandas. a kitchen and bath rooms were in the rear. a staircase came down into the living room from a low-hung balcony that went around the four sides of the room. doors from this balcony opened into dressing rooms and they in turn led to the sleeping porches. this style of architecture was new to me and very pleasing. there was a spaciousness to the living room with its high, raftered ceiling that appealed to me greatly. i have never been able to be happy in little, chopped-up rooms. the wood-work, rafters, roof and all, were stained a dark moss green, as were also the long mission dining table and the chairs and settles. at one end was a great fireplace made of rough, grey boulders, with heavy iron fire-dogs and fender. there was no attempt at ornamentation with the exception of several old blue platters and a tea pot on the high mantelpiece and a long runner of japanese toweling on the table. "oh!" burst from us in chorus as we came through the hospitably open door. "isn't it lovely?" just then there emerged from the kitchen a woman with a pail in one hand and broom in the other. her long, pale face with the sandy hair drawn tightly back into a mrs. wiggs knot had no trace of welcome, but rather one of irritation. "well, land's sakes! you is greedy fer yo' rights. the fust of july don't mean the fust thing in the morning. the last tenants ain't been gone mor'n a hour an' here you come a-turn-in' up before i kin mor'n turn 'round." "well, everything looks lovely," said the tactful dee. "y' aint seen it yet. it's right enough in this here room where i've done put in some licks, but that there kitchen is a mask of grease. these june tenants was jist a passel of boys and i can tell you they pretty near ripped things wide open. they had a triflin', no-'count black man fer cook and if ther' is one thing i hate more'n a nigger woman, it's a nigger man. sometimes i think i will jist natchally refuse to rent my house to anybody that hires niggers." "your house!" escaped from dum before she could stop herself. "yes, miss, my house! did you think i'd be cleaning up after a nigger in anybody's house but my own?" "then you are mrs. rand?" inquired dee. "the same! did you think i might be capt. rand?" "no'm; i--i----" "you jist didn't expect to see a lady who owns a grand house like this workin' like any common person. well, you are right, young lady. but if i didn't work like this, ther' wouldn't be no house to rent. where's your brother?" "brother?" "yes; him what come down last winter to see after rentin' the house. he was a powerful likely young man. me 'n capt. rand took to him from the first minute we clapt eyes on him. i'd a-knowed you two were his sisters anywhere; and this other young lady," indicating me, "i reckon she's his girl, 'cause she sho ain't no kin." the twins spluttered and i blushed but managed to put mrs. rand right as to the tucker family, explaining to her that mr. tucker was the father of my friends and that i was merely a schoolmate who was invited to come to the beach on a visit. "well, you may be putting something over on me, as these wild june tenants used to call it. i can't believe that the young man who came down here is the paw of these strapping twins any more than i could believe that you are their maw. maybe he sent his office boy." that made all of us laugh. "we've been coming here for years, mrs. rand," said dee. "it is strange we do not know each other. i can't remember ever seeing you before and you never saw us." "good reason! i never come here 'til this last fall, when capt. rand and i left virginia beach. he's been a lifesaver ever since he was a-put inter pants, but his jints is too stiff now. the government has pensioned him but it looks like so long as we live near the old life saving station that every time there is any cause for gittin' out the boats, capt. rand sees some good excuse why he's beholden to go 'long. so i jist up 'n' moved him away from temptation over inter these quiet waters. but when is that so-called paw of yourn comin'?" "he will be along this evening with miss cox, our chaperone, and we want to get everything in order before he comes," said dum. "well, that bein' the case, i'd better get a hump on and finish up the kitchen that greasy nigger left in such a state; and then i'll come right on up to the bedrooms. this lapping and slamming of tenants is right hard on me, but it is the only way i can get my fifteen per cent out of my investment." "did you plan the house yourself, mrs. rand?" questioned dum. "it is so pretty." "what, me? do i look crazy? when i builds, i builds a house with a parlor and nice, tight bedrooms. i don't 'low the builder to waste no lumber on porches that's nothin' but snares fer lazy folks. i owns three houses over to virginia beach, as snug little homes as you ever seed; but somehow it looks like i can't git rich tenants fer 'em, in spite of they bein' on the water front. rich folks what is got the money to sleep in nice, close bedrooms is all took to sleepin' out doors like tramps; an' when they is got all the time there is to set in the parlors and rock, they ain't content in the house but must take theyselves out in the wind and sun 'til they look like injuns! "no, sirree! i had a mortgage on this house an' foreclosed. it was built and owned by a architect from norfolk. i had a chattel mortgage, too, so i got all his fixin's. i felt real sorry fer him. it looked like he loved the place as if'n it was his own flesh and blood. it is a strange, misshapen lookin' house to me; but they do say if any of yo' children is afflicted, you loves 'em more'n all the others. i wanted to decoration this barn a little with some real fine pictures a lightnin' artist over to hampton struck off for me while i waited, but the man took on so, jist like he thought i might a-been desecratin' the grave of his child! and he kinder made me promise to leave this room jist as it is with that common old blue chany on the mantel an' this strip of blue and white rag on the table. so that's how it comes to be so bare-like." "we don't think it is bare, mrs. rand, but beautiful," said dum reverently, and dee took off her hat and held it just as i had seen her father do when a funeral was passing. "may we go upstairs and see the sleeping porches, and maybe we can help you some?" "snoop around all you've a mind to; but i wouldn't ask you to help. when i rents a furnished house i sees that it is turned over to tenants in apple-pie order, and if'n you'd 'a' come in the afternoon instid of morning you'd 'a' found it ship-shape." "but we'd simply adore helping," urged dee. "all right, if you must you must! here's a basket of clean sheets an' sich, an' here's clean bags fer the mattresses. i never asks one tenant to sleep on the same tick cover that the one before it used, certainly not when boys is been the fore-runners. these was likely boys if'n they was a leetle harum-scarum, but boys at the best is kinder goatish. jist bundle up the s'iled bedclothes an' trun 'em down the steps, an then when you've buttoned up the mattresses in their clean covers make up the cots to suit your fancy. by that time i'll be up with my broom and rags." and mrs. rand bustled out to the kitchen to clean up after her abomination. we could hardly wait for her to get out of the room to have a good giggle. she was a type that was new to me. dee declared that she was a real out and out "po' white" if she did own three houses at virginia beach and one at willoughby, and got per cent on her investments. her dialect was, in some instances, like the coloured people's, but her voice was high and nasal and every sentence ended in a kind of whine. with our coloured friends the dropping of a "g" or "d" makes their speech soft and mellow, but with this so-called "poor white" it seemed to make it only dry and hard. certainly mrs. rand's exterior was not very attractive, but there was a kind of frankness about her that i rather liked. i had an idea that she was going to prove a good and just landlady, which, after all, is very important when one is renting a furnished house for a month at the sea shore. "thank goodness, we are spared the lightning artist's pictures," sighed dum. "isn't this room wonderful?" it had indeed the repose and calm of a forest. the light was soft and subdued after the glare of sand and water. the high, vaulted, unplastered ceiling with its heavy green beams and rafters made me think of william morris's description of the hall of the nibelungs when the eagles screamed in the roof-tree. we carried the heavy basket of clean bed linen upstairs and made our way through the dressing rooms, which were little more than closets, to the spacious sleeping porches, overlooking the bay. we found the place in very good order, considering boys had been keeping bach there for a month, and it was not at all "goatish," as we had been led to expect to find it. on the first porch we discovered an old checked cap on a hook, and some discarded tennis shoes in a corner, under one pillow a wallet, rather fat with bank bills, and under another a large gold watch. "aren't boys the limit, though?" exclaimed dee as she carefully placed the valuables in a drawer. "that means they'll be coming back for their treasures. maybe we had better save the old hat and shoes, too;" which we did with as much care as we had shown the watch and wallet. we bundled up the bed clothes according to instructions and decided to visit the other porches and get rid of all the soiled linen before we commenced to make up the cots. there were three large porches, with two dressing rooms to each porch, and two small porches in the back, one of them, we fancied, intended for the servant and the other one for some person who preferred solitude to company, as there was room for only one bed on it. this porch was the last one we visited and we found it in terrible disarray. there were clothes and shoes all over the floor and the bed was piled high with a conglomeration of sweaters, baseball suits and what not. "my, what a mess!" i cried, being the first to enter. "and this is the room of all others to get in order, as i fancy miss cox, our chaperone, will occupy it." "yes, this would be best," said dum. "she could have more privacy, and then, too, she would escape the morning sun. here, you girls, catch hold of the corners of the sheet and let's take up all of this trash and 'trun' it down the steps and let mrs. rand sort it out." we laid hold with a good will, but it proved to be very heavy, so heavy, in fact, that just as we got it off the bed, dee let go her end and the contents fell to the floor with a resounding bump. chapter ii. "sleepy." [illustration: a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face.--_page _] the mass of bed clothes and sweaters and shoes went through a great upheaval, and an arm, encased in a striped pajama sleeve, was thrust forth. we did what girls always do, we screamed and then we giggled. "gee, it's hot!" came in muffled tones. "it's hard enough to be waked before daybreak but you fellows might at least wake me like gentlemen and not pull me out of bed, keeping up such an infernal cackling, too, sounding like a lot of fool girls." of course, the thing to do was to get out of the room, or rather off the porch, as fast as we could, but, as dee and i were at the foot of the bed and the floor space was occupied by the squirming mass, we had no chance to make a graceful exit. "jump!" came in a sibilant whisper from dum, and we got ready for a feat not very difficult for two girls as athletic as we were; but a fit of giggles attacked us and we were powerless to do anything but cling to each other in limp helplessness. "i'm afraid we would step on it," i managed to squeak out through my convulsions. "i just dare you to!" spluttered the owner of the arm, and a tousled head emerged and then a hot, fat, red face. it was a rather good-looking face in spite of the fact that it was swollen with sleep and crimson with heat and distorted with rage at having been "awakened before dawn." i never expect again in all my life to see anything half so ludicrous as that boy's expression when it dawned on him that the rude awakening was not the work of his erstwhile companions, but of a lot of "fool girls." his eyes, half shut with sleep and blinking with the glare of unexpected daylight, were blinded for a moment, but as dee and i still clung to each other and giggled, the youth's eyes began to widen and the mouth, sullen from heavy slumber, formed itself into a panic-stricken o. his face had seemed as red as a face could get, but, no! it took on several shades more of crimson until it was really painful to behold. he did the wisest thing he could possibly have done under the circumstances: hid his head and burrowed deep under the cover. "now, jump!" cried dum; and jump we did, clearing the hurdle in great shape, and then we raced down to mrs. rand to tell her of our ridiculous predicament. "well, land's sake! don't that beat all? and you was fixin' to gather him up with the s'iled clothes! 'twould 'a' served him right if'n you had a-trunned him down the steps and let him take his chanct with the la'ndry." and the old woman laughed until her mrs. wiggs knot came down and she had to put down her scrubbing brush and twist it up. "i'm about through here and i'll go up and 'ten' to him." "oh, mrs. rand, i am sure he is up by this time, and the poor fellow is embarrassed enough. don't say anything to him," begged dee. "i ain't so sho 'bout that. i spec it's the one they call 'sleepy,' an' if'n it is, he's mo'n apt to be gone back to bed," and she stalked like a grenadier up the steps to rout out poor "sleepy." two boys came up on the piazza as we turned from viewing the now spotless kitchen, and, caps in hand, asked to see mrs. rand. they were what that lady would have called a "likely pair." both were dressed in white flannels and had the unmistakable look of clean-living athletes. mrs. rand's voice was heard from the balcony as she rapped sharply on the dressing-room door: "you, there! git up! this ain't no tramps' hotel." then a growl came from the den as from a wounded, sore-headed bear. "sleepy!" gasped the boys, and they went off into roars of laughter in which we perforce joined them. "not up yet!" mrs. rand, coming down the steps from her valiant attack on the back sleeping porch, espied the laughing boys and renewed the offensive: "now what's bringing you here? this here cottage ain't yourn no longer. if'n youse after that fat sleepy-head up thar you is welcome to him, but what's the reason you didn't take him with you, i can't see." "you see, mrs. rand, it's this way," said the taller of the two boys, approaching mrs. rand with an engaging smile. "we did wake up sleepy and then piled all his clothes on top of him, thinking the weight and heat of them would make it impossible for him to sleep longer. we had to go get our tents pitched and provision our camp and we couldn't stay to see that our scheme worked. we are mighty sorry if it has caused you any trouble or annoyance." "no trouble to me," and mrs. rand gave a snaggled-tooth smile at the polite young man, "but it was some trouble for these young ladies; which no doubt is the reason, these young ladies, i mean, that t'other young fellow is so busy winking at me about, kinder specting me to hand out a interduction. well, as i'm what you might call chaperoon 'til their paw comes, i'll favor you and make you acquainted;" which she did with stiff formality. the tall boy was named james hart, and the other one, the winker, stephen white, but he was never again to be known as stephen, or even steve, for on and after that first day of july he was known as "wink." boys are quick to give a nickname and slow to relinquish a joke on one of their companions. "mrs. rand," said wink, (i'll begin now to call these boys by the names we soon knew them by,) "we simply hate to be a nuisance to you and to these young ladies but we can't provision our camp for the reason that we have lost all our money. i was almost sure i had put the money in my pocket, but now that i can't find it, i am hoping maybe i left it here somewhere." "no, you didn't, young man. th' ain't no money loose 'round here," and mrs. rand got ready for battle. "oh, the wallet!" we cried in chorus, and dee rushed upstairs and came down in a trice bearing the wallet, watch, old cap and shoes. "my, what a relief!" sighed wink. "i am supposed to be the careful member of the crowd, so they intrusted me with all the funds, and this is the way i behaved. your watch, jim! i fancy your great-grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew how careless you were. and old rags left his cap and shoes! i am glad i wasn't the only forgetter." "well, i'm a-thinking, young men, that it's a good thing this here cottage is owned by a respectable woman an' the july tenants is what they is, or you'd be minus some prop'ty. that there sleepy up there come mighty near being bundled up in the s'iled linen an' sent to the la'ndry, an' if'n these young ladies hadn't a-been what they is yo' camp never would 'a' been provisioned. but now i must git to work an' clear out that there upstairs," and mrs. rand betook herself to the regions above. "please tell us about sleepy," begged jim hart. "did he get mixed up with the laundry?" but the tuckers and i felt that poor sleepy had had embarrassment enough and were mum as to our experience with him that morning. "come on, jim, let's go up and see him. maybe he is too shy to come out," and the two boys went up two steps at a time to rout out their embarrassed friend. the bird had flown. there was no trace of the poor fat boy. the clothes which had filled the room were gone; the boy was gone; and only a hole in the sand below gave silent witness to his manner of flight. "well, poor sleepy, if he hasn't jumped off the porch and gone, bag and baggage! he almost dug a well in the process of going. that was some jump, i can tell you," and jim and wink came down in a broad grin. "what is sleepy's real name?" i asked. "george massie, a perfectly good name, and he is the best old fellow in the world, especially when he is asleep, which he is on long stretches. in fact, most of the time, except in football season, and then you bet he is awake and up and doing. he is on the university eleven and is sure to be captain next year," answered jim. i was rather glad to hear of his prowess in football as it meant that the poor, sleepy boy could take care of himself if his companions teased him too much in their anxiety to hear what had occurred. a centre rush on a college eleven does not have to submit to much teasing. "we are certainly obliged to you ladies for your kindness in finding our belongings, and when we get our camp in order we hope you will come to see us. we understand there is to be quite a party of you," said wink, preparing to depart. "yes, besides miss cox, our chaperone, there are to be two more girls with us for the whole month and our father is to bring down week-end parties from richmond. we are to have some boys for part of the time but we can't stand them as steady things," blundered dum. "well, come on, jim, we don't want to get in bad the first thing. to become popular with this young lady we must make ourselves scarce," and they went gaily off, while we returned to assist mrs. rand until our luggage arrived. when it came, we unpacked at once, and then were ready for the lunch which we had brought with us from richmond. we had a busy afternoon visiting the little shops, laying in our housekeeping supplies and interviewing the swarm of hucksters and fish mongers that sprang up like magic the moment the word had gone forth that a new tenant had arrived. our cook was not to come until the next day so we were very cautious in ordering, being well aware of our limitations in the culinary art. dum wanted to have baked, stuffed red snapper the first night because zebedee was so fond of it, but dee and i vetoed it and we got spanish mackerel to broil instead. "we simply live on fish at the beach. i hope you like it, page," said dee, "because you fare pretty badly down here if you don't." "of course i do; and i am going to eat a lot of it so i can become fishy and learn to swim. it is a terrible mortification to me that i can't swim." "why, honey, zebedee can teach you in one lesson, just so you are not timid," and dee put her arm around me. "there is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. you could hardly have learned to swim in your grandfather's hat-tub." chapter iii. our first night at the beach. by the time mr. tucker and miss cox arrived, late that evening, tweedles and i felt as though we had been keeping house for years. mrs. rand had the cottage in apple-pie order and had taken herself off, very much concerned for fear we were not going to have a good supper for "that there so-called 'paw'." but we did have a very good one by careful division of labour. dum set the table and looked after the butter and ice water; dee attended to the coffee, baked potatoes and salad; and to my lot fell the broiling of the fish and toasting of the bread. we had had a long and eventful day and very tired and hungry were the three of us when the trolley from norfolk finally arrived with miss cox and mr. tucker, also tired and hungry and very dirty after a trip on a soft coal train. miss cox had come all the way from the mountains of albemarle on a local train and she seemed to be about all in; but she declared that supper and bed would make her over and we must not worry about her. "it would be a pretty piece of business for me to come down here as a chaperone and then be a baby," she said. "well, a baby is about as good a chaperone as one could want," laughed mr. tucker; "and now, jinny, i am going to insist upon your being a baby for a few days until you get yourself all rested up. we appreciate your coming to us more than we can tell you and one and all mean to wait on you." "we do, indeed, miss cox, and i bid to bring your breakfast up to your room," said dee. "and i bid to unpack for you," put in dum. "and i--i--i don't know what i will do for you, but please let me help some," i begged. "oh, people, people! don't be too good to me or i'll cry," and miss cox gave a wan smile. she had been tutoring all during the month of june, beginning just as soon as her labours were over at gresham; and having had no rest at all she was in a state of exhaustion pitiable to behold. i believe her nerves would have snapped if it had not been for that timely trip to the beach. "well, i call this a pretty good supper for three girls just turning sixteen to get up all by their lonesomes," said mr. tucker, giving a sigh of complete satisfaction as he got out a cigar for an after-dinner smoke. "page did all the real cooking," tweedled the twins. "why, dee, you cooked the potatoes and the coffee, and dum did a million other things that are much more tedious than cooking. i love to cook but i hate the scullery part." then i was sorry i had said that because they utterly refused to let me help wash the dishes and i felt like an awful shirker. miss cox was escorted to her sleeping porch which she pronounced "heaven." it presented a different appearance than it had in the morning when poor sleepy had been concealed in the soiled linen like a modern falstaff (not that we seemed much like the merry wives of windsor). "now stay in bed in the morning so i can bring your breakfast up to you," begged dee. "and don't dare to unpack yourself, but let me do it," demanded dum. "i hope the mantle of sleepy will fall on you, miss cox, and you will slumber as peacefully as he did," said i, lowering the striped awning to keep the early morning light from waking the poor, tired lady. "well, good night to all of you. i only hope i can get undressed before i fall asleep." it was a wondrous night, and since the girls would not let me help with the dishes, i accepted mr. tucker's invitation to stroll on the beach with him while he finished his cigar. how pleasant the night was after the terrible glare of the day! for the first time i began to feel that the beach was going to be what i had dreamed it to be. the sun had set but there was a soft afterglow. "and in the heavens that clear obscure, so softly dark and darkly pure, which follows the decline of day, as twilight melts beneath the moon away," quoted mr. tucker. "i am afraid you are pretty tired, too, page. you do not seem to have your usual spirits. i bet a horse i know what it is! you are disappointed in willoughby beach." "oh, please don't think it, mr. tucker----" "i don't think it, i just know it. you must not feel bad about it. everybody always is disappointed in it at first, and then in a few days wonders how he could have been anything but in love with it. you question now how anyone could be contented without trees or grass, and in a week's time you wonder what is the good of trees and grass, anyhow. i know today you felt like old regulus when his captors cut off his eyelids and exposed him to the sun. you'll get used to the sun, too, and even scorn a hat as tweedles do." i was really embarrassed at mr. tucker's divining my feelings as he did, but it was no new thing, as he often seemed to be able to guess my thoughts. i, too, often found that i had thought out something just as he was in the act of giving voice to it. i _had_ been desperately disappointed in the beach. the great stretches of unbroken sand, the cloudless sky and a certain flatness everywhere had given me a sensation of extreme heaviness and dreariness; but now that the blessed darkness had come and i no longer had to scrooch up my eyes, i began to feel that it was not such a stale, flat, unprofitable place after all. and it was certainly very pleasant out there, pacing up and down on the sand with mr. tucker, who treated me just like one of his daughters in a way but at the same time gave me a feeling that he thought i was quite grown-up enough to be talked to and listened to. he had called me "miss page" at first, but now that he had dropped the "miss" and i was just plain page i seemed more of a companion to him than before. tweedles soon came racing out, having finished the dish washing. "we didn't wipe 'em, but scalded 'em and let 'em dreen. dee broke two cups--i broke a saucer!" exclaimed dum. "it's entirely too lovely a night to waste indoors." "so it is, but it is also a mighty good night for sleeping and i think all of us had better turn in pretty early," said mr. tucker. "oh, not yet, zebedee!" tweedled the girls, "we are not a bit sleepy. you are always wanting people to go to bed before they are ready." and with that they flopped themselves down on the sand, dum with her head on my knee and dee with hers on her father's shoulder and in one minute they were fast asleep. "now what are we going to do with these babies, page?" "i hate to wake them but they will be sure to catch cold," i replied. and so wake them we had to and lead them stumbling to the cottage and up the steps to the east porch, where they were with difficulty persuaded to go through what they considered, in their sleepy state, to be the unnecessary formality of undressing. i had been sleeping pretty well for almost sixteen years but after that first night at willoughby beach on a sleeping-porch, i knew that i had never really realized what sleep meant. no matter how many windows you may have open in your bedroom, it is still a room, and no matter how much you may protect a porch, it is still out-of-doors. we were in bed by nine o'clock and we were asleep almost before we were in bed, and while my sleep was perfectly dreamless i was, in a measure, conscious of a delicious well being, _a sentiment de bien être_. all through the night i was rocked in this feeling and i was then and there reconciled to the beach, flatness, glare and all. a place that had such sleep-giving powers was one to be loved and not scorned, and forthwith i began to love it. chapter iv. bubbles. the sun finds an east porch very early in the morning and five o'clock was late enough to sleep, anyhow, when one has gone to bed at nine. tweedles and i had many duties to perform and we were glad enough to be up and doing. "me for a dip in the briny, before i grapple with the day!" exclaimed dum. that sounded good to dee and me, so we all piled into our bathing suits. i felt rather strange in mine and very youthful, never before having had one on. father and i had had several nice trips together but we had always gone to some city and had never taken in a seaside resort. i had a notion i was going to like the water and almost knew i would not be afraid. i determined to look upon the ocean as just a large-sized hat-tub. "hadn't we better start the kitchen fire before we go out, dum?" i asked. "i'm not dum! i'm dee! dum's gone to peek at zebedee to see if he is awake." for the first time in my acquaintance with the tucker twins i found myself at a loss to tell them apart. of course it was dee. the eyes were grey and there was a dimple in her chin, but the bathing cap concealed her hair and forehead; and, after all, the colour of the twins' hair and the way it grew on their foreheads were the chief points of difference. their eyes were exactly the same shape if they were of different colours, and a difference that you had to stare at to find out was not much of a difference after all. dum came back to announce that zebedee was awake and would join us in a moment, so we raced down to the kitchen, careful not to make any noise and wake up poor miss cox. we started the fire and put on the tea kettle and, as an afterthought, i went back and filled the marion harland percolator, putting in plenty of coffee. the morning was rather chilly and i knew that when we got back from our dip, coffee would not go amiss. "front door wide open! what kind of a locker-up are you, zebedee, anyhow?" chided dum. "well, i could have sworn i shut it last night and locked it. in fact, i can swear it." "well, if we had burglars they didn't burgle any. the pure german silver is all intact and the blue tea-pot is still on the mantelpiece. come on, i'll race you to the water's edge," and dum and zebedee were off like two children, while dee and i followed. "someone's out ahead of us," said zebedee, pointing to a head far out in the bay. "some swimmer, too! just look how fast he's going!" the swimmer was taking long, even strokes and was shooting through the water like a fish. how i did envy that swimmer! i felt very slim and very shy as i walked gingerly to the water's edge and let the waves creep up on my feet and ankles. the tuckers wanted to stay with me but i would not hear of it. i knew that they were longing to get out into deep water and i have always had a wholesome dread of being a nuisance. they plunged in and were off like a school of porpoise, one minute under water and the next leaping high into the air. they seemed to be truly amphibious animals while i felt very much of an earthworm. i walked out in the bay up to my chin and then decided that i would try to swim back, although i had no more idea of how a body went to work to swim than to fly. i lay down on the water and felt my feet rising to the surface and then a panic seized me, and such another struggling and splashing and gurgling as i was guilty of! my head went under and my feet refused to leave the surface. i thought i would surely drown, although i knew perfectly well i was not beyond my depth. foolish poetry flashed into my brain: "you are old, father william," the young man said, "and your hair has become very white, and yet you incessantly stand on your head-- do you think, at your age, it is right?" "in my youth," father william replied to his son, "i feared it might injure the brain; but now that i'm perfectly sure i have none, i do it again and again." from that i went on with clarence's dream: "o lord! methought what pain it was to drown! what dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! what sights of ugly death within mine eyes! methought i saw a thousand fearful wrecks; a thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, all scattered in the bottom of the sea, some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes where eyes did once inhabit there were crept (as 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, that wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, and mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. . . . . but still the envious flood kept in my soul and would not let it forth to seek the empty, vast and wandering air; but smothered it within my panting bulk, which almost burst to belch it in the sea." all this time that my brain was busy in this absurd way, my legs and arms were busy, too, and just when i got to the last line, quoted above, i felt a strong hand on the back of my bathing suit and i was pulled from the briny deep. "why, page, why are you making a little submarine of yourself? you scared me to death, child. i was way out in the bay when i looked back to see what you were up to and not a sign of your precious little head could i see, nothing but bubbles to mark the spot where my dear little friend had gone down. but oh, such big bubbles! i thought you had ventured out beyond your depth, and here it is not much more than four feet of water," and zebedee held me up while i spluttered and gurgled. only the night before zebedee had demanded that i should stop calling him mr. tucker, so now i was to think of him and speak of him as zebedee. i had been thinking of him as zebedee for a long time and it was very easy to stop calling him by the formal name of mr. tucker. "lend me a handkerchief!" i demanded just as soon as i could stop spluttering enough to speak, and then we both burst out laughing, as naturally he did not have one. "i tell you what you do, little girl, you trot on up to the house and get into dry clothes, and i'll collect those water dogs as soon as i can and we will join you. i don't approve of staying in the water too long in the early morning, certainly not on the first day at the beach. the morning swim should be nothing more than a dip." "well, that's all mine was," and i scrambled out. my wet suit felt very heavy but my body felt light and there was a delicious tingle all over me as the morning air, a little cooler than the water, struck me. i raced to the cottage and into the downstairs bathroom--which had an outside entrance--where we had put our bath gowns so we would be able to drop our wet suits there. it took me only a few minutes to rub down and get into some dry clothes (thanks to middy blouses, which were surely invented for girls in a hurry). i was dressed and in the kitchen before zebedee was able to collect his water dogs. the coffee was in a state of perfection, and glad indeed was i for a cup of the beverage which shares with tea the quality of cheering without inebriating. the oven to the little range was piping hot so i made so bold as to stir up a pan of batter bread, mammy susan's kind with lots of eggs, and i then proceeded to set the table for breakfast. "see here, this is a shame for you to be slaving so!" exclaimed zebedee. "i simply won't have it--but gee, what a grand smell of coffee! you don't mean you've got some all made?" and he came through the living room and back into the kitchen in his wet suit, although he was the one who had made the rule the night before that bathers must enter from the rear and leave their wet suits in the bathrooms. i hadn't the heart to remind him; besides, i knew tweedles would take great joy in doing so. i gave him a cup of steaming coffee and then made him hurry off to get into his clothes by letting him have a peep at my batter bread, which was behaving as batter bread should when it is made with plenty of eggs and the oven is piping hot--that is, it was rising like an omelette and a delicate brown was appearing over the surface. "it must be eaten hot, so you had better hurry," i said as i put the sliced bacon in the frying pan and then cracked ice for the cantaloupe. "all right, mammy susan, i'll show you what a lightning change artist i can be. i know i can beat tweedles. they are still in the bathroom. by the way, do you know who the swimmer was we saw out in the bay? none other than our chaperone, miss jinny cox! i just knew i had locked the door. you see, jinny opened it. she has decided not to let anybody wait on her, after all. tweedles are quite disconsolate. they have been planning to be so unselfish and here jinny is refusing to be ill, and here you are, the honored guest, cooking breakfast on this, our first morning at the beach." he started up the steps but came down again, and, taking me impulsively by both hands, he exclaimed: "i am mighty glad you did not succeed in drowning yourself in four feet of water, little friend. you made very beautiful bubbles but i am going to teach you how to swim before the week is out." chapter v. blanche. "who is to go over to norfolk with me to meet the guests, also the cook lady from keysville?" demanded zebedee as he scraped the very last vestige of batter bread sticking to the sides of the pan. annie pore and mary flannagan, our schoolmates, were to arrive on a james river boat and our much needed cook on the train. the cook was a great niece of mammy susan's dead husband, who was being educated at an industrial school for coloured boys and girls. i had never seen her, but mammy susan had been rather impressed by what she had heard of the girl and it was because of her recommendation that the tuckers had determined to employ her. "she's got good afgan blood in her," declared mammy, "but th' aint no tellin' what schoolin' is done did to'ds spilin' of her." we were willing to gamble on the good "afgan" blood and now we were to meet the girl, blanche johnson by name. i had written her telling her exactly what train to take and to be sure to pin a red bow on her left shoulder as a means of identification. "page must go because she did so much work this morning, besides getting most drowned," and dum got up from the devastated breakfast table and began clearing off the dishes. "and miss cox must go----" "why don't you all go?" put in zebedee. "leave these stupid old dishes for the lily fair blanche." "oh, jeffry tucker, never!" exclaimed miss cox. "if she found us with dirty dishes she would think we like 'em dirty and give 'em to us for the rest of the time. no, you girls go on with your irresponsible parent and i will stay and do this little dab of dish washing. i don't want to go to norfolk. in fact, i never do want to go to norfolk." i detected a slight trembling of her lip and a painful flush on her countenance, but as she turned away quickly i thought i was the only person who had noticed it. "but i can't allow you to do so much, jinny," objected zebedee. "well, we've got at least fifteen minutes before the trolley leaves. let's all of us turn in and get it done before the time is up," and i set the example by grabbing the batter bread pan from zebedee, who was trying to find just one more crumb. "come on and help. i'll make you some more this evening for supper." such another bustling and hurrying as then went on! the dishes were already scraped by the voracious swimmers, so there was nothing to do but plunge them into the hot, soapy water where miss cox officiated with a dish mop, and then into the rinse water. dee was ready with a tea towel and dum put them away, while i put butter and milk in the refrigerator and wiped off the table. zebedee stood around in everybody's way doing what he called "head work." "if it takes one lone chaperone one hour to do the dishes, how long will it take her to do them with the assistance of one learned gentleman and three charming young ladies, when two of them are twins and the other one the most famous blower of bubbles in the world? answer, teacher!" "just twelve minutes by the clock, and it would have been only ten if the learned gentleman had not made us walk around him so much," laughed miss cox. "now off with you or you'll have to run for your car. don't worry about me. i may go back to sleep." the boat was in when we reached norfolk but the girls had been instructed to stay aboard until we got there. we could see dear old mary flannagan's red head as we put foot on the pier and as soon as she saw us she began to crow like chanticleer. what fun it was to see these girls again! we were a strangely assorted quintette. the tucker twins, annie pore, mary flannagan and i; but our very difference made us just that much more congenial. the twins were not a bit alike in disposition. dum,--virginia,--was artistic, sometimes a trifle moody, very impulsive and hot-tempered but withal the most generous and noble-minded person i knew, quite like her father in lots of ways. dee,--caroline,--was more practical and even-tempered with a great deal of tact prompted by her kind heart, the tenderest heart in all the world, that took in the whole animal kingdom from elephants to ants. annie pore, our little english friend, had developed so since our first meeting that she seemed hardly the same person who had sat so forlornly in the station in richmond only ten short months before. she had lost the timid, nervous look and was growing more beautiful every day. she had had thirty days of such growing since i had last beheld her and she had made good use of her time. i had a feeling the minute i saw her that perhaps she had come to some more satisfactory understanding with her father. in fact, she must have, since he had permitted her to join the house party at willoughby beach. mary flannagan was the same old mary, red head, freckled face, bunchy waist and all; but there never was a more good-natured, merry face than mary's. her blue eyes had a twinkle in them that was better than mere beauty and her frequent laughs disclosed a set of perfectly clean, white teeth. on the whole, mary was not so very homely and to us, her best friends, she was almost beautiful. as for me, page allison, i was just a girl, neither beautiful nor ugly, brilliant nor stupid; but i was still as determined as i had been on that morning in september when i started out from bracken for boarding school, not to rest until i had made a million friends. i had made a pretty good start and i intended to keep it up. "well, we are glad to see you!" exclaimed zebedee, shaking hands with both girls at once as he met them on the gangway. "i hope your father is well, miss annie, and is favourably considering joining us for a week end at willoughby." "i don't know, mr. tucker, what he will do," answered annie, smiling; "he enjoyed seeing you so much that i shall not be astonished if he takes you at your word and comes to visit you." that was the most wonderful conquest ever made! zebedee had been down to price's landing and deliberately captivated the stiff, unbending englishman, mr. arthur ponsonby pore. i asked him to tell me about it and he answered quite simply in the words of cæsar: "'veni! vidi! vici!' why, page, the man is peculiar but he is more lonesome than anything else. all i did was to treat him like a human being and take for granted he would treat me the same way, and sure enough he did. and here is poor little annie, to show the wisdom of taking it for granted that a man is going to be kind. i asked him to let her come to the house party as though he would of course be delighted to give his daughter this pleasure, and he complied with the greatest cordiality." after seeing to the girls' trunks and transferring them to the baggage trolley for willoughby beach (and this time annie, having a neat, new little trunk which she called a "box," was not embarrassed by the bulging telescope she had taken to gresham), we then went to the station to await the arrival of the precious cook. "s'pose she doesn't come!" wailed dum. "well, if it would mean more of page's batter bread, i shan't mind much," declared zebedee as the train puffed in. "look for a girl with a red bow on her shoulder," said i, peering at every passenger who got out of the coloured coach. there were many as there was an excursion to ocean view and a picnic given by "the sons and daughters of the morning." the dusky crowd swarmed by, laden with boxes and baskets of lunch, all of them laughing and happy and any of them looking as though she might be a good cook, but not one of them was blanche. red there was in abundance but never in the form of a bow on the left shoulder. red hats, red cravats, red parasols passed us by, and even a stair-steps row of six little nigs in rough-dry white dresses with all of their pigtails tightly "wropped" with red string and a big red bow of ten-cent store ribbon on top of each happy, woolly head,--and still no blanche. "ah, i see visions of more and more batter bread of the page brand," murmured zebedee. "i'm going to purchase a big baking dish so you can mix up twice as much." "look, there is a girl coming back! could that be blanche?" and dee pointed to a very fat, good-looking, brown-skinned girl, dressed in the very latest and most extreme style of that summer. she wore a very tight skirt of black and white silk with stripes about an inch and a half broad, slit up over a flounced petticoat of royal purple. her feet, substantial, to say the least, were encased in white canvas shoes with purple ties, and purple cotton stockings were stretched to their utmost over her piano legs (i mean the old square pianos), stretched so tight, in fact, that they took on the gloss of silk. a lavender crêpe de chine blouse very much open, exposing her capacious chest, and a purple straw hat trimmed with black roses, perched on top of a towering, shiny pompadour, completed the colour scheme. pinned on her left shoulder was an artificial orchid with a purple bow. in her hand she carried a huge basket covered with a newspaper. "are you blanche johnson?" i questioned. "i was about to propound the same inquisition to you when i seen you approaching i," she answered with a mincing manner. "i am consigned to the kind ospices of mr. tucker and miss page allison, a young lady who has been since infantry under the jurisprudence of mrs. susan black, my great arnt once removed by intermarriage." "well, blanche, i am miss page allison and this is mr. tucker, and mr. tucker's daughters, miss virginia and miss caroline. we came very near missing you as we were looking for the red bow, pinned on your left shoulder." "well, now, miss page, it was very disappointmenting for me not to be compliable to your requisition, but i belong to an uplifting club at my school and one of our first and most important relegations is that the mimbers must never do nothing nigrified. an' they have decided that the unduly bedizenment of yourself in red garments is the first and foremost nigrification of the race. hence, therefore, i resolutioned to trust that my kind frinds would indemnify me with this orchard." "and so we have, blanche, and now we will go take the electrics for willoughby," and zebedee, his face crimson from suppressed merriment, led the way to the car line, while blanche kept up a steady fire of polite talk. "there was another reason for my abandonment of the red bow, miss page, and that was that i am in kinder sicond mournin' for the disease of my only brother's offspring." "oh, i am sorry, blanche! how old was the child? was it a boy or girl?" "well, it wa'nt to say any age, as the angel was borned daid, and as for the slight differentation in sex, i was so woeful i done forgot to arsk my po' bereaved brother whether it were the fair sex or the inversion." "well, if the little thing had to die, it must have been a relief for your brother to know it had never lived." "no'm, no'm! 'twould a been a gret comfort if'n it had lived a while. you see mandy, jo's wife, is sickly and her offspring is cosequentially sickly and jo always has heretoforth been able to collect a little insuriance on his prodigy by bein' very promptitude in the compilation of the policies. yes! yes! po' jo! i felt that it was the least i could do to show respec' for his great bereavement by puttin' on the traps of woefulness," and she smoothed with pride her striped skirt and looked with evident admiration at her fearfully and wonderfully clad feet. "how old does a child have to be to collect insurance?" i asked. "well, some companies is agreeable to the acceptance of infantry at a very tinder age and will pay at their disease if the contractioning parties can prove there ain't no poultry play." "poultry play?" i gasped. "yes'm, poultry play! that is to say, foul play. you see, miss page, one of our club relegations is to use the word with the most syllabubs as we seem to feel more upliftable. and poultry sounds much mo' elegant than jis' foul." i was bursting for a laugh but had to hold in, while all of those bad girls with the disgraceful zebedee pretended to see something in a shoe shop window that was sufficiently funny to keep them in a gale of mirth. chapter vi. a romance. as we waited for our car, a very pleasant looking man, seemingly much older than zebedee, glanced at our crowd rather curiously (and blanche was enough to make anyone glance at us curiously) and then his face lit up as he recognized zebedee. he hastened to his side and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming: "jeffry tucker! i'm glad to see you! what are you doing in norfolk?" "well, i'm getting out of it as fast as i can on my way down to willoughby. have taken a cottage down there for a month,--let me introduce you to my girls and their friends." the gentleman was mr. robert gordon, a classmate of zebedee's at the university. he was not really more than a year or so older than zebedee, but his hair and moustache were iron grey and his fine eyes were tired and sad looking. he had been for years teaching at a school in south carolina but had recently been given the chair of english at a college in norfolk. "you must come over and stay with us, bob. the girls can tell you what heaps of room we have." "oh, heaps and heaps!" tweedled the twins. "make it this evening, bob, and stay over sunday. you are your own master this time of year surely, while i have to go back to the grind on monday. i'll get my holiday a little later on, however. now come on! i want you to know my girls and my girls to know you." "i have a great mind to take you up," and mr. gordon looked admiringly at the twins. "i can hardly believe they are yours, jeff. yes, i'll come this evening." "good boy! that's the way to talk. we will expect you before supper. by the way," whispering, "this is our new cook we are taking out. i hope she won't scare you off. we've got an old friend of yours out there, too, jinny cox,----" "i really think, jeff, i had better not come this evening," stammered mr. gordon, turning quite pale and showing extreme agitation. "i--i----" "now look here, bob, you have accepted and we are going to expect you." the trolley arrived just then and we hurriedly got aboard while zebedee shouted hospitable imprecations on the head of his old friend if he should fail to keep his word. "that was a strange way for bob gordon to behave," he said, sinking into the seat by me. "first he said he would come and seemed delighted and then when i cracked a joke about our poor, dear blanche, he suddenly decided he had better not come. while poor, dear blanche is certainly some dresser, she is very clean looking and has a good face, and i can't see anything about her to make a man behave as bob did." zebedee always thereafter spoke of blanche as "poor, dear blanche," and there was something so ludicrous in his way of saying it that for the entire month we were at the beach and ever after, in fact, when our vacation of that july was mentioned, he could set all of us in a perfect gale by his "poor, dear blanche." i looked at zebedee in amazement. he really seemed to think that it was blanche who had made mr. gordon turn so pale and stammer so strangely. men are funny animals. here was zebedee, a "so-called paw" of girls as old as i was, a man of the world and a newspaper man with a nose for news that was unsurpassed in the south, so my father thought, and still he had not had the intuition to see that his friend bob had turned pale when he found miss cox was with us. i could have wagered anything that all the girls knew what was the matter, even blanche. i said nothing to zebedee, feeling perhaps that it would be a little unkind to miss cox to give voice to my convictions to a mere man, but i was dying to get with one of the girls and see if the subject would not be immediately broached. zebedee went out on the back platform to smoke and dee made a dive for his seat. "page, i'm dying to find out if you noticed mr. gordon's agitation over miss cox's being with us!" "surely i did!" "oh, isn't it exciting? and didn't she blush, though, when she said she never wanted to go to norfolk?" so dee had noticed that, too. "dum thought it was because she had had some kind of love affair there three years ago and could not bear the place and all around it, but i kind of hoped maybe it was because the man lived there still. i wonder if he will come and if we had better warn her. i am so afraid she will run away if she finds out he is coming, and then the romance cannot be completed." "well, i think we had better keep out of it altogether and let your respected parent put his foot in it, which he is sure to do. he thinks mr. gordon held back because of blanche's appearance." "he doesn't! well, of all the stupids! got his start, too, as what he calls 'a gum-shoe reporter' doing detective work on his paper. if i had no more insight into human nature than that, i'd take to cracking rock as a profession," and dee sniffed scornfully. she agreed with me that we would say nothing to zebedee as it wouldn't be quite fair to our sex to gossip with a man about a love affair. annie and mary had been as quick to see the possible romance as we had been, so we had to tell them of miss cox's agitation when norfolk was mentioned, and one and all we pitied poor zebedee's masculine blindness. we had always liked miss cox, but now we had a tenderness for her that amounted to adoration. our surmises were many as to the reason for her separation from her lover. "maybe there was insanity in the family," suggested mary. "perhaps she had a very stern father who scorned her lover," and annie blushed that her mind should run on stern fathers. "i believe it was just a matter of spondulix," said the practical dee. "oh, no! surely not!" exclaimed dum. "i don't believe miss cox is the kind of woman to give up a man because he is poor. i believe it was because she thought she was so homely." "well, he must have been a pretty poor stick of a lover if he could not persuade her that she was beautiful. i'd hate to think that of mr. gordon. maybe he gave her up because he was poor. school teaching is 'mighty po' pickin's,' as mammy susan says." "well, i hope they won't keep us waiting very long, because i'm simply dying to know," sighed dum. this conversation was held after we got back to the beach and were installing the guests in their quarters. we had decided to sleep, all five of us, on one porch, as it was so much more fun. it made the cots come rather close together but that made giggling and whispering just so much simpler. miss cox had had a pleasant morning, she declared, and had the table all set for luncheon with tempting viands thereon. we had brought a supply of delicacies from schmidt's in richmond and i had a fine ham, cooked by mammy susan's own method, which i produced from my trunk as a surprise for zebedee, so "poor, dear blanche" did not have to officiate at this meal but could spend her time getting her sleeping porch in order and unpacking her huge basket of clothes. we had been rather concerned about how a sleeping porch would be looked on by the cook, but she set our minds at rest with great tact. "yes'm, i is quite customary to air in my sleeping department. at school the satinary relegations is very strengulous and we are taught that germcrobes lurks in spots least inspected. and now i will take off my begalia of travel and soon will be repaired to be renitiated into the hysterics of domestic servitude." and we were going to have to listen to this talk for a whole month and keep straight faces or perhaps lose the services of "poor, dear blanche"! "i simply can't stand it!" exploded dum as soon as she got out of earshot. "it will give me apoplexy." luncheon was a merry meal that day as zebedee was in an especially delightful mood and mary flannagan had many funny new stories to tell. she was an indefatigable reader of jokes and could reel them off by the yard, but all the time our romantic souls were atremble to see how miss cox would take the news of the proposed visit of her one-time lover. we half hoped and half feared that zebedee would mention the fact that he had extended this invitation to mr. gordon, and perhaps she might faint. we did not want her to faint, but if she did faint we hoped we would be there to see it. we kept wondering why zebedee did not tell her and finally quite casually he asked: "where do you think we had better put gordon, jinny?" "gordon? gordon who?" "why, bob gordon! didn't the girls tell you he is coming out to stay over sunday?" "no--we--we--you--we thought----" but no one ever found out what we did think nor did we find out what miss cox thought of the return of her supposed lover, for just at this juncture blanche came into view ready for the "hysterics of domestic servitude." in taking off her "begalia of travel" she had also removed the large, shiny pompadour and disclosed to view a woolly head covered with little tight "wropped" plaits. she had on a blue checked long-sleeved apron made by what is known as the bungalow pattern, her expression was quite meek and she looked very youthful and rather pathetic. i realized that her vast amount of assurance had come entirely from her fine clothes, and now that she had taken them off she was nothing more nor less than a poor, overgrown country darkey who had been sent to school and taught a lot of stuff before she had any foundation to put it on. it turned out later that she could neither read nor write with any ease, and all of her high-sounding, mispronounced words she had gathered from lectures she had attended in the school. she was suffering from this type of schooling as i would have suffered had i gone straight from bracken to college without getting any training at gresham. the effect was so startling, to see this girl whom we had left only a few minutes ago arrayed in all her splendor, now looking for all the world like a picked chicken, that miss cox and her romance were for the moment forgotten and all our energies were taken up in trying to compose our countenances. then mary flannagan swallowed a sardine whole and had to be well thumped, and by that time miss cox was able to control her voice (if she had ever lost control of it), and she asked, in a most matter-of-fact way, questions about the expected guest; and if her colour was a little heightened, it might have been blanche who had caused it. were we not all of us as red as roses? chapter vii. oh, you chaperone! dum and dee were to take turns keeping house but i had a steady job as the advisory board and we hoped to manage without worrying miss cox. the girls had tossed up to find out who should begin, and dee had first go, which meant breaking in blanche. we were glad to see that she seemed to understand dish washing and that she moved rapidly considering her size and shape. "now, blanche," said dee with a certain pardonable importance, "my father is to have a guest this evening and we want to have a very nice supper, so you must tell us what are the dishes you can make best." "well, miss tucker, i is had great successfulness with my choclid cake and blue mawnge." "oh, i did not mean dessert but the substantial part of the supper," gasped dee. blanche was always making us gasp, as she was so unexpected. "well, as for that my co'se is not took up many things as yit, but i is mastered the stuffin' of green peppers and kin make a most appetizement dish. up to the presence, the the'ry of domesticated silence has been mo' intrusting to me than the practization." dee looked forlornly to me for help and indeed i felt it was time for the advisory board to step in. "blanche," i said, rather sternly, "did you ever cook any before you went to school?" "cook? of co'se i did, miss page. i'se been a-cookin' ever sence i could take a ask cake out'n the fire 'thout burnin' myse'f up." "good! now see here, blanche, we want you to cook for us the way you cooked before you ever went to school. just forget all about domestic science and cook." "don't you want no choclid cake an' no blue mawnge?" "not tonight," said dee gently as blanche's countenance was so sad. "we want some fried fish and some batter bread and perhaps some hot biscuit or waffles. there are some beautiful tomatoes in the refrigerator and some lettuce and we can have peaches and cream for dessert." "'thout no cake?" "well, i tell you what you can do," said the tender-hearted dee. "you can make us a chocolate cake for sunday dinner if your supper turns out well this evening." "oh, thank you, miss tucker. i is got so much sentiment fer cake. now which do you choose to have, biscuit or waffles?" we thought biscuit would be best to start blanche on and after cautioning her to call us if she was in doubt about anything, we left her to work her own sweet will. her own sweet will turned out to be a pretty good one and we were wise to leave her to it. i did get out in the kitchen just in time to keep her from putting sugar in the batter bread, something she had picked up in school from her northern teachers. i thought it best to take the batter bread in my own hands after that, and to zebedee's great comfort, made it until i felt sure blanche could do it as well as i could. zebedee and i were on the porch waiting for supper and mr. gordon to arrive, while dee went out to put the finishing touch to her housekeeping. dum and the two other girls had strolled in the direction of the trolley to meet the guest whom we rather expected to come on the next car. miss cox had not yet made her appearance after the second dip we had had that day. "have you known mr. gordon very long?" i queried. "ever since our first year at the university. he's a bully good fellow but awfully queer in a way. used to be very quick-tempered, but i fancy all these years of teaching have rather toned down his temper. jinny cox used to be a perfect pepper pot; but temper and teaching don't go very well together and she is as mild as a may morning now." "did miss cox know mr. gordon very well in those old days?" "why, bless me if i remember. we all of us ran in a crowd. as well as i can recall, it seems to me that bob gordon and jinny cox were always rowing about one thing or another. you see i was so in love with my little virginia that all i can remember of those days is just what touched us," and zebedee wiped his eyes, which had filled with tears as they always did when he spoke of his little wife who had lived such a short time. "i do kind of half remember that one day we spent at montecello on a picnic when it rained cats and dogs, jinny and bob had such a row they could not go back together although he was her escort. that was the time jinny and i made up the tune and danced the lobster quadrille," and zebedee was laughing before he had quite dried his tears, as was the way with all the tuckers. "bob left the university soon after that,--some financial difficulties at home because his father had lost his fortune,--and then i believe old bob got a job in a district school and has been teaching ever since--look here, page, do you know i believe my soul bob and jinny were engaged then! i have a kind of half memory that my little virginia told me they were, on the way home from montecello. well, if i'm not an ass! why, it was not poor, dear blanche, after all, that was scaring off gordon, but jinny cox! well, well!" i couldn't help smiling in rather a superior way and zebedee exclaimed: "i believe you knew it all the time," but just then the girls returned, bringing mr. gordon with them and what i knew or did not know had to keep for another time. mr. gordon was very much spruced up and did not look nearly so old and tired as he had in the morning. his light grey suit and hat were in excellent taste, setting off his iron-grey hair and moustache, and on the whole his appearance was so distinguished that we were more thrilled than ever at the thought of just how miss cox was going to treat him. i fancy there is no human so romantic as a sixteen-year-old girl and here were five girls all in the neighbourhood of sixteen and all simply bubbling over with sentimentality. miss cox came out on the porch and there we stood fully prepared for any outburst. we all of us noted that miss cox looked remarkably well in a blue and white lawn that showed off her really very good figure to perfection. i had long ago found out that miss cox was not so very homely, after all. to be sure her face was rather crooked, and her smile very twisted, but her head was well set, and her hair thick and glossy, and her figure athletic and graceful. "hello, bob!" "hello, jinny!" and that was all! they shook hands in quite a matter-of-fact way. "i believe we were mistaken," whispered dum to me. "wait and see," i cautioned, "they could not fall on each other's necks right before all of us." "maybe not, but they need not greet each other like long lost fish," grumbled dum. but i knew very well if they had been nothing at all to each other but just acquaintances who had not met for about seventeen years, they would have had some conventional remarks to make and not just said "hello!" at this crucial moment poor, dear blanche appeared announcing supper: "your repast is reserved, miss tucker," and in we went to a very good meal. blanche had evidently found it no trouble to forget what she had learned at school in the way of domestic science and she had cooked as good a virginia supper as one could wish. the hampton spots were done to a turn; the biscuit were light and fluffy, and as i had seen to the batter bread, if i do say it who shouldn't, it was about perfect. mr. gordon may have been suffering with lovesickness of seventeen years' standing, but he certainly proved himself a good trencher knight. "all of you have some excuse for appetites as i wager anything you have been in the water twice today, but i have no excuse except that the food is so good and i am so tired of boarding," said our guest as he helped himself to another fluffy biscuit that poor, dear blanche was handing around with an elegant air like a duchess at a tea. "well, we did go in twice today, although it is supposed to be a bad thing to do. somehow i never can resist it myself and naturally i don't expect the girls to resist what i can't myself," said zebedee. "how was the water; pretty warm?" "oh, fine this morning before breakfast but rather brillig this afternoon," answered dum. "brillig?" "yes, brillig! don't you know your alice? "'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.'" and then a strange thing happened. before dum got half through her quotation miss cox's face was suffused with blushes, and mr. gordon first looked pained and then determined and when he answered he spoke to dum but he looked at miss cox. "well, i don't know my alice as well as i might, but i have read it and re-read it and think it a most amusing book. i don't remember that strange verse, however,---- do you know, miss dum, i used to be such a silly ass as to think there was nothing amusing in alice in wonderland, and once a long time ago i fell out with the very best friend i ever had in the world because i said the lobster quadrille was the kind of thing that no one but a child could find anything funny in? and she thought differently, and before we knew it we were at it hammer and tongs, and both of us said things we did not really mean (at least i did not mean them)----" "neither did i, bob," said miss cox, frankly. i certainly liked miss cox for the way she spoke. she was what tweedles calls a "perfect gentleman." "and what is more, jinny, the lobster quadrille is my favourite poem now," and mr. gordon looked very boyish, "or it might be unless you think the charming bit miss dum has just recited is better." "how do you like this?" said dum, rather bent on mischief i fancied: "'in winter when the fields are white, i sing this song for your delight-- in spring, when woods are getting green, i'll try and tell you what i mean. in summer, when the days are long, perhaps you'll understand the song. in autumn, when the leaves are brown, take pen and ink and write it down. i sent a message to the fish: i told them, 'this is what i wish.' the little fishes of the sea, sent an answer back to me. the little fishes' answer was, 'we cannot do it, sir, because----' i sent to them again to say, 'it will be better to obey.' the fishes answered with a grin, 'why, what a temper you are in!' i told them once, i told them twice; they would not listen to advice. i took a kettle, large and new, fit for the deed i had to do. my heart went hop, my heart went thump; i filled the kettle at the pump. then someone came to me and said, 'the little fishes are in bed.' i said to him, i said it plain, 'then you must wake them up again.' i said it very loud and clear; i went and shouted in his ear. but he was very stiff and proud; he said, 'you need not shout so loud!' and he was very proud and stiff, he said, 'i'll go and wake them, if----' i took a corkscrew from the shelf; i went to wake them up myself. and when i found the door was locked, i pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked. and when i found the door was shut, i tried to turn the handle, but----'" dum recited this poem with fervor and great elocutionary effects and simply convulsed the crowd. the whole thing was said directly to mr. gordon and the naughty girl seemed to have some personal meaning when she said, "my heart went hop, my heart went thump," and when she ended up with a hopeless wail, "i tried to turn the handle, but----," mr. gordon actually went to miss cox, as we arose from the supper table, drew her hand within his arm and deliberately led her out on the beach, and in plain hearing of all of us, said: "the door isn't shut for good, is it, jinny?" and we heard her answer: "no, bob, not if you 'pull and push and kick and knock.'" well, bob certainly did "pull and push and kick and knock." i have never imagined a more persistent lover. he seemed to be trying to catch even for all he had lost in those seventeen years. he told zebedee that after the foolish quarrel he and miss cox had had on that wet, wet picnic, he had been called home by the financial disaster of his father, and while he knew he had been hard-headed in the affair, he felt she had been unreasonable, too, in demanding that he should agree with her about the absurd poem in alice in wonderland; and so had left the university without trying to right matters. then when he had realized the tremendous difficulty his family was in, and found that not only would he have to go immediately to work but that his mother and sister would be dependent on his exertions, he felt that it was on the whole best that he and miss cox should separate. the engagement was already broken and he went off to his long and up-hill work saddened and forlorn; and miss cox, rather embittered by the experience, feeling that she had been hasty and exacting but too proud to make a move towards a reconciliation, had spent all the long years in vain regrets. "well, i hope they will be very happy," sighed dum when we were discussing the matter while we lay on our closely packed cots the first night of mr. gordon's visit. "it does seem terribly unromantic for the separation to have been caused by the lobster quadrille." "it might have been a permanent separation if it had been just plain lobster, 'specially in cans," said funny mary flannagan. "didn't miss cox look sweet in that blue dress? i thought she was almost pretty but maybe it was the love-light in her eyes," sentimentalized annie pore. "isn't it a pity they are so old?" deplored dee. "his hair is real grey." "it's trouble that has done it," said mary. "i wondered, dum, you didn't get off that verse on him about the voice of the lobster. maybe that would have been too personal: "'tis the voice of the lobster, i heard him declare, 'you have baked me too brown, i must sugar my hair.' as a duck with his eyelids, so he with his nose, trims his belt and his buttons and turns out his toes.' it would have been rather personal because mr. gordon's hair does look rather sugared and certainly miss cox has baked him pretty brown." "what do you s'pose your cousin park garnett would say, page, if she knew that our chaperone for the house party had gone and got herself as good as engaged the very second evening?" laughed dee. "i fancy with her characteristic elegance she would exclaim: 'oh, you chaperone!'" chapter viii. letters. to dr. james allison from page allison. willoughby beach, july--, --. my dearest father: we are having the grandest time that ever was and all we want now is for you to take a little holiday and come down to see us. it would do you worlds of good and surely your patients can let you go for a little while. sometimes i think you should get an assistant or try to persuade some young doctor to settle in the neighbourhood. you never have any fun. i feel very selfish to have gone off and left you and mammy susan when i have been away all winter, but i promise to come back the first of next month and not to budge from bracken until it is time to go to school the middle of september. i hope cousin sue lee will be with us then, as i should hate to miss her visit, one moment of it. on the other hand i devoutly hope that cousin park garnett will pay her yearly visitation while i am away. i heard a rumor that a mrs. garnett was expected at the hotel here, but i am trusting in my hitherto lucky stars that it is not cousin park. if she comes to willoughby, i am going to bury my head in the sand, like an ostrich, and pretend i'm somebody else. there is a camp of boys near us and they are just as nice as can be and seem to think it is their affair to give all of us girls a good time. they rented this cottage for last month and liked willoughby so much that when their time was up they started a camp. they are james hart, stephen white, george massie and ben raglan. they are called jim, wink, sleepy and rags, and as we have come to know them pretty well and they are not the kind of boys one stands on ceremony with, we call them by their nicknames, too. wink white is studying medicine and so is sleepy, when he is not playing foot-ball or sleeping. wink is very clever and intensely interested in his work. mr. tucker (only i call him zebedee now) is teaching me how to swim. he says i am a very apt pupil because i am not a bit afraid; although he teases me a great deal because one day, the very first time i went in, i politely went to the bottom, and he says i made the biggest bubbles he ever saw. he calls me "sis mud turkle," but i don't mind a bit. there is some kind of joke on all of us, even annie pore, who is so touchy we have to be careful. but zebedee just has to tease and he says he can't leave out annie, as it might make her feel bad. of course mary flannagan has a joke on everybody and everybody has a joke on her. she is a delightful person to be on a house party with, always so full of fun and always starting something. dum and dee are the same old tweedles, the very most charming and agreeable persons in the world. i have saved up the most important to the last:--our chaperone, miss cox, has gone and got herself engaged! it is an old lover she used to have when she was a girl and he has turned up in the most unexpected and romantic way, and all of us girls are so excited over it we can hardly eat and sleep. we are going to miss her terribly at gresham. she can make me understand mathematics, which is going some, and how i am to proceed into quadratic equations without her, i cannot see. we do not know when they are to be married, but rather think it will be soon. zebedee bids to be flower girl. you may be sure that miss cox and mr. gordon come in for their share of teasing. i used to think miss cox was very old but since she got engaged she does not seem to be any older than we are, and while mr. gordon has very grey hair, he is really not old at all, not much older than zebedee, who is the youngest person of my acquaintance. all the old girls at willoughby run after zebedee, much to tweedles' disgust. i believe it would about kill the twins if their father should ever marry again, and indeed i think it would be hard on them and i hope he never will, certainly not any of these society girls who are down here at the beach. i don't believe they would any of them make him happy. tell mammy susan that her great niece is doing very well and everyone likes her. do not tell her that she is a perfect scream, using the longest, most ridiculous words in the world, never by any accident pronounced properly or in the right place. she is certainly proof positive of a little learning being a dangerous thing; but she is a kindly, sweet-tempered creature and as soon as we persuaded her to cook as she did before she went to school, we found her very capable. good-bye, my dearest father, and please come see us. we are one and all longing for you. give my best love to mammy susan and the dogs. your devoted daughter, page. from blanche johnson to mammy susan. willerbay beech. dere ant susen-- i take my pen in han to enform you that this leves me in pore helth and hopes it finds you in the same. the son of the c show is very hard on my complexshun and i think the endsewing yer i will spind my vocation in the montings. the yung ladys my hostages is most kind and considerable to me and mis page tretes me like her own sister. our shapperoon is in the throws of coarting and all of us maidens is very rheumatic in consequince thereof. mis page and the other young female ladys who is engaged in this visitation declares they is got little if no use for the opposition sect but that is one thing i do not give very cerus credentials to as our pieazzer is one mask of yuths who no doubt would be spry to leve if they did not suspicion they was welcum. my kind empoyerer is now taken what he designs as his much kneaded rest but i cannot see that he rests none as he keeps up with all the other boys and dances and frolix just like he was the parient of nothin. i ask mis page if he want her bow and she took on so dignifidedly that i done see i ain't made no mistake, ennybody ken see that mis page is the favoright of the party, the twinses is plum crazzy about her but i dont bleive they suspicion that they pa is so intrusted. they keeps theyselves quite busy shoein off some fine ladys what is most attentave to they pa and never seems to see what is under they feet, uv cose i no mis page is yung yit but evy day she is making out to grow a little older and it looks lak mister tucker is standin still or even gittin some younger. i bleive they will meet in this path of life (as a pote done said) and then proceed together. no more from yose at presence. mis page has done invitided me to stop at bracken to pay you a visitation before i return to the cemetary of learning and if nothin ocurs to prevint me i will take gret plesure in compiling with her request. your gret nease, blanche johnson. from annie pore to her father, mr. arthur ponsonby pore, of price's landing. my dear father: i should have written you immediately on my arrival at willoughby beach, but we had so many delightful pleasures planned for us by our kind host that i found very little time for correspondence. i can never thank you enough for permitting me to join this charming house party. everyone is so very kind to me, i find myself gradually overcoming my habit of extreme shyness and now endeavour to join in the gaieties and to make myself as agreeable as possible, feeling that that is the way i can repay my friends for their hospitality. i am learning to swim but am not so quick at it as page allison. already she is able to keep up for many strokes. mr. tucker himself is teaching us and his patience is wonderful. he first taught us to float, as he says if we are in an accident and can float we will surely be saved, as anyone can tow a floating person to safety. the tucker twins and mary flannagan are fine swimmers and miss cox is the strongest swimmer on the beach. we are all quite excited over the fact that miss cox is to be married. i am very glad of her happiness but very sorry that she will not be at gresham next year as she was so interested in my voice and encouraged me so kindly. page feels badly, too, as miss cox is the only teacher she has ever had who could make her comprehend mathematics. mr. tucker sends you many messages and repeats his invitation for you to come to willoughby for a week-end. i do sincerely hope you will do so. it would be a pleasant change for you and no doubt your assistant could take care of the shop in your absence. harvie price is to be here next week, also another boy who attended hill top, thomas hawkins. the cottage is quite roomy so there is no danger of crowding, and i can assure you it would be splendid if you could come. your devoted daughter, annie de vere pore. miss josephine barr from miss caroline tucker. willoughby beach, july -- ----. my dear old jo: if you only could have come! we are having such times and such heaps of them. in the first place, all five of us girls are sleeping on the same porch with our cots so close together the cover hasn't room to slip. we go in the water twice a day, although every day zebedee says it must be the last day, but every day he is the first one in and the last one out. our before-breakfast swim is nothing more than just in and out, and such appetite as it gives us! i am dying to tell you the great news, and miss cox says i may tell you. she is going to be married!!! a lovely man that used to be stuck on her ages and ages ago! i tell you he is stuck still, all right, all right. he goes by the name of robert gordon and looks like a _vrai_ hero of romance, iron-grey hair and moustache and the most languishing gaze you ever beheld. we are right silly about him because he certainly does know how to make love. as for coxy, she is simply great and rises to the occasion in fine shape. she looks real young here lately and has given up looking as though she were trying not to smile. instead of that, she laughs outright, which is certainly much more becoming. i wish you could see your little room-mate, annie pore. she has bloomed forth into a regular english rose! i never saw anything like the way the boys swarm around her, just like bees! she is not nearly so shy as she used to be, but she is still very quiet and demure and has a kind of sympathetic way of listening that surely fetches the hemales. she is really beautiful and is always so anxious to help and is so considerate of others. i fancy her selfish old father has been good for her disposition in a way. we are rather expecting mr. pore to come see us. i hope if he does come he will not cast a damper over annie's spirits. mary flannagan is simply splendid. page calls her our clown dog, and the name suits her to a t. she is the funniest girl in the world and her good nature is catching. she is a good swimmer and how she does it in the bathing suit she wears, i cannot see. fancy swimming with three yards of heavy serge gathered around your waist! i think mary and annie will room together next year at gresham since you are not to be there. they will be good for one another, but no one could do for annie what you did. i have not told you anything about page, but you know what page always is--just page. she is still busy making her million friends, but she never gives up her old friends for the new ones. guess who is here at willoughby! that mabel binks! she arrived yesterday and is stopping at the hotel. i hope she will keep herself to herself but i 'most know she won't. she is bent on getting in with zebedee and he is so dead polite where girls are concerned that he is sure to submit. she is kin to one of the boys in the camp near us and is pushing the relationship for all it is worth. poor stephen white (wink for short) is the cousin and i have an idea he is not very proud of the connection, but is too much of a gentleman to say so. wink and page are great friends, have been from the first minute they met, and i bet you a hat mabel binks butts in on that friendship and tries to break it up. she has had it in for page ever since the time the caramel cake gave all of us fever blisters and page used the blisters, of which mabel boasted a huge one, as circumstantial evidence that mabel had stolen a hunk of our cake. good bye, dear jo. all the girls send you lots of love and dum says she will write next time. very affectionately, dee tucker. chapter ix. the start. "well, i've a great mind not to go!" exclaimed dum pettishly. "i can't see why that old mabel binks always has to go where we go. we can't even spend a month at willoughby without her traipsing here after us." "yes! and for her to make out to wink that we are her very best friends at gresham just so he will ask her on the sailing party! gee, i can't stand her. i'll stay at home if you do, dum," and dee began to take off the clean middy blouse she was in the act of donning to go on a sailing party that the boys from the camp were getting up for our benefit. "well, that will certainly leave mabel with a clear field for action. didn't we agree last winter that the best thing to do with mabel was to be very polite to her? what excuse could you give the boys?" i asked, hoping to bring tweedles to reason. "tell them the truth!" "the truth! well, i must say it would sound fine to say to wink: 'we just naturally despise your cousin and since she is to be on this party that you have been so kind as to get up for us, we will have to decline. besides, this cousin of yours is so dead set after our father that we can't sit by and watch her manoeuvres, but feel that the best thing for us to do is to leave him to her tender mer----'" i was not allowed to finish, but tweedles immediately saw how impossible it would be to stay off the party. dee put her clean middy back on and in a jiffy we were down on the porch with the rest of the crowd. it was irritating for mabel binks to come as a discordant element in our little circle, but as for her being at willoughby, she certainly had as much right there as we had and it was absurd for the twins to take the stand that she had come there because of them. zebedee seemed to have very little use for the dashing mabel but the sure way to enlist his sympathy for her was to be rude to the girl. she was very polite to all the tuckers but had it in for annie pore and me; and as for mary flannagan: she simply ignored mary's existence, much to that delightful person's amusement. mary could imitate her until you could declare that mabel was there and sometimes she would do it when you least expected it, as on this morning while we were waiting for the boys to come for us. they were to go by for mabel first and then pick us up on the way to the landing where the two boats were in readiness for us, a cat boat and a naphtha launch. neither boat was big enough for the whole crowd so we had decided to divide the party. "i have determined how we are to sit," said mary in the coarse, nasal tone that belonged to mabel, "i prefer the naphtha launch, as cat boats are so dirty. i intend that the tuckers, especially mr. tucker, shall accompany me, also stephen white and mr. hart. page and annie and mary must find room in the cat boat while i will allow sleepy and rags to look after them. oh! miss cox! i forgot her! she can go in the cat boat, too, but we will make room for mr. gordon in the launch." we were convulsed at this remark. mary had not only imitated her tone but had clearly voiced the character of mabel, who by the way had not been told of miss cox's engagement and had amused all of us very much by her endeavours to attract mr. gordon. "what's the joke?" demanded wink, arriving with mabel and the boys while we were still laughing at mary's mimicry. "oh, the kind of joke that would lose in repetition," declared dum. "i bet it was something on me," said poor sleepy, "but if it was, i'm sure to hear of it, though. there is one thing certain, if there is a joke on me it is obliged to come out." "not if you can keep it to yourself," laughed dum. "you know perfectly well the time you got mixed up with the laundry you told on yourself. none of us was going to breathe a word of it." "well, how did i know? i thought girls always told and i was determined that the fellows should understand exactly how it happened and so--and so----" "and so you will never hear the last of it. well, next time trust the girls a little and you will fare better." it had taken sleepy some time to get over his extreme embarrassment occasioned by his natural shyness combined with the unfortunate occurrence of our first meeting with him. he was something of a woman-hater, anyhow, according to his friends, but we decided that he was really more afraid of us than anything else; and when he found out that we were not going to bite him nor yet gobble him up whole, he made up his mind to be friends with us; and when he once made up his mind to like us, he outdid even the courtly jim, and the genial wink, and the sympathetic rags, in his attentions. wherever we went, the young giant could be seen hunching along in our wake with that gait peculiar to football players. "it looks like old sleepy had waked up at last," wink said to me. "to my certain knowledge he never said two words to a girl before and now, look at him! i wish he would fall in love and maybe it would give him some ambition to get ahead in his studies. you see, sleepy's people have got oodlums of chink and sleepy knows that he has got a living without making it. the old fellow has a wonderfully good mind but absolutely no ambition, except of course to make the team and to keep up his football record. he is supposed to be studying medicine, but i'll wager anything he does not yet know the bones in the body." "maybe he is going to be an oculist and won't have to know the bones in the human body," i ventured. "he seems to be vastly interested in annie's eyes lately." indeed there was something of the clinging vine in our little english friend that appealed to george massie's great strength, and he had assumed the attitude of protector and forest oak, one singularly becoming to him. "you had better go in the naphtha launch," i heard him say to annie. "it is ever so much safer, and you can't swim." "well, let me go wherever the rest think best. i don't want to take any one else's place," said annie, anxious as usual to efface herself. she need have had no fear of being allowed to take any one else's place with mabel binks the self-elected chief cook and bottle washer of the occasion. that young woman was looking extremely handsome in a white linen tailored suit with a red parasol, panama hat of the latest cut, red tie, red belt and red silk stockings. the seashore was a very becoming place for mabel, as sunburn brought out her good points, giving an added glow to her rather lurid beauty. she looked really magnificent on that morning of the sailing party and her grown-up, stylish clothes made all of us feel rather childish in our middy blouses and khaki shirts and hats. miss cox was dressed very much as we were except that she tucked in her middy, and mabel's effulgence seemed to take all the colour from our beloved chaperone, who had been seeming to us almost beautiful lately because of the love-light in her eyes. mabel's brilliancy outshone even love-light. i became very conscious of the many new freckles on my nose and dee said afterwards hers seemed so huge to her that they actually hurt her eyes. dee and i always got freckled noses and it was a source of some distress to both of us. as for mary, the freckles had met long ago on her turkey-egg countenance, while dum had long streamers of peelings hanging from her nose. she did not freckle but declared she grew fifteen brand new skins every summer. annie was a great comfort to me as i took a quick inventory of my friends, who on that day compared so unfavourably with the glowing beauty. annie looked as lovely as ever. she had that very fair skin that neither tans nor freckles, and her ripe wheat hair was curling in little tendrils around her white neck and calm forehead. "thank goodness my hair curls, too," i thought, "and the dampness won't make me look too stringy," and then i took myself to task for thinking about such foolish things, as though it made any difference what we, a lot of kids, looked like, anyhow. zebedee was carrying mabel's parasol and they seemed to be having a most intimate conversation, certainly a very spirited one into which she constantly drew mr. gordon; and as miss cox had hooked her arm in mary's and everyone else was coupled off, mr. gordon soon fell into step with the gay pair. "disgusting!" i heard dum mutter, but i hoped she would not let anyone see how furious she was. i noticed she closed her eyes and i saw her lips move and knew she was praying, "don't let me biff mabel binks, don't let me biff her," just as she had at the football match at hill top the fall before. we reached the landing where the boats were anchored and as dum had not biffed mabel, i suppose her prayer was answered. "oh, there are the boats! what a darling little launch! dum and dee and i bid to go in that. mr. gordon, will you please arrange those cushions in the stern for me? be sure and don't lose me, mr. tucker, and i will finish that delicious yarn i was in the midst of. stephen, you will run the launch, i know, as that will give you such a good chance to be near dee, and, mr. hart, here is a nice seat for you right by dum." her words were so exactly what mary had said they would be, that we who had heard mary's prophetic imitation could hardly contain our merriment; and strange to say, the twins, in a measure hypnotised by her determination to carry out her schemes, stepped with unaccustomed docility into the pretty launch; but the polite mr. gordon arranged the cushions and then got out determined not to be separated from his inamorata for the sail. wink and jim naturally complied with the arrangement as far as being near the tuckers was concerned, but wink said: "put me where i look best, but i think sleepy had better run his own launch, especially since i don't know the first thing about it." and sleepy thought so, too, but he quietly determined that annie pore should go along. the girl was too sensitive to be willing to risk the withering scorn of mabel's black-eyed glance and begged to be allowed to take a seat in the cat boat. just as the launch was ready to start, zebedee, who had been stowing the bathing suits away under the seats, made a flying leap for the landing, calling back: "that story will have to keep, miss binks, as i have been promising myself the pleasure of giving page a sailing lesson today," and for once in their lives i feel sure that tweedles were glad to have their beloved father leave them. mabel lay back on her cushions like a sulky cleopatra with the expression that the queen herself might have worn had antony refused to ride in the royal barge, choosing instead to paddle his own mud scow down the nile. chapter x. the finish. we were a merry party in spite of this little _contretemps_. the day was perfect and a fresh breeze gave promise of good sailing. our destination was cape henry, where we planned to have a dip in the surf and then a fish dinner at the pavilion. the launch could make much better time than the cat boat, so sleepy was to run over ahead of us and give the order for dinner. sleepy was not greatly pleased with the arrangement of guests and i heard him mutter something about being the goat, but his good nature was never long under a cloud and dum and dee, being in a state of extreme hilarity over the outcome of mabel's machinations, kept the male passengers on the launch in a roar of laughter. jim told me afterwards that he had never seen the twins more amusing and even the sullen beauty finally decided that the day was too pretty to keep up her ill humour. after all, there were other fish in the sea besides zebedee: namely, mr. george massie, alias sleepy; so she moved her seat from the comfortable stern and exercised her fascinations on the shy engineer by demanding a lesson in running the motor. sailing was a new and exciting experience to annie and me. i never expect to be more thrilled until i am finally allowed to fly. the boat was a very light one. zebedee thought the sail was a little heavy for the hull but we went skimming along like a swallow. tacking was a mysterious performance that must be explained to me and i was even allowed to help a little. zebedee endeavoured to make me learn the parts of the boat but i was singularly stupid about it, having a preconceived notion of what a sheet meant and a hazy idea of which was fore and which aft, which starboard and which port. occasionally the launch circled around us and got within hailing distance and we would exchange pleasantries, but mabel never deigned to notice us. she was sitting by sleepy and seemed to have mastered the art of running a naphtha launch. tweedles told me afterwards that she made a dead set at the young giant but that he seemed to be perfectly unconscious of what she was after, and as soon as she had learned the extremely simple engine, after warning her to keep well away from the cat boat, he curled himself up on a pile of sweaters and went fast asleep. they say it was too funny for anything when mabel realized the desertion of her teacher. she addressed a honeyed remark to him and received no answer but a smothered snort; she turned, and there he was lying prone on the deck, an expression on his rosy countenance like a cherub's, while he emitted an occasional soft, purring snore. "there was a young lady named fitch, who heard a loud snore, at which she raised up her hat and found that her rat had fallen asleep at the switch," sang wink. "hard luck, mabel, but that is the way sleepy always does. you must not take it personally. he even falls asleep when miss page allison is entertaining him. the more amused he is, the quicker he is overcome with sleep. miss annie pore is the only person who can keep him awake for any length of time, and that is because she is so quiet it is up to him to talk; and while he may be talking in his sleep, it doesn't sound like it." "awful pity we didn't insist on her coming in the launch if for no other reason than to keep him awake," said jim. "she is a wonderfully charming girl and so pretty, don't you think so, miss binks?" "pretty and charming! you can't mean orphan annie! why, she is the laughing stock of gresham,--namby, pamby cry-baby!" "mabel binks, you must have forgotten that annie is our guest and one of our very best friends," stormed dum. "and no one ever laughed at her except persons with neither heart nor breeding. i will not say who they were as i respect wink too much to be insulting to his guest," said dee, tears of rage coming into her eyes. "oh, don't mind me!" exclaimed wink uneasily, fearing a free fight was imminent. all this time the two boats were coming nearer and nearer together. we were on the starboard tack and several times before during the morning we had come quite close to the launch and then the faster boat had swerved out of our way and we had gone off on a new tack, after calling out some form of repartee to our friends. i never did believe mabel meant to do it, but tweedles to this day declares it was with malice of forethought that she deliberately held the launch in its course, and it was only by the most lightning of changes that zebedee avoided a collision. the sail swung around without the ceremony of warning us to duck, and as we realized the danger we were in of being struck by the faster boat we instinctively crowded to the other side of our little vessel; and what with the sudden swerving of the heavy sail and the shifting of its human cargo and the added swell of waves made by the launch, we turned over as neatly as mammy susan could toss a flap jack. "down went maginty to the bottom of the sea, dressed in his best suit of clothes." there was no time to think, no time to grab at straws or anything else; nothing to do but just go down as far as your weight and bulk scientifically took you and then as passively come up again. i wasn't nearly as scared as i had been when i went under in four feet of water, as i just knew i could float and determined when i got to the top to lie down on my back and do it, as zebedee had so patiently taught me. my khaki skirt was not quite so easy to manage as a bathing suit had been, but it was not very heavy material and my tennis shoes were not much heavier than bathing shoes. i spread out my limbs like a starfish and without a single struggle found myself lying almost on top of the water looking up into a blue, blue sky and hoping that annie pore would remember just to let herself float and not struggle. everyone else could swim and a turnover was nothing to them. i floated so easily and felt so buoyant, as one does always feel in very deep water, that if i had only known that annie was safe i would have been serenely happy. annie was safe because sleepy, awakened by the screams from the women and shouts from the men, had rolled out of the launch much more quickly than he had ever rolled out of bed (except perhaps on that memorable occasion when we had dumped him out), and with swift, sure strokes had reached the spot where annie had gone down; and when her scared face appeared above water he was there to grab her. wink and jim had dived in, too, both intent on saving me, and zebedee was by me in a moment, praising me for a grand floater. mary flannagan was paddling around like a veritable little water spaniel with her red head all slick with the ducking, and miss cox and mr. gordon were gaily conversing as they tread water side by side. it did not seem at all like an accident, but more like a pleasant tea party that we happened to be having out in the middle of the bay. "look here, dum, we are missing too much fun," declared dee. "come on! let's jump in, too. it will be low to be dry when everybody else is wet. that is, everybody we care anything about." and those crazy girls slid into the water, too, leaving the crestfallen mabel to man the launch. "tweedles! what do you mean?" exclaimed their father. "aren't we wet enough without you?" "yes, but you seem to forget that the cat boat is going to have to be righted and all of you men are paddling around here while the poor goop is slowly filling and sinking." goop was the singularly appropriate name for our top-heavy craft and sure enough she was in imminent danger of going down for good. annie and i were helped into the launch and sleepy took his place with his hand on the little engine. mabel was silently consigned to the stern and the cleopatra cushions, where she very humbly sat to the end of our voyage. it did not take very long to right the goop, and when she was bailed out, half of the wet crowd clambered back into her and the rest into the launch and we headed for cape henry, the hot sun doing its best to dry our soaking wet clothes. "wasn't that grand?" exclaimed mary. "i simply adore to swim in deep water." "splendid," said zebedee. "if i were not so modest, i should suggest a rising vote of thanks to the person who so ably brought about this disaster." "why modest?" inquired dee. "it was certainly not your fault." "oh, yes it was, honey," and zebedee looked meaningly at his daughter; and she understood that it would be certainly pleasanter all around if he took the blame. "i did it on purpose, too. i wanted to see if my pupils would remember what i had told them about floating. i see page did remember,--or perhaps she is a born floater, just as she is a bubble maker. i don't believe you remembered any of my instructions at all, did you, annie?" "oh, yes, sir, i did. i was just going to try to lie down on the water, although i was terribly scared, when george came to my assistance. i--i--was very glad to see him." "thank you, ma'am," and sleepy blushed a deeper crimson than the sun had already painted him. chapter xi. cape henry. we were still rather damp when we disembarked at cape henry and it was decided that the best thing to do was to get into our bathing suits immediately and spread out our clothes to dry. bath houses were engaged and with them a coloured maid who took charge of our wet things. "lawd love us! you is sho' wettish! white folks is pow'ful strange, looks lak dey jes' tries to fall in de water. an' now you is goin' in agin'. you must a got so-so clean out yander in de bay." "don't you ever go in bathing?" asked dum. "who, me? no'm, not me! i hets up some water of a sat'day night efen i ain't too wo'out, an' i takes a good piece er lye soap an' i gibs myse'f a scrubbin' dat i specks to las' me 'til nex' time," and with a rich chuckle the girl added: "an' so fer it has." "but all of us simply adore the water!" exclaimed dum. "don't you like the feel of it?" "no'm, it don't feel no way but jes' wet to me. you all what likes it is welcome to it. i reckon it's a good thing niggers is black so de dirt won't show an' dat white folks is fond er water, 'cause any little siled place on 'em looms up mighty important. yessum, i's goin' ter hab yo' clothes good an' dry when you feel lak you is done got clean 'nuf to come outn de ocean," and the grinning darkey carried off our damp things to hang on a line and we joined the masculine members of our party to take a dip in the surf. the bathing at willoughby is quiet, with rarely any surf, but at cape henry great waves come rolling in, seemingly from the other side of the ocean. there is a long sand bar running parallel with the beach, which at high tide is submerged but at low tide shines out dry and white like the back of an enormous sea monster. this bar forms a lovely little pool, calm and clear, in strong contrast to the dashing waves outside. as soon as the tide begins to recede, which it was doing when we emerged from the bath houses, many little children come to play in this pool, being as safe there as they would be in their bath tubs at home. curious shells are to be found there and wonderful pebbles, dear to the hearts of children. i sometimes wonder what finally becomes of children's treasures, the things they gather so laboriously and guard so carefully. they always disappear in spite of the care the tots give them. i used to think when i was a little thing that the brownies stole my treasures and took them to the baby fairies to play with while their mothers were off painting the flowers or mending the butterflies' wings. i hoped that the baby fairies enjoyed my precious bits of coloured glass and the pieces of shining mica, and wondered if they knew what little girl had owned them, and if, some day, when they would grow up to be full-sized fairies, they would not do something very nice for me because i had let the brownies steal my toys. some of the older children had on bathing suits and were playing in the shallow water, while the younger ones in rompers were seated on the beach, digging for dear life in the warm, dry sand, filling their brightly painted pails, patting down the contents and then turning out the most wonderful and appetizing cakes. meanwhile, their mammies gossiped together, interfering occasionally when some childish vandal knocked over a prize cake or made off with a purloined spade. "'ook, mammy! ain' my ittle take pitty?" said a dumpling of a baby in pink rompers and a pink beach bonnet tied on over a perfect riot of golden curls. "yes, honey chile, it sho' is booful. mammy's doll baby kin make de pootiest cakes on dis here sand pile. ain't you gonter gib yo' mammy a bite? mammy is pow'ful fond er choclid cake." and the old woman looked at her little charge as though she could eat her up, too, pink rompers and all. "i'll dive oo a ittle bit, mammy, but oo mustn't eat much. it might make oo sick an den baby hab to gib oo nas'y med'cine," and the little one scooped up some of the sand cake in a shell and her old nurse pretended to eat it with a great show of enjoyment. "don't oo want some?" and she held out a tempting shell full to dee. dee always attracted all children and animals and was attracted by them. "delighted, i'm sure!" and she dropped down on the sand beside the darling baby. for a time even the joys of surf bathing had to be postponed while she played with her newly made conquest. annie pore decided to keep in the shallow pool, having had enough of deep water for the day, and sleepy stayed with her as though she must be protected from even two feet of water, which was the greatest depth of the pool. i found that i had learned to swim in some mysterious way. i struck boldly out and took the waves as though i had always been surf bathing. "bravo!" exclaimed zebedee, "how well you are coming on!" "it is getting turned over that has done it," i declared. "you see, i have found out that i can keep up and i am no longer afraid. i verily believe i could swim over to africa." "well, please don't leave us yet," begged wink. it was a wonderful sensation to find myself actually swimming without the least fear. swimming was after all nothing more than walking and water was a medium to be used and not feared. confidence was all that was needed and my spill in the bay had given me that. "i am very proud of my pupil," boasted zebedee. "if the worst comes to the worst and i lose my newspaper job, i'll give swimming lessons for a living." "will you always employ the venetian method and throw the babies out in deep water and let them sink or swim?" i teased. "yes, and i'll take miss binks into partnership as an expert wrecker," he whispered. that young woman was looking even finer than before in a very handsome black silk bathing suit, slashed and piped in crimson. she had restored herself to good humour and was having a very pleasant time with some acquaintances she had met on the beach. we hoped her good humour would last until she got safely back to willoughby, as that meant more or less good manners, too, and all we wanted from the belligerent mabel was peace at any price. at least, that was all i wanted and surely all annie pore wanted. tweedles were ready to give battle at any moment and mary flannagan looked full of mischief. "do you s'pose mabel is going to content herself with a sand bath?" whispered mary to me. "maybe her suit is too fine to get wet." "she certainly looks very stunning under that red parasol, posing up there on the beach," said dum, riding a wave and landing almost on top of me. "i can't abide her but i must confess she is very paintable, especially the red parasol. i'll never cease to regret that i did not hook my foot in the handle and drag it overboard with me when i dived off the launch. i thought about it while i was slipping off my shoes and it would have been as easy as dirt to make out it was an accident; but it would have been too mabelesque an act and i could not quite make up my mind to do it." "i should say not, but if it could have happened and been a real accident it would certainly have been fun," i exclaimed. "i can see you leaping into the air with your toe hitched to the parasol like a kind of a parachute. who are her friends?" "search me! but i notice she does not see fit to introduce them. i wonder whether she is ashamed of them or ashamed of us." "'mother dear, may i go swim?' 'yes, my darling daughter, hang your clothes on a hickory limb but don't go near the water,'" sang mary, throwing her voice so it seemed to come from behind mabel. then we dived under the water and our giggles came up in the form of my specialty, bubbles. mabel never did wet her suit, however. when we had had all the swim we wanted, we raced back to the bath houses and found the humorous maid had our clothes all nicely dried. the effect was rather rough-dried, but we were not in a position to be choosy. "well, here you is back agin! i can't sees dat you look no cleaner dan you did befo'. i low all dat soakin' will draw de suption outn yo' bones an' dey ain't nuf strength lef' in you to make a pot er soup." and the truth was, i did feel a little feeble from the two swims and realized that i was only fit for _soupe maigre_ or some very weak broth. food was what i needed; and as soon as we got into our rumpled clothes, dinner was ready. what a dinner it was! clam chowder first, with everything in it that the proprietor could find, and seasoned to a king's taste; then soft shell crabs with tartar sauce; then baked blue-fish with roasted corn and creamed potatoes; then tomato salad; then any kind of pie your fancy dictated. "all i ask of you is not to eat ice cream," begged zebedee; "it is fatal along with crabs." and so we refrained, although it did seem to me with all the layers of food between the crabs and dessert, it would have been safe. dinner over, we determined to explore the cape. it was a tremendously interesting spot. in the first place it was at cape henry that the english first disembarked in . a stone tablet now supplants the old wooden cross raised by the first settlers to mark the spot where the adventurers landed on american soil. it is a bleak place with little vegetation of any sort, nothing but the beach grass and a few stunted oaks that look as though they had bowed their heads to invincible storms from the moment that their little lives had burst from the acorns. "they remind me of poor little factory children trying to grow to manhood," i said to zebedee who was showing us the sights. "when i think of the oaks at bracken and see these, it is difficult to realize that they are all trees and all sprung from acorns. it is like a little factory child by the side of george massie, for instance." zebedee the sympathetic wiped his eyes at the thought of all the little mill hands that we seemed to be powerless to help. the old light-house built in was thrilling and i could hardly tear myself away from it to go view the modern, up-to-date one that was open for inspection. the wireless telegraph station, the first i had ever seen, was not far from the old light-house, and it seemed strange to think of the tremendous strides science had made since those sturdy pioneers had built that picturesque old tower. the sand dunes at cape henry are famous. they over-topped the cottages in places and the little church was almost buried at one end. they say this loose sand drifts like snow and the big wind storms in winter pile it up into great hills so that the cottagers, returning for their summer holidays, often have to dig out their homes before they can get to housekeeping. we had great larks sliding down these dunes and we got so dusty we were ashamed to face the maid who had dried our clothes, knowing she would have some invidious remarks to make about the uselessness of our having washed, as she designated our sea bathing. and now it was time to go home. we bade the grinning maid farewell, much richer from our visit, as she was handsomely tipped by wink, the purse-bearer from the camp, and zebedee, the ever lavish. "when you gits dirty agin they's always plinty er water here," she called out. we changed places going back, as it was deemed not quite safe for annie and me to travel in the cat boat again. "even if you can swim to africa," said jim. annie was glad enough to get into the safer boat, but i enjoyed sailing more than motoring, although that was delightful enough. miss cox and mr. gordon came with us and mary and rags. sleepy ran the boat and although we were very quiet on the trip, everyone feeling a little tired and very peaceful, i noticed that sleepy did not go to sleep; when he was not running the engine, he seemed to be taken up with looking after annie's comfort. once when our craft came close to the cat boat, dum called out: "sing, annie, sing!" and all of the rest, with the exception of mabel, joined in the request. and annie sang: "'sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. "'sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon: rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep.'" "ah, ha, miss page allison!" broke in mabel's strident voice as we disembarked at willoughby, after the very smooth, peaceful journey, "'the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.'" "that's so, but why this remark?" i asked. "what race has there been and what battle?" the men were making all ship-shape in the boats while we girls strolled on ahead. i had not the slightest idea what mabel was talking about. "why, i got your middle-aged beau, all right, all right! i fancy he was glad enough to get away from you bread-and-butter school girls and have some sensible conversation with a grown-up." i could not help smiling at this, having often listened entranced to mabel's methods of entertaining men. if that was what she called sensible conversation, zebedee must have been truly edified. "well, it was a good thing mr. tucker, if that is the middle-aged beau in question, was wise enough to take his bread-and-butter first before he indulged in the rich and heavy mental food that you fed him on. if he had taken it on an empty head, as it were, it might have seriously impaired his mental digestion." i fired this back at mabel, angered in spite of myself. "and so, miss, you say mr. tucker has an empty head! how should you like for me to tell him you said so?" "tell him what you choose," i answered, confident of zebedee's knowing me too well to believe i said anything of the sort. "and how would you like me to tell mr. tucker you called him middle-aged?" and i left the ill-natured girl with her mouth wide open. i wanted peace, but if mabel wanted battle then i was not one to run away. no one had heard her remark and i felt embarrassed at the thought of repeating it. i could hardly tell tweedles that mabel called their father "my middle-aged beau," and certainly i could not repeat such a thing to zebedee himself. mabel was evidently bent on mischief but i felt pretty sure that in a battle of wits i could come out victorious. all i feared was that she would do something underhand. certainly she was not above it. like most deceitful persons, she was fully capable of thinking others were as deceitful as herself. chapter xii. freckles and tan. the next day we were lazy after the excitement of the sail to cape henry. all of us slept late and when we did wake, we seemed to be not able to get dressed. "let's have a kimono day," yawned dee. "zebedee and miss cox have gone to norfolk and there is not a piece of a hemale or grown-up around, so s'pose we just loaf all day." "that will be fine, not to dress at all until time to go to the hop!" we exclaimed in chorus. there was to be a hop that night at the hotel, to which we were looking forward with great enthusiasm. zebedee was to meet harvie price and thomas hawkins (alias shorty) in norfolk and bring them back to willoughby, where they expected to stay for several days. these were the two boys we had liked so much at hill top, the boys' school near gresham, and zebedee had taken a great fancy to both of them. "i do wish my hateful, little, old nose wasn't so freckled," i moaned. "i know i got a dozen new ones yesterday,--freckles, not noses. i'd like to get a new nose, all right." "me, too!" chimed in dee. "what are we going to look like at a ball with these noses and necks?" "thank goodness, my freckles all run together," laughed mary, "and the more freckled i get the more beautiful i am," and she made such a comical face that we burst out laughing. "but look how i am peeling!" said dum, examining her countenance in a hand mirror. "now freckles look healthy but these great peelings streaming from my nose make me look as though i were just recovering from scarlet fever. i do wish i could pull them all off before night." annie was the only one of us neither tanned nor freckled. miss cox had taken on a healthy brown, which was rather becoming to her. "if you young ladies is begrievin' over the condition of yo' cutlecles, i is in a persition to reform you of a simple remedy that will instore yo' complictions to they prinstine frishness," said blanche who, coming upstairs with the mail, had overheard our jeremiads on the subject of our appearances. "what is it! what is it!" "you must first bedizen yo' count'nances in buttermilk, which will be most soothing to the imbrasions, an' then you must have some nice dough, made of the best flour an' lard, with yeast and seas'ning same as for light rolls; an' this must be rolled out thin like, with holes cut fer the nostrums fer the purpose of exiling. then you must lie down fer several hours and whin you remove this masquerade, you will find the yeast is done drawed the freckles an' sun burn, an' all of you will be as beautiful as the dawning." "oh, blanche, please mix us up some dough right off! and is there any buttermilk here?" asked dum. "yes, miss dum, we've been gittin' it reg'lar fer waffles an' sich. i'll bring up a little bucket of it fer yo' absolutions an' then i'll mix up the dough." "be sure and make plenty, blanche! i want to put it on my neck, too," said dee. "well, we is mos' out er flour but i'll stretch it bes' i kin. the impersonal 'pearance of female ladies is of more importation than economics, an' i'm sure yo' paw will not be the one to infuse to buy another bag of flour for the beautyfaction of his twinses an' they lady guests." well, we washed and washed in buttermilk until we smelled like old churns. then we lay down while blanche placed tenderly on each burning countenance a dough mask. annie did not need it, but she must have one, too, even though it was in a measure "gilding the lily." "let me have a mouth hole instead of one for my nostrils," i demanded. "i can breathe through my mouth for a while and i don't want to do anything to keep the dough from doing its perfect work on my poor nose." we must have presented a ridiculous appearance, lying stretched out on our cots, each girl with her countenance supporting what looked like a great hoe cake. "well, i tell you, one has to suffer to be beautiful!" exclaimed mary. "i don't mind it as much on my face as my neck," declared dee. "it feels like a great boa constrictor throttling me, but it would never do to have my face as fair as a lily and my neck as red as a rose." the air was fresh and soothing and we were tired anyhow; our masks were not conducive to conversation, so one by one we dropped off to sleep while the dough was getting in its perfect work. we slept for hours i think, and while the dough was busy, the yeast was not idle but responded readily to the warmth occasioned by our poor faces. the air-holes, seemingly too large in the beginning, gradually began to close in as the little leaven leavened the whole lump. lying on your back is sure to make you snore at any rate, and lying on your back with almost all air cut off from you will cause stertorious breathing fearful to hear. i do not know how long we had been lying there, but i know i was having a terrible dream. i dreamed i was under water, and the water was hot. i was trying to get to the top, knowing i could float if i could only get to the top, but every time i would come to the surface mabel binks would sit on my face and down i would sink again. i was struggling and clutching wildly at the air and trying to call zebedee, and then zebedee pulled mabel off me and i floated into the pure air. incidentally i opened my eyes to find the real zebedee bending over me simply convulsed with laughter, while miss cox pulled the mask off of mary, who was making a noise like a little tug trying to get a great steamer out of harbour. dum and dee were sitting up rubbing their eyes and annie was blinking at the light and wondering where she was and what it was all about. "well, it is a good thing we came home when we did or our whole house party would have broken up in asphyxiation. when we opened the door down stairs there was no sign of blanche, but such noise as was issuing from this sleeping porch! sawing gourds was sweet music compared to it what on earth do you mean by this peculiar performance?" and zebedee burst out into renewed peals of laughter and miss cox sank helpless on the foot of my cot. "if you could have seen yourselves!" she gasped. "five girls in kimonos, lying prone, and each one, in the place of a head, sporting a great dumpling." we looked woefully at our prized masks and to be sure each one had risen to three times its original bulk. little wonder breathing had been difficult. dee still had the remedy around her neck, puffed out like an enormous goitre, her chin resting comfortably on it. all of us felt as foolish as we looked and that was saying a good deal. "you certainly smell like a dairy lunch up here," sniffed zebedee. "please tell me if you were assisting poor, dear blanche and raising her dough for her. is this the method you housekeepers have employed all summer to have such good bread? i wondered how you did it. but don't i smell buttermilk, too?" we knew we were in for a good teasing and we got it, although miss cox did her best to make zebedee call a halt. "is all of this beautifying for the benefit of harvie and shorty, who by the way are coming out in about an hour? i feel sad that you did not think i was worth making yourselves pretty for, but maybe you knew that i like freckles. if you did, i feel sadder than ever that you should have taken away what i consider so charming." i don't believe one single freckle was removed by our torture; but our skin felt soft and satiny, and dum's peelings all came off with her mask. then the long sleep had rested all of us so, after all, there was no harm done except that all the flour was used up. that night we had no bread but batter bread for supper, but since blanche had mastered the mixing of that dish, dear to the heart of all virginians, we none of us minded, just so she made enough of it, which she did. chapter xiii. the turkey-tail fan. harvie and shorty arrived in due time and very glad we were to see them. mary and shorty rushed together like long lost brother and sister. they made a pony team it was hard to beat. "gee, i'm glad to see you!" exclaimed the boy. "you and i don't have to be grown up, do we, mary?" "not on your life! no one will expect the impossible of us. the boys we know here are real grown-ups, lots older than harvie price, real college men. they are very nice but i feel like an awful kid with them. of course mr. tucker is as young as any of us." "of course!" echoed shorty. "isn't he just great?" "you bet." when we were all dressed for the hop, zebedee declared we looked pretty well in spite of our tan and freckles. he kept us on needles and pins all the time, threatening to tell the boys of our dough masks. at supper he repeatedly asked blanche for hot rolls, insisting that she must have them. "i certainly smelled hot rolls when i got back from norfolk and it seems to me i saw batch after batch rising. couldn't you spare me just one, blanche?" and when the girl rushed from the room to explode in the kitchen, he said in a tone of the greatest concern: "why, what is the matter with poor, dear blanche? do you think perhaps she has eaten them all herself?" "mr. tucker come mighty near infectin' my irresistibles," blanche said to us after supper was over. "i tell you a kersplosion was eminent! 'twas all i could do to keep from bringing disgracement on us all, in fact, to speak in vulgar langige, i was nigh to bus'in'. i certainly do think you young ladies looks sweet an' whin you puts a little talcim on yo' prebosseses the sunburn won't be to say notificationable. i'll be bound that ev'y las' one of you will be the belledom of the ball." all we hoped for was not to be wall flowers. a hop was quite an event to most of us. annie and i had never been to one in our lives, not a real hop. the dance at the country club when i visited the tuckers in richmond was the nearest i had ever come to a hop, and if this was to come up to that, i was expecting a pretty good time. annie was very nervous as her dancing had all been done at gresham and with girls, but we assured her that she was sure to do finely. the tucker twins had been going to hops ever since they could hop, almost ever since they could crawl, so they were not very excited, but mary was jumping around like a hen on a hot griddle, trying new steps all the time i was tying her sash. you may know that mary would wear a great bulging sash, instead of a neat girdle or belt. chunky persons with thick waists always seem to have a leaning towards sashes with huge bows. mary looked very nice, although her dress did have about twice as much material in it as was necessary and she had put on an extra petticoat for luck and style. since it was the summer of very narrow skirts, the effect was rather voluminous. she looked like the hollyhock babies i used to make for my fairy lands, only their heads were green while mary's was red; but mary's looks were the least thing about her. it was her good cheerful disposition and her ready, kindly wit and humour that counted with her friends. annie was lovely in the beautiful white crêpe de chine, the dress that had been her mother's and that she had worn at the musicale at gresham where she had charmed the audience with her old ballads. it was a pity for her to wear this dress to dance in on a hot night as it was really very handsome though so simple, but poor annie had very few clothes and her father seemed to think that a girl her age needed none at all. the tuckers were appropriately dressed in white muslin, dum with a pink girdle, dee with a blue. "not that i should wear pink," grumbled dum, "nor that dee should wear blue, as i look better in blue and dee looks better in pink; but zebedee cuts up so when we go anywhere with him and don't dress in the colours we were born in, that to keep the peace we have to do as he wants us to. they tied pink ribbons on me and blue ribbons on dee to tell us apart, and zebedee declares he still has to have something tied on us to tell, which is perfectly absurd, as we do not look the least alike." "you never have looked much alike to me, but i took such a good look at you the first time i saw you that i never have got you mixed up except once when i first saw you in bathing caps. i really do not think you look as much like each other as you both look like your father. now he has dee's dimple in his chin; and his hair grows on his forehead just like dum's, in a little widow's peak; and all three of you have exactly the same shoulders." "well, all i know is i can tell myself from dum on the darkest night." with which irish bull, dee, having hooked on the offending blue girdle, hustled us downstairs where the boys from the camp were awaiting our coming. "let me see, eight escorts for six ladies!" exclaimed zebedee. "that means a good time all around!" and that is just what we had, a good time all around. the ballroom at the hotel was quite large with a splendid floor, and if there was a breeze to be caught, it caught it. seated on chairs ranged around the wall were what zebedee called the non-combatants, many old ladies: maids, wives and widows, some with critical eyes, some with kindly, but one and all bent on seeing and commenting on everything that was doing. the first person i beheld on entering the ballroom was no other than cousin park garnett, sitting very stiff and straight in a tight bombazine basque, at least, i fancy it must have been bombazine--not that i know what bombazine is; but bombazine basque sounds just like cousin park looked. with majestic sweeps she fanned herself with a turkey-tail fan, and her general expression was one of conscious superiority to her surroundings. how i longed for a magic cap so that i might become invisible to my relative! all sparkle went out of the scene for me. i felt that it would not be much fun to dance with the critical eye of mrs. garnett watching my every step and her unnecessarily frank tongue ready to inform me of my many defects. if i could only dissemble and pretend not to see her maybe she would not recognize me! but conscience whispered: "page allison, aren't you ashamed of yourself? you know perfectly well what your father would say: 'she is our kinswoman, daughter, and proper respect must be shown her.' go up and speak to her and give her no real cause for criticism." so, in the words of somebody or other, "i seen my duty and done it." "how burned and freckled you are, child!" was her cheerful greeting, as she presented a hard, uncompromising cheek for me to peck. "yes, i've been on the water a good deal," i ventured meekly. "when did you come?" "i have been here only a few hours but i have heard already of the very irregular household in which you are visiting." "irregular! why, we have our meals exactly on time. who said we didn't?" "i was not referring to meals but morals," and the bombazine basque creaked anew as she once more took up the task of cooling herself with the turkey-tail fan. i felt myself getting very hot with a heat that a turkey-tail fan could not allay. "morals, cousin park! why, blanche is a very respectable coloured girl highly recommended by the president of her industrial school and mammy susan, besides." "blanche! i know nothing of mr. tucker's domestic arrangements. what i mean is that i hear from miss binks that you are absolutely unchaperoned and i consider that highly immoral." "unchaperoned! how ridiculous! miss jane cox is our chaperone and there never was a lovelier one. mabel binks knows perfectly well miss cox is there with us and she herself would give her eyes to be one of the party," and then i bit my lip to keep from saying anything else about the mischief-making girl. "i understood from miss binks that there were only five young girls in the cottage and that a camp of boys spent most of their time there and that the carryings on were something disgraceful. she had some tale to tell of your going up to wake one of the boys yourselves and dragging him out of bed." and so mabel had distorted the truth about sleepy to suit her own ends. i flushed painfully and to the best of my ability told the story, but it sounded very flat and stupid recounted to the unsympathetic, unhumorous ears of mrs. garnett. i brought up miss cox and introduced her to the turkey-tail fan, and our chaperone's quiet manner and dignity did much to reassure my strict relative. i was laughing in my boots when i realized that mabel did not know of miss cox's engagement and so had not told cousin park of it, or that irate dame would have considered our chaperone not much of a chaperone, after all. zebedee claimed the first dance with me, speaking cordially to cousin park, but she gave him a curt nod and turned with unexpected amiability and condescension to converse with a faded little gentlewoman at her side who had up to that time been overshadowed by that lady's conscious superiority. "oh, my whole evening is ruined!" i wailed in zebedee's ear. "it won't be a bit of fun to dance, no matter how many or how few partners i may get, while cousin park sits there and watches my every step, making mental notes of the disagreeable truths she will get off to me or poor father the first time she gets a chance at him." "why, you poor little girl! do you think i am going to let your first hop be a failure? i am going to get that old harpie out of this room if i have to carry her out myself and propose to her in the bargain." when the dance was over, zebedee might have been seen eagerly looking around the hotel as if in search of someone, on the porches, in the lobby and finally in the smoking room, and then to pounce on a certain old judge grayson of kentucky, who was there poring over the afternoon paper and smoking a very bad cigar. judge grayson was judge by courtesy and custom, as zebedee afterwards told me. he had never been on any bench but the anxious bench of the grand stand, being a great judge of horses. "ha, judge, i am glad to see you! have a cigar." the judge accepted with alacrity, first carefully extinguishing the light on the poor one he was engaged in consuming and economically putting it back into his cigar case, quoting in a pleasant, high old voice: "'for though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.' how are you, tucker? gad, i'm glad to see you, boy! dull hole this!" [illustration: peeping in, we saw the game in full swing--_page _] "do you find it so? why don't you get up a game of auction? i wish i could join you, but i've got my daughters and some of their young friends here and dancing is the order of the evening for me." "gad, i'd like a game but don't know a soul. fool to come to such a place. i'll be off to virginia beach tomorrow." "now don't do that; you come see us tomorrow. i'll be bound you will fall in love with all my girls and no doubt they will fight over you." "why, that would be nice, tucker. no doubt this place is all right but i have been lonesome," and the old fellow beamed on zebedee. "of course you have. come on, i'll introduce you to some ladies and you can have a good game of auction bridge;" and before the judge could find any objection, zebedee had steered him across the ballroom floor and had him bowing and scraping in front of the haughty mrs. garnett. she unbent at his courtly, old-fashioned compliments, and i distinctly saw her tap him playfully with her turkey-tail fan. the faded gentlewoman was next introduced and readily joined in the proposed game. a fourth was easily found and before the next dance was over, zebedee was beaming on me, as i danced around with wink, delighted as he afterwards declared in having got the harpie out of the room without having either to carry her out or propose to her himself. the rest of the evening i could enjoy to my heart's content with no hypercritical glances following me around. cousin park had a good time, too. auction bridge was her dissipation and i have heard she played a masterly game. so zebedee felt he had been a real all 'round philanthropist. once between dances zebedee and i were out on the porch getting a breath of air and our steps took us near the window of the card room. peeping in, we saw the game in full swing. cousin park had just made a little slam and she looked quite complacent and cheerful. the courtly judge was dealing compliments with the cards, there was a flush of pleasure on the cheeks of the faded gentlewoman, and cousin park wielded her fan with almost a coquettish air, announcing her bids with elephantine playfulness. once judge grayson picked up the fan and, looking sentimentally at it, began to quote in his high, refined old voice the following poem. it was between rubbers so the card devotees listened with polite attention, but zebedee and i were indeed thrilled: "'it owned not a colour that vanity dons or slender wits choose for display; its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze, a brown softly blended with gray. from her waist to her chin, spreading out without break, 'twas built on a generous plan: the pride of the forest was slaughtered to make my grandmother's turkey-tail fan. "'for common occasions it never was meant: in a chest between two silken cloths 'twas kept safely hidden with careful intent in camphor to keep out the moths. 'twas famed far and wide through the whole country side, from beersheba e'en unto dan; and often at meeting with envy 'twas eyed, my grandmother's turkey-tail fan. "'a fig for the fans that are made nowadays, suited only to frivolous mirth! a different thing is the fan that i praise, yet it scorned not the good things of earth. at bees and at quiltings 'twas aye to be seen. the best of the gossip began when in at the doorway had entered serene my grandmother's turkey-tail fan.'" zebedee clapped a vociferous but silent applause and i wiped a tiny tear from my eye. poetry is the only thing that ever makes me weep but there is something about verse, recited in a certain way, that always makes me leak a little. the judge knew how to recite that way and while there was nothing in "my grandmother's turkey-tail fan" to make one want to weep, still that one little tear did find its way out. the faded gentlewoman was affected the same way and even cousin park's bombazine basque unbent a bit. "isn't he a sweet old man?" i exclaimed. "just the sweetest in the country. i have known the judge for many years and i have never seen him anything but a perfect, courtly gentleman. he is to have luncheon with us tomorrow." "oh, won't that be fine! maybe he will recite some poetry for us." "i haven't a doubt but that he will, and sing you some songs, too." "well, he has my undying gratitude for taking cousin park out of the ballroom;" and just then harvie came to hunt for me to claim his dance. i danced every single dance that evening except one that i sat out with wink, and hardly ever got through a dance without having to change partners several times. they say it is a southern custom, this thing of breaking in on a dance. it is all very well if you happen to be dancing with a poor dancer and a good one takes you away, but it is pretty sad if it happens to be the other way. sometimes i would feel as you might if an over-zealous butler snatched your plate from under your nose before you had finished, and you saw him bearing off some favourite delectable morsel and in its place had to choke down stewed prunes or mashed turnips or something else you just naturally could not abide. as a rule, however, the "delectable morsel" would not go away for good, but hover around and break in again in time to let you finish the dance with some pleasure and at least get the taste of stewed prunes or mashed turnip out of your mouth. chapter xiv. a letter and its answer. miss sue lee, congressional library, washington, d. c., from page allison. dearest cousin sue: i can hardly believe that july is more than half over and i have not written you. i have thought about you a lot, my dear cousin, and often wished for you. we have had just about the best time girls ever did have and more things have happened! i have learned to swim; we have been upset in a cat boat called the goop, right out in the middle of chesapeake bay; our chaperone, miss cox, has become engaged and expects to be married in a few weeks; and last and most exciting of all (at least most exciting to me), i have had a proposal; i, little, freckled-nosed, countrified page allison! it was the greatest shock of my life, as i wasn't expecting anything like that ever to happen to me, at least not for years and years. you see, it was this way: we went to a hop last night, the very first hop of my life, and we naturally dressed up for it in our best white muslins, low necks, short sleeves, silk stockings, tucked-up hair and all, and we looked quite grown-up. all of us are sixteen, except mary flannagan, who is just fifteen. we went with a goodly number of escorts: harvie price and shorty hawkins, who are staying in the house with us; mr. tucker and mr. gordon, who is miss cox's lover; and four boys from a camp near us who have been very nice to us since we have been at willoughby. one of these boys, stephen white (wink for short), is studying medicine at the university. he is very good looking and has lots of sense. he and i have had a great many very pleasant times together, but it never entered my head that he thought of me as anything but a kid. in fact, i thought he was in love with a girl in charlottesville; mabel binks, his cousin, told me he was. i also thought that dee was his favourite among all of us girls. i know dee likes him a lot. you see, dee is so interested in sick kittens and babies and physiology that she just naturally takes to medical students. but last night wink gave me what might be termed a rush. he broke in dances and claimed dances and did all kinds of things that were rather astonishing. he is not a very good dancer and as mr. tucker (i call him zebedee now) is a splendid one i did not relish wink's constantly taking me away from him nor did zebedee seem overjoyed to lose me. i thought all the time wink was doing it to tease mabel binks, who just naturally despises me and of course would not like to see her good looking cousin paying me too much attention. he asked me to sit out a dance with him and as he is a much better talker than dancer i was glad to do it, although i must confess i could not keep my feet still all the time he was talking to me. he took me to a nice corner of the porch looking out over the water and began. i hope you don't think it is wrong of me to tell you this, cousin sue. you see i would bite out my tongue before i would tell any of the other girls, but i feel as though i would simply have to tell some one or--well, bust! he started this way: "what do you think of long engagements?" and i said: "i don't think at all; but i heard one of father's old maid cousins say once when someone was discussing long engagements, 'hope deferred maketh the heart sick.'" and then wink went on telling me of his prospects and his ambitions. he seems to have little prospects and big ambitions, which after all is the best thing for a young man, i believe. he asked me if i thought it was too much to ask a girl to wait, say, five years. i thought of course he was talking about the charlottesville girl, who turns out to be a myth, and i said that i did not suppose true love would set any limit on waiting. he said he was almost twenty and had one more year at the university and expected to have a year in a new york hospital, and then his ambition was to become a first class up-to-date country doctor. he loves the country and says he has never yet seen a good country doctor who was not overworked. i agreed with him there and said that my father was certainly overworked. i also told him that i had in a measure suggested him to my father as a possible assistant. that pleased him so much that he impulsively seized my hand. i thought of course he was still thinking of the charlottesville girl and wondered if she would be a pleasant addition to our neighbourhood, when wink began to pour forth such an impassioned appeal that i could no longer think he was talking about the charlottesville girl but was actually addressing me. i felt mighty bad and very foolish. when i told him he had known me but a little over two weeks he said that made no difference, that there was such a thing as "love at first sight." "but," i said, "you did not love me at first sight." "yes i did, but i did not realize it until tonight when i saw you for the first time with your hair tucked up, and dressed in an evening dress." "well, when i let it down tomorrow and get back into a middy you will find out what a mistake you have made." "oh, page, please don't tease me! it makes no difference now what you wear or how you do your hair, i am going to love you forever and forever. don't you love me just a little?" and a spirit of mischief still prompting me, i answered: "i can't tell until i see you with a moustache." and then, cousin sue, i realized that i was not being my true self but was doing something that i had never expected to do in my whole life: flirting outrageously. so i up and told wink that i did not care for him except as a friend (i came mighty near saying "brother," but it sounded too bromidic). i said i was nothing but a kid and had no business thinking about lovers for years to come. i said a lot of things that sound too silly to write and he said a lot of things, or rather he said the same thing over and over. i never saw such a long dance. i thought the music would never stop. wink wanted to hold my hand all the time he was talking, but i just shook hands with him and thought that was enough. it seemed to me to be too sudden to be very serious. of course in books people do that way, romeo and juliet, for instance, but in real life my idea of falling in love is first to know someone very well, well enough to be able to talk to him without any restraint at all and then gradually to feel that that person is the one of all others for you. the idea of knowing a girl two weeks and then seeing her with her hair done up like a grown-up and deciding between dances that life could not be lived without her! of course wink thinks he is in dead earnest and it hurts just as bad for a while as though he were, but it won't last much longer than it did for him to make up his mind. he will be like a man who has had a nightmare: very trying while it lasts but not so bad but that he can eat a good breakfast the next morning and forget all about it, only wondering what made him have such a bad dream and what was it all about, anyhow! goodness, i was glad to see zebedee when he came around the corner of the porch looking for me to dance a particular one-step that he and i had evolved together. i believe zebedee (mr. tucker) knew what had been going on, because wink was looking so sullen and i, i don't know how i was looking, but i was certainly feeling very foolish. he tucked my arm in his and looked at me rather sadly just as he had at dum last winter when mr. reginald kent, the young artist from new york, asked her for a lock of her hair. i know zebedee hates for any of us to grow up, me as well as the twins. i wanted awfully to tell him it was all right but i did not know how to do it without giving wink away, so i just said nothing. i did not see wink again last night and the boys tell me he has gone over to newport news today with mabel binks to call on their relatives. i have written a terribly long letter and still have not told you that cousin park garnett is stopping at the hotel here in willoughby. she is the same cousin park, only a little more tightly upholstered, if possible. i wish i could like her better, but she always makes me feel all mouth and freckles. good-bye, cousin sue, and if i should not have told you all of this nonsense about wink and me, please forgive me. lots of girls would tell other girls if they got a proposal, but i would never do that; but you have been so like my mother to me that somehow i do not feel it is indelicate to tell you. with best love, page. from miss sue lee, washington, d. c., to page allison. my dearest little page: i was overjoyed to get your very interesting letter and i hasten to answer it and to tell you that you must always feel at perfect liberty to tell me anything and everything that comes up in your life. i am a little sorry for wink, but you were right not to encourage him. do not be too sure, however, that he will get over this malady as quickly as he took it. shakespeare was a very wise and true artist and you may be sure that when he made romeo fall in love with juliet as he did without a moment's warning,--and already in love with someone else, as romeo thought he was,--such a thing can come to pass. we find as much truth in fiction as in fact, everlasting truths. but then, i am a sentimental old maid and you must not take me too seriously. i want to know your friends, the tuckers, very much indeed. i hope to spend august at bracken and perhaps i can meet them then. washington is very hot and i am quite tired out and will be glad of the quiet and peace of bracken as well as the sane, delightful talks with your dear father. i hope cousin park will not choose the same time to make her visit. if she makes you feel all mouth and freckles, she makes me feel all nose and wrinkles. she told me once that she was confident my nose was the cause of my spinsterhood. as my nose is a perfectly good lee nose, and as spinsterhood is as much a mark of my family as my nose, i shouldn't mind her remark, but somehow i do. i am sending you a pair of blue silk stockings and a tie to match, to wear with white duck skirts and lingerie waists. no doubt you will be so captivating in this colour that proposals will come pouring in. please tell me about them if they do. don't grow up yet, little cousin page! there is time enough for lovers and such like, and sixteen is o'er young for taking things very seriously. i am glad indeed that you sent poor wink about his business and hope he will grow a moustache and a flowing beard before he addresses you again. with much love, cousin sue. chapter xv. the judge. the morning after the hop we slept late. of course we did not go to sleep as soon as we got into bed, as the best part of going to a dance is talking it over with the girls afterwards. we had much to tell and i for one had much that i couldn't tell. one and all we pronounced it a very delightful and successful party. had we not, everyone of us danced every dance, except the fatal one that i sat out? did we not have "trade lasts" enough to last 'til morning if sleep had not overtaken us? hadn't annie been freely spoken of as the prettiest girl there; the twins as the most popular; mary as by all odds the brightest and funniest; and had not i overheard someone say that i had a nameless charm that was irresistible? altogether, we were well pleased with ourselves and one another and slept the sleep of the just and healthy until late in the morning, when we heard miss cox singing at our door: "'kathleen mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, the horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; the lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,-- kathleen mavourneen! what, slumbering still? oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part? it may be for years and it may be forever! oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? oh, why art thou silent, kathleen mavourneen? "'kathleen mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! the blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! mavourneen, mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, to think that from erin and thee i must part! it may be for years and it may be forever! then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? then why art thou silent, kathleen mavourneen?'" there was a storm of applause from our porch and a great clapping of hands from down stairs as zebedee entered with old judge grayson. miss cox had an excellent voice and a singularly true one. "well, all of us kathleens had better rise and shine after that appeal," yawned dum. "it must be almost time for luncheon." and so it was. we just had time for a hasty dip in the briny and a hastier toilet in the way of middies and khaki skirts, when blanche appeared to announce that our repast was reserved. "well, gawd love us!" she exclaimed, when she beheld us dressed in our customary girlish middies. "ef'n the butterflies ain't chrystalized agin into plain grubs! when i beholden you last night in all the begalia of sassioty i ruminated to myself that our young misses had done flew the coop, hair turned up and waistes turned down, an' here you is nothin' but gals agin. i'll be bound ef'n the beau lovers of the evenin' recently relapsed could see you now they would wonder how come they felt so warmed to'ds you. not that you ain't as sweet as sugar now," she hastily added, fearing for our feelings, "but you is jes' sugar 'thout the proper ingredients to make you what you might call intoxicational." every single girl except mary looked a little conscious while blanche was talking, and i could not help wondering if there had not been others besides myself who had been the recipient of tender nothings. zebedee overheard blanche's remarks and i saw him go into the kitchen and a little later the girl came forth beaming, tying into the corner of her handkerchief a shiny new half dollar. "every time poor, dear blanche opens her mouth diamonds and pearls of wisdom come forth," he whispered to me. "it seems a shame to buy such priceless gems for fifty cents. i would not take anything for what she has just handed to all of my girls." the judge proved to be a delightful old man and all of us were charmed with his courtly manners and compliments. he seemed to think we were lovely and quite grown-up in spite of what blanche had just "handed" us. he quoted poetry to us with an old world grace and seemed to have a verse ready for every occasion. even blanche came in for her share of poetry as the judge helped himself to another and yet another popover: "'my mother bore me in the southern wild, and i am black, but oh, my soul is white!'" blanche smiled on him as though at last she had found someone who really understood her. after luncheon we repaired to the piazza where zebedee and the judge could enjoy their cigars and the family guitar was produced at the instigation of the host, hoping to persuade the judge to give us some of his fine old ballads. the tucker guitar was something of a joke, as none of them could really play on it; but it was always kept in perfect order if not in perfect tune and placed in a conspicuous place. "ready for an emergency if one should arise in anyone else," explained dum. dee could thrum out an accompaniment, if it happened to be a very simple one with only one or two changes. dum knew part of the spanish fandango, learned from a teacher who had struggled with the family once when they had determined that a musical education was necessary. zebedee, who had a very good voice and a true ear, could tell when the guitar was out of tune but never could tune it to his satisfaction; but when someone else got it in tune he could put up a very good imitation of following himself in his favourite song of "danny deever." the judge jumped to the instrument as a trout to a fly and held it with a loving embrace. "gad, tucker, but this is a good guitar!" and with a practiced hand and ear he quickly had it in tune. "sing, do sing!" we pleaded. "all right, i'll sing to all of you five girls if you will excuse an old man's faults. my voice is not what it used to be, but the heart is the same and "'no matter what you do if your heart be true, and his heart was true to poll.' "this song i am going to sing is one i have always loved and it seems to be singularly appropriate for all of you young ladies, who, last night as i peeped into the ballroom, showed promise of what you might be. but this morning i find you back 'where the brook and river meet.' i can't tell whether it is because of the absence of the gallant swains or a mere matter of rearrangement of tresses." harvie and shorty had gone to the camp for luncheon and to go crabbing with the boys, which was rather a relief, as dum declared we could not have boys all the time without getting bored. certainly on the morning after the hop we were glad just to be little girls again and not have to play "lady come to see" for a while at least. dear old judge grayson and zebedee were singularly restful after the friskings of the youths, and miss cox very calming as she sat on the piazza, an exalted expression on her good face, stitching, stitching on wedding clothes. all of us had undertaken to help her but mighty botches i am afraid we made of it, all except annie pore. she could take tiny stitches if shown exactly where to put them, but she was afraid to take the initiative even in sewing. dum could design patterns for embroidery and dee could tie wonderful bows; mary was great on button-holes; i could not even sew carpet rags together well enough to pass muster, but i was very willing and did my poor best. in his high, sweet old tenor the judge began to sing: "'my love she's but a lassie yet, a lightsome, lovely lassie yet; it scarce wad do to sit and woo down by the stream sae glassy yet. "'but there's a braw time coming yet, when we may gang a-roaming yet; an' hint wi' glee o' joys to be, when fa's the modest gloaming yet. "'she's neither proud nor saucy yet, she's neither plump nor gaucy yet; but just a jinking, bonny blinking, hilty-skilty lassie yet. "'but o, her artless smile's mair sweet then hinny or than marmalete; an' right or wrang, ere it be lang, i'll bring her to a parley yet. "'i'm jealous o' what blesses her, the very breeze that kisses her, the flowery beds on which she treads, though wae for ane that misses her. "'then o, to meet my lassie yet up in yon glen sae grassy yet; for all i see are naught to me, save her that's but a lassie yet.'" all of us sat very quietly as the old man finished his quaint, sweet song. zebedee looked very shiny-eyed and i rather guessed he was thinking of his tweedles, although he did look at me. i fancy he knew that i understood him and his anxiety about his dear girls. it is no joke to be the father of sixteen-year-old twins and only about thirty-six yourself. dum and dee were developing very rapidly and they had looked so grown-up at the hop and had conducted themselves so like young ladies that their anxious parent was troubled for fear their womanhood was upon him. he would rather see them romping hoydens than the sedate young ladies they seemed to be turning into. no wonder he had tipped blanche with the shiny fifty-cent piece. had she not put his mind at rest for the time being at least? they were certainly girlish enough looking on that day, even boyish looking as they crowded each other out of the hammock, both intent on getting the middle. "that's fine, judge, give us another!" begged zebedee, but the bard insisted upon miss cox's putting down her sewing and singing; and then annie pore must give us annie laurie; and so the lazy afternoon passed with songs and many good stories drawn from our guest by the tactful zebedee. judge grayson just naturally loved horses and next to being with them was talking about them. he had many delightful stories to tell of horses he had known and horses he had owned. he insisted that no horse was naturally vicious but always ruined in some way by its trainer, and no horse was irretrievably ruined if just the right person could get hold of it and by kindness bring it to reason. i had always felt that and of course this theory appealed to dee, who thought much worse of humanity than animality, as she called it. "the first horse i ever owned was the first horse i ever loved and he was in a way the best horse i ever owned," said the judge, addressing his remarks to dee who was all attention. "dobbin was the very ordinary name for a very extraordinary horse. my father gave him to me when i was six years old. i say gave him to me but what really occurred was that i was presented to dobbin. for if ever man was owned by an animal, dobbin owned me. he was an old circus horse and his intelligence was far beyond that of the average human. he was milk white with pink nostrils and eyes, a real albino, in fact. his legs were perfectly formed, his head small and very well shaped, his back broad and flat as though especially made for bare-back riding. if you fell off him it was your own fault, and no more was he to be blamed than a bed that you happen to roll out of. indeed his gaits were so smooth that you might easily go to sleep on him. his temper was perfect and his character very decided and firm. he knew exactly what he wanted to do and he also knew that his judgment was much better than a child's. i shall never forget the first time i got on his back. my father was going to have me taught to ride by our old coachman, but in the meantime i was given the duty and pleasure of feeding my horse myself. i had only owned him a day and already i would have foundered him on oats if it had not been for his own superior intelligence and judgment. he ate what he considered proper and then deliberately turned over the bucket and puffed and blew and pawed until even the chickens had a hard time pecking up the scattered grain." and here the old man laughed and took another cigar zebedee offered him, pausing in his narrative while he bit off the end and lit it. "but how about the first time you rode him?" demanded dee. "i'm coming to that. he was a very high horse, was dobbin, so high that it was a tall mount for a grown man and of course it was seemingly impossible for a little boy to climb up on such a mountain, but get up i did. my father came out on the gallery and there i was as proud as punch perched on the broad back of my snow-white steed. 'you rascal!' he shouted. 'who put you up there?' 'dobbin put me here,' i answered, and so he had, but my father could not believe it until dobbin and i demonstrated the fact for him. i slid down the shapely leg of my circus horse and then he lowered his head and i nimbly climbed up his neck and landed safely on his back. i can still hear my father laugh and then all the household was called out to witness this great feat, and my mother brought out sugar to feed my pet. she pulled down his head and whispered in his ear, 'be careful of my boy, dobbin! i am going to trust him to you, do you understand?' and dobbin whinnied an answer and blew in my mother's hair with his pink nostrils. after that he felt that he was a kind of nurse for me and he certainly did make me walk chalk," and the old man chuckled in delighted memory. "tell us more about him," pleaded dee. "he must have been darling." "well, sometimes he was right annoying. for instance, he saw to it that i minded my black mammy. one of mammy's rules was that i could play in the mud all i wanted to in the morning, but in the afternoon when i was dressed in my clean linen shirt and little white piquet pants, i had to keep clean. the mud attracted me as much in the afternoon as morning, and sometimes i would lose track of time and would begin to mix my delectable pies in spite of my spotless attire. do you know that old horse many and many a time has come up behind me and gently but firmly caught me by my collar or the seat of my breeches, whichever presented itself handiest, and after giving me a little shake put me out of temptation? he never was known to do it in the morning when i was in my blue jean jumpers. why, that horse knew morning from afternoon and jeans from white linen. he was a great disciplinarian, i can tell you. my mother would let me go anywhere just so dobbin was of the party. she knew perfectly well he would take care of me. had he not told her so as plainly as a horse could speak, and that is pretty plain to those who understand horse talk." dee nodded approval and muttered: "dog talk, too!" "we had an old basket phaeton with a rumble (they don't make them now-a-days) and in the afternoon in summer my sister and i would hitch up old dobbin and go off for a picnic in the beech woods. sam, my body servant and private property, perched in the rumble and dilsey, my sister's maid, crouched at our feet. dobbin would jog along until he found what he considered a suitable spot for a picnic and then he would stop, and no matter how we felt about it, out we had to get. nothing would budge dobbin. he would look at us and whinny as much as to say that he had forgotten more about picnic places than we could ever hope to know and no doubt he was right. "he usually stopped at a very nice spot where there was plenty of shade and a spring and maybe some luscious blue grass for him to nibble at. he was never tied but allowed to roam at his own sweet will. when the shadows lengthened, he would turn the phaeton around, with his nose headed for home, and as the sun touched the horizon he would send forth a warning neigh, gentle at first but if his voice was not hearkened to, more peremptory and then quite sharp. he would give us about five minutes and then he would start for home. i tell you there would be scrambling then to get in the phaeton, as none of us relished the thought of walking home, getting in late to supper and making the necessary explanations to the grown-ups. one time dilsey almost got left, having loitered behind in a fit of stubbornness. 'i's plum wo' out wif dis here brute beas' a bossin' er me!' she panted as she clambered over the wheel and sank on the floor of the phaeton. 'ef'n he was mine i'd lay him out.' with that ole dobbin turned his head around in the shafts, looked sternly at the girl, and deliberately switched her with his tail until she cried out for mercy, 'lawsamussy, marse dobbin, i's jes a foolin',' and then that old horse gave a whinny more like laughing than anything you ever heard and trotted peacefully home." the old man stopped and shook the ashes from his cigar. "yes, yes, i loved that old horse as much as i did mammy, and god knows mammy was next to my parents in my affection. not have souls! why, i as firmly believe i am going to meet dobbin when i cross the river as i am mammy." at that, dee tucker got up out of the hammock and went over and hugged and kissed the old judge, and zebedee and dum both wiped the tears from their eyes. i felt like it, too, but then tears are not mine to command as they are the tuckers'. certainly the judge had touched us all with his story. i wanted to ask him more about dobbin but i was afraid the next thing would be dobbin's death, as he must have been old when he was presented to the little boy, and somehow i felt none of us could bear up over the dear old horse's death. it must have been more than sixty years since those picnics in the beech woods, but you felt that in judge grayson's mind it was but as yesterday. chapter xvi. an axe to grind. harvie and shorty came in that afternoon with a great basket of crabs for supper and countenances like boiled lobsters. sunburn is as much a part of the seashore as sand and water, and sometimes it is even more in evidence. you can escape from the sand and water by going indoors and pulling down the blinds, but your sunburned nose you have to take with you. the boys also brought the mail, a letter for annie and one for me. my letter contained the bad news that my dear father could not come to the beach, after all, as sally winn was trying in dead earnest to die, and could not do it without dr. allison. annie's letter had, i am ashamed to say, not such very good news, either, as it said that mr. pore had decided to come to willoughby for a few days. we girls secretly dreaded this visit. we could not help knowing that mr. pore was very stiff and strait-laced, and we feared the effect he might have on poor little annie. annie was having such a good time and it did seem a pity to interrupt it. "i do wish zebedee would not be so promiscuous with his invitations," stormed dum, who was escorting me as far as the hotel where i was going to pay a duty call on cousin park. "he was certainly not called on to ask this old dried-up englishman down here. he could have been polite without being so effusive. it is going to ruin things for annie, i just know." "maybe it won't," i suggested, speaking for moderation that i did not feel. "harvie price says he is a very cultivated, interesting man." "oh, yes, i know the kind! i bet you he says position for job; and rabble for mob; retires when he goes to bed; and arises when he gets up; calls girls, maidens; women, females; ladies, gentlewomen; birds, feathered songsters; and dogs, canines. ugh! i just know he is going to be a wet blanket." "well, dum, your father got on with him and seemed to like him very much. maybe we can hit it off with him, too." "oh, that's nothing! zebedee can get on with human oysters and clams and make animated pokers unbend. why, that young father of ours is such a mixer he could even make ice cream and crabs agree. but that's no sign that annie's paternal parent is not going to be a difficult guest. if it only had been dear dr. allison coming instead!" i agreed with her there, but i tried to make impulsive, hot-headed dum feel that the best thing we could do was to try to see the good in mr. pore for annie's sake if not for his own. i was dying to tell her of the interesting things that annie had divulged to me about her family, but a confidence is a confidence and must be respected as such. for my part, it seemed foolish to keep such an item as being kin to the nobility so strictly a secret. i don't believe that many virginians would feel that being granddaughter to a baronet and great-granddaughter to an earl, something to be hid under a bushel. i fancy that annie felt her clothes and general manner of living to be rather incongruous to such greatness. we found cousin park ensconsed on the porch in a steamer chair, knitting an ugly grey shawl with purple scallops, while mabel binks, who had returned from her expedition to newport news with wink, danced attendance on the pompous lady. "i bet she's got an axe to grind!" muttered dum. "what do you fancy mabel wants to get out of your cousin?" "i can't imagine, but i'll take my hat off to her if she gets it," i laughed. "please come on and call with me. i can't face mabel and cousin park at the same time," i begged dum, and she good-naturedly complied, although i know she hated it. cousin park greeted us with what was meant to be a cordial manner, and mabel was almost effusive as she got us chairs and took upon herself to do the honours of the hotel porch. "i rather expected you this morning, page," said cousin park, looking over her spectacles at me. this habit of my relative of looking over her spectacles at you would have made a person as mild as a may morning appear fierce, and its effect on cousin park's far from mild countenance was disconcerting in the extreme; but i did not feel nearly so uncomfortable with her as i had heretofore. had i not seen her tap judge grayson with her turkey-tail fan, and listen with a pleasure that seemed almost human to the old man's recitation of the poem? "we slept so late after the dance that there was no time to do anything this morning, and then judge grayson came to luncheon and that kept us all the early part of the afternoon. i also had a letter to write today." "ah, a very pleasant, well-mannered man, the judge," said cousin park. "the legal profession should be proud of such a representative." dum and i smothered a giggle at this, as zebedee had confided to us that our charming old friend was only judge by courtesy. we said nothing, however. far be it from us to lessen his dignity by one jot or tittle. "we are to have another guest tomorrow," broke in dum, in order to change the subject from judge grayson's doubtful legal rights. "mr. pore, annie's father, is coming to visit us." mrs. garnett snorted and mabel's lip curled, but they said nothing to dum. however, the minute my friend left us, which she did after a moment to speak to an acquaintance she spied at the other end of the long porch, their eloquence was opened up on me. "i can't see why jeffry tucker should ask such a man to stay in the house with an allison. i am told he is nothing but a little country store-keeper, just the commonest kind of englishman, lower middle class, no doubt. it is bad enough to have his daughter, although she is very pretty and seems well mannered; but such acquaintances that cannot be continued in later life should be discouraged. i never did approve of your going to gresham, but sue lee, with the democratic notions that she has picked up in washington, insisted that it would be best for you to make a wide acquaintance. i thought a select home school where there were accommodations for very few girls would be much more desirable. one would at least know who the persons were you were meeting and you would be spared such embarrassing situations as you are now finding yourself in. i think you had better excuse yourself and come to the hotel and visit me. i could take you in my room without much inconvenience to myself." "thank you, cousin park! i would not inconvenience you even a little bit for the world, nor would i leave my friends until my visit with them is finished. annie pore is as much my friend as she is the tuckers', and i love her dearly and have found her a perfect lady on all occasions. mr. tucker is acquainted with mr. pore and his judgment as to who is a suitable person to introduce to us is to be relied on implicitly. mr. pore is not a common englishman at all but a very cultivated, highly-educated gentleman." how i did long to spring sir isaac pore and the earl of garth on them! there are times when i wish i did not have such a keen sense of honour. it certainly does restrict your actions and words at very inconvenient moments. "he may be educated but hardly a gentleman," said cousin park, dropping stitches in her indignation. "one would hardly find a gentleman weighing out lard and drawing kerosene from a barrel for his darkey customers, and that is what miss binks tells me this pore is accustomed to do." "ah!" i thought, "i fancied i could see mabel binks' fine italian hand in this. she has never forgiven annie since the seniors gave her a cheer when she arrived at gresham, all because the shy little english girl stood up for herself and downed the dashing mabel with the retort courteous." "i quite agree with you, mrs. garnett, about gresham's being entirely too democratic. my mother was shocked when i told her of some of the ordinary looking, badly dressed girls miss peyton had allowed to enter. it used to be quite select. i am glad i am through. i am dying to come out this next winter," continued mabel. "richmond society is so charming. i envy these girls who can come out there. i have a cousin who lives there but she is not one bit sociable and it is not very much fun to visit her." i was beginning to see mabel's axe as her grinding was quite evident. "i shall be glad to have you visit me," said cousin park. "i have not chaperoned a girl for some years, but no doubt i could make you have a very nice time." "oh, how lovely of you!" and mabel's expression was indeed triumphant as she picked up cousin park's ball of purple yarn and restored it to that lady's rather precarious lap. i could have told mabel that it was not such a sweet boon as she fancied: to visit the grand garnett mansion. i thought of jeremiah, the blue-gummed butler, with his solemn air of officiating at a funeral; of the oiled walnut furniture with its heavy uncomfortable carving, sure to hit you in the small of the back if you sought repose in one of the stiff hair cloth covered chairs, or to find a tender place on your shins when you passed a bureau or bed. i thought of the interminable, heavy dinners: roast mutton and starchy vegetables topped off with plum pudding or something equally rich and filling. i could fancy the line of family portraits, hung high against the ceiling, looking their disapproval at the far from dignified mabel and plainly showing their wonderment that she should have found her way into their august presence. those old portraits will little dream how much mabel had fetched and carried for that invitation; how many cushions she had arranged and rearranged behind the plump back of the present owner of the portraits; how many tiresome moments she had spent holding the skeins of grey and purple yarn for mrs. garnett to wind her fat knitting balls. she had also gathered bits of pleasing gossip to retail to the willing ear of my relative. cousin park was the type ever ready and delighted to be scandalized. the day after the sail that we had spent in dough masks, mabel had evidently spent in the mask of a lively, agreeable, obliging girl, doing everything in her power to make herself attractive to her possible hostess. success was hers! a long visit in richmond in her debutante winter with one of the wealthiest members of society meant a good deal to that young lady. mabel's mother belonged to a very good family but her father's name, binks, is enough to show that at least he was not of the f. f. v's. wink white, who was a cousin of mrs. binks, had confided to me that he rather preferred mr. binks to mrs. "the fact that she married old binks for his money and now is ashamed of him shows about what kind cousin florence is," he had said. having said all i could say in defense of mr. pore, and having played so well into mabel's hands that, by giving her a chance to agree so readily and heartily with cousin park, her invitation had come much more easily than she had dared to hope, i felt sure, i now took my departure with dum. it should have made no difference to me how many visits mabel binks would pay in richmond, but it did. i well knew what her game was there: she was determined to attract mr. jeffry tucker, and had been from the moment she had seen him at gresham, when he took tweedles there to enter them at school. i well knew that zebedee gave her not a moment's thought, but if she pursued him enough he might change his mind about her. she was certainly handsome and quite bright and entertaining. tweedles would not be there to protect their young father and he was but human, very human, in fact. i felt depressed on the way back to our cottage, so much so that dum noticed it and begged me to cheer up. "your cousin is enough to make you blue, but remember that everyone has some scrubby kin. just think of poor annie and what oceans of spirits we will have to produce to drown her sorrow and depression when her respected parent arrives!" i threw off my gloom the best i could and let dum go on thinking it was cousin park who had cast the spell over me. i knew quite well that if i even hinted at mabel and her machinations, tweedles would refuse to go back to gresham but stay in richmond all winter to guard their precious zebedee. chapter xvii. mr. arthur ponsonby pore. mr. pore was much more attractive than we had expected. things in this life hardly ever come up to your expectations, either good or bad, which sounds as though i were still brooding over mabel's proposed visit to cousin park and the possible enthralling of zebedee. i remind myself of the irishman who had raised a particularly fat pig from which he expected to realize great wealth. he took it to town on market day to sell. on the way home he met a neighbour who genially inquired: "and how mooch did your pig be after weighing, paddy?" "not as mooch as i thart it would,--and i thart it wouldn't," added paddy pessimistically. in the first place, mr. pore was handsome. he had a stately dignity and an aristocratic bearing that all the weighing of lard and drawing of molasses in the world could not lessen. his forehead was intellectual; his eyes piercing; his nose aquiline and rather haughty; his mouth a little petulant with a pathetic droop at the corners; and his chin (rather indicative of his character, i fancy, and explaining why he was keeping a country store at price's landing instead of taking that place in the world to which by birth and education he was entitled), his chin decidedly receded. in doing so, however, it gave you to understand that it retreated in good order and was unconvinced. i mean that it had that stubborn look that receding chins sometimes do have. after all, stubbornness was the key-note of mr. pore's character, rather than weakness. i had gathered that much from what annie had divulged to me that night at gresham when she had opened the box with her dead mother's dress in it and found the note from her mother, with the twenty-five dollars pinned in the sleeve. he was dressed in what books call decent black. certainly there was nothing about him to make anyone doubt he was a perfect gentleman, even had they been unaware of the fact that only one life stood between him and a title. he was so excessively english that it was hard to believe that he had spent the last fifteen years in a little settlement on the james river, never hearing his native tongue in all that time, perhaps. our spoken language was very different from his, although i have heard it said that virginians and kentuckians and bostonians come nearer to speaking the real english than any other americans. we may come nearer than others but we are still far off from the kind of english that mr. arthur ponsonby pore spoke. i thought of cousin park and her "lower middle class" to which she had consigned the gentleman, and wished that he might just once look at her and mabel through the gold _pince nez_ that straddled his aristocratic, aquiline nose! zebedee had gone over to norfolk to meet his guest, and under his genial influence i fancy mr. pore had somewhat melted; but his demeanor was still rather icy. he went through the introduction to miss cox and all of us girls as though it had been a court ceremony, and then turning to annie, he gave her a little arthur ponsonby peck in lieu of a kiss. shaking his hand, dee declared was like grasping an old pump handle when the sucker is worn out. you take hold thinking you are to meet with some resistance, but instead, the handle flies up and you find yourself foolishly shaking it up and down with no chance of getting any returns for your trouble. the tuckers were famous hand-shakers, as all their friends knew, but doubtless mr. pore was unprepared for such a vigorous grasp from young ladies. i found nothing to complain of in his manner of greeting me. not being such a hearty hand-shaker as tweedles, i put my hand in his and left him to do the shaking. this he did not do, but he gave my hand a slight pressure and gazed earnestly into my eyes. so earnest and burning was his glance that i felt almost confused, but i thought that no doubt annie had told him of her confiding in me about her birth and he felt some interest because of her affection for me. as we took our seats on the porch, mr. pore's chair was by mine and still he gazed at me with his piercing, melancholy eyes. "did i hear your name aright? was it not miss page allison?" "yes, sir! i am annie's friend from gresham. we have been intimate from the day we entered school." "yes, yes! i know much of you and your courtesy. but tell me, miss allison, are you american?" (his american was so different from ours one could almost spell it a-m-e-h-r-i-k-e-n.) "yes, mr. pore, i am american, but my mother was english." "ah! i thought as much. her name was lucy page, was it not?" "yes," i answered, wondering at his knowledge of my mother's name. "oh, page! page! only think of it!" exclaimed annie impulsively. "lucy page was my mother's little friend, the one who lent her the slippers to wear to the charity bazaar," and her enthusiasm went unrebuked by her father. indeed, he seemed almost as excited as annie. the poor man had been a long time away from persons who knew him and whom he knew and he had the absurd notion that very few "amehrikens" were his social equal; now he found that his daughter had made friends with the child of his wife's old friend. "to think of it, to think of it! my word, but it is strange! i knew the moment i saw you that i had seen either you or your counterpart before. tell me, child, all about your mother, and your grandfather, major page. what a fine old soldier he was!" and so i sat on the porch by this strange, stiff englishman, no longer stiff, but positively limber, dum declared, and told all i knew of my poor little mother and the fine old soldier, her father. they had come to america to look up some investments made by the retired army officer, had settled near warrenton and there had met my father,--and the marriage had ensued. "all i have left of my old english grandfather is his hat-tub, which i still use when i am at bracken," i said. "my word, how i should like to own one! i have not seen a hat-tub for twenty years," he sighed. "but tell me, miss allison, do you never see nor hear from your mother's family in england?" "i think all correspondence with them died a natural death many years ago. father used to write once a year to a great-aunt, gwendoline was her name, but she died; after that some of her daughters wrote once or twice and then stopped. i don't even know whether they are alive and i fancy they neither know nor care whether i am." "i have never seen a more striking likeness than you have to your mother. she was much younger than my wife when i knew her. we had all been visiting at the home of the earl of garth, my wife's uncle. little lucy page was really not old enough to be out of the nursery, certainly should have been in charge of a governess; but major page had his own ideas about such things and took his daughter wherever he went. she was about sixteen, i fancy." "just your age!" tweedled the tuckers, who had been listening, with open mouths and eyes, in speechless silence to mr. pore's revelations. when he spoke of the earl of garth as his wife's uncle they looked, as poor dear blanche expressed it, "fittin' to bust." and then when in the most casual manner he let drop that his own father was a baronet, i know it was a relief to them that the hammock rope broke at the crucial moment and they were precipitated to the floor with mary flannagan who was between them. "if something had not happened and happened pretty quick 'a kersplosion was eminent,'" whispered dee to me. "and now i am going to beat it to the hotel as fast as my legs can carry me and let that hateful mabel binks know that she has been nasty to the nobility. oh, i am going to be tactful and not let her know i came for the express purpose. i am going to ask her to tea and be generally sweet, and then just casually let it drop that mr. pore knew your mother while all of them were visiting at an earl's, and that said earl was mrs. pore's uncle. i'll rub in that it means that our modest, little english friend, called by mabel and her ilk orphan annie, is the great-granddaughter of an earl on her mother's side and the granddaughter of a baronet on her father's." all this dee whispered to me while the hammock was being tied up more securely by zebedee. the solemn englishman was evidently much amused by the mishap, as he laughed in a manner almost hilarious for one so dignified and sober. i have always heard an accident like that spoken of as an english joke, and truly it did seem to strike him as very funny. harvie price and shorty made their appearance soon after. harvie greeted mr. pore with great respect and in a few moments they were conversing most affably about harvie's grandfather, general price, and news of the settlement. mr. pore seemed to like the boy and harvie evidently liked him. once he had told me that he admired mr. pore greatly as one who could think in latin. it was easy to see that mr. pore was not going to be such a difficult visitor, after all. he had evidently decided that we were good enough socially for him, because of my mother's having been at the earl of garth's. he had already admitted harvie to his exclusive circle since he had permitted annie to play with him when they were children. he liked zebedee and zebedee's cigars and zebedee's children, who cracked such delicious jokes in falling out of hammocks. altogether he intended to have a very pleasant weekend. i fancied he was a little sorry that he had spoken of his connections, as it was a subject he evidently had not touched on to strangers, but it had slipped out in his delight in meeting someone he considered of his world, that world that he had turned his back on so many years before but the world to which he still belonged. he had never identified himself with his "amehriken" neighbours and had always held himself as an alien among them. annie looked a little startled and very happy. this was a new father to her, a genial gentleman who actually talked to her friends and admitted having titled connections in the old country. he had not censured her once and now he was talking to harvie with actual affability. "oh, page," she whispered to me, "how glad i am i accepted your slippers that night of the musicale at gresham. you remember i said to you that my mother had borrowed slippers, too, when she had worn that dress, and that she did not mind borrowing them because she knew her friend loved her. to think of that friend's being your mother! oh, page, i am so happy!" chapter xviii. the machinations of mabel. dee must have laid it on rather thick with mabel binks, as anything like that young woman's change of manner towards annie could not have been brought about by a light touch. i am afraid dee represented mr. pore's brother, the present baronet, as in the last stages of some wasting disease, and by some juggling of facts in regard to english titles gave the impression that annie was in a fair way to become the duchess of marlborough or at least the honourable anne. she afterwards told dum and me when we accused her of not having drawn it mild, that she had neglected to tell mabel the exact connection with the earl, but had hinted that it was very close and one likely to lead to untold honours to our little friend. "i saw to it that your haughty relative, mrs. garnett, was informed of the coincidence of annie's mother and your mother being friends and of their being at the house party of the big bugs together. mrs. garnett was duly impressed and somewhat astonished, intimating that her cousin, dr. allison, had picked up an english wife with no connections to speak of. she will evidently have a higher opinion of you now that she knows that your mother and grandfather were on visiting terms with an earl." dee pretended to be in jest about cousin park, but it was the truth that she had always rather looked down on my mother for not being virginian. she never lost the chance to inform any stranger when i was introduced that my name was not the virginia pages. with her, f. f. v's were the first and last and only families worth considering in the union or out of it. of course, english nobility was in a way admirable, since it had given birth to f. f. v.dom, but the claim of inhabitants of any other state to aristocracy was brushed aside with scornful disdain. i remember a story my father used to tell of an old gentleman who said he considered it very bad taste to ask any man where he came from. "if he is a virginian, he is sure to let you know it without your asking, and if he is not, there is no use in rubbing it in on the poor fellow by making him own up to it." mabel's being invited to supper was a question that had been discussed up and down by the tuckers, principally down; but they had finally determined that it was on the whole up to them. dee had been appointed inviter as being the tactful member of the team, and mabel naturally jumped at the chance, overlooking the fact that she did not consider us properly chaperoned. her politeness and cordiality to annie were entirely unlooked for by that shy maiden, who almost fainted from astonishment; and she actually gushed over mr. pore. he looked at her for a moment through his ultra gold glasses and then, deciding that she was nothing but a vulgar "amehriken," he never seemed to see her again, although he was forced to hear her very often. she addressed many remarks to him and tried in every way to make him notice her, but an "aw, reahly!" was about all she could get from him. "i simply adore the english!" she exclaimed. "they have so much reserve. do you know, my grandfather binks was english, and indeed he never lost his accent although he lived in this country for a great many years. i remember so well how he dropped his aitches and put them on in the most unexpected places." "aw, reahly now!" "aren't you and your sweet daughter going back to england soon? you don't know how we dote on your little annie," and so on and so on, until it was indeed sickening. it was easy to see that miss binks was as anxious to get an invitation to england as she had been to richmond, while mr. pore was entirely unconscious of what she was driving at. he looked upon her as some kind of escaped lunatic and annie sat in open-eyed wonderment, expecting every moment to be insulted as of yore. they did not dream of dee's having turned the tables on mabel binks as she had done. mr. pore was still the country store-keeper and annie was the same shy girl with her wardrobe as limited as ever, but the wily dee had turned them into dukes and duchesses in mabel's eyes, and the snobbish creature was grovelling at the feet of the nobility. i have never seen two persons have as much fun as tweedles did that evening. they were very quiet but spent the time "sicking mabel on," as dee expressed it. i was pleased to see that annie did not unbend in the least to her one-time persecutor. in spite of annie's shyness she had a dignity that was most admirable; and while she was perfectly polite to mabel, she permitted no advances. getting invitations to england to visit in grand country houses that still belong to older brothers was certainly up-hill work. winding purple and grey yarn for mrs. garnett and fetching and carrying for her, even agreeing with her at every point, was child's play to this thing of flattering a middle-aged englishman who seemed to have no conversation at his command but "aw, reahly!" or "my word!" and trying to undo the work of the last year and make a little english girl forget all the rudeness she had suffered at the hands of her persistent tormentor. i kept wondering how about the lard and molasses that the middle-aged englishman would perhaps spend the rest of his life weighing out and drawing from the barrel for his negro customers as well as white; also if mrs. binks would still think gresham too democratic in the class of pupils it enrolled. i so naturally hate a snob that i did not have a pleasant evening at all, and i could not quite see the fun in it that tweedles did. i was glad when it was over and we could stretch out on our cots with the pure sea air blowing on us, and, lulled by the soothing sound of the waves lapping the shore, sleep the sleep of the just. we could be thankful, at least, that mabel binks was, after all, none of us and when we left willoughby beach we might never have to see her again. as we lay side by side, all of us so quiet that one would have thought sleep held us fast, there was a sudden upheaval from mary's cot and a sound that might have been sobbing. "mary! mary! what is it?" we demanded. "are you ill?" and then the possible sobs turned into unmistakable giggles. "oh! oh! oh! i can't get to sleep for thinking of mr. pore's countenance when mabel told him of her binks grandfather who dropped his aitches." then we all went off into shrieks of laughter that very little would have turned into hysterics, if zebedee had not knocked sternly on our dressing-room door and bade us remember that we had other guests. of course he meant we must not do anything to make mr. pore think we were not perfect ladies, so we subsided with only an occasional upheaval and a smothered snicker. and while we lay there i thought of a title for a short story and almost got a plot worked out; but i went to sleep before it was quite clear. the title was: "the machinations of mabel." chapter xix. the wedding. july was almost over and it seemed but yesterday since we had come to the beach and taken possession of mrs. rand's cottage and made preparations for the continuous house-party. so many pleasures and excitements had been crowded into that month that really might have been spread over six months and still not have been stupid! it seems a pity that pleasant happenings make time pass quickly and sad and boresome things make it drag. how much better if it could only be the other way. i know miss cox felt that the month had gone very quickly and would have been glad of a few more weeks to give to preparations for matrimony, but mr. robert gordon had got the bit between his teeth and there was no holding him in. "haven't i been waiting for years and years? isn't my hair white with waiting?" he would say, shaking his exceedingly becoming, iron-grey locks. we girls privately thought that he might have spunked up a little sooner instead of spending all those weary years in growing grey, no matter how becoming it had proven to be; but zebedee told me he rather felt that miss cox and mr. gordon were more suited to each other than they had been in their youth. the years of separation had taught them a lesson they might never have learned together: how to control their tempers and bridle their tongues. i have never seen a couple who seemed to be in greater accord and harmony. it was a harmony of the soul and one that would last through eternity, not just a superficial agreement caused by the "glamor of the amour." perhaps zebedee was right and their happiness was more certain now that suffering and experience had instilled in their hearts the wisdom of moderation and self-control. it was to be a very quiet wedding at old st. paul's in norfolk, but we girls were in a state of excitement that made miss cox appear calm in contrast. the boys from the camp were invited and a half dozen of mr. gordon's most intimate friends. miss cox was singularly alone in the world except for some very dear friends who were not getatable. mr. gordon's mother was dead and his sister married and living in california, so we were, after all, the nearest thing to a family they could scrape up. the groom wanted zebedee for his best man but miss cox had to have him to give her away and a next best man must needs be chosen. blanche, of course, had to be included in the wedding party, and it was with a great deal of finesse that we persuaded her not to wear the fearful and wonderful costume she had arrived in. zebedee solved the problem of how to do it by presenting her with a very large new black mohair skirt and a plain, tailored linen shirt waist and a black sailor hat. "if poor, dear blanche has a hankering for her gorgeous finery, tell her that she must wear this sober costume to please me. i know she would not hurt my feelings for anything. also tell her that it would be perfectly _au fait_ for her to go to this gay function after the recent bereavement in her family, the untimely death of the brother's baby, provided she is suitably attired. there is a new white apron, too," said zebedee, handing the box to dum. "for goodness' sake, don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed dum. "dee is the diplomat and is fully capable of soft-soaping blanche into thinking that her striped skirt and purple waist are too fine to wear to a mere wedding but must be saved for funerals. i'd do it all wrong and make a mess of it." so dee consented to be the fashion dictator to the cook if i would go with her and uphold her in her arguments. "well, now the generositiness of my employerer is well nigh asphyxiating!" cried the girl. "i have always heard a simplifaction of costumery was the quintillion of excellency. but would it not be more respectful like to miss cox if we female maidens adorned of ourselves in more gorgeous affectations?" "oh, no! not at all!" declared dee quickly. "you see--you see--miss cox is going to wear a very simple gown herself--just a traveling dress--and it would not be fair for any of us to dress too finely and--and--attract attention to ourselves when all eyes should be drawn to the bride." this was a knock-down argument and with a sigh blanche put away her finery. donning the plain and appropriate clothes zebedee had purchased, she made herself ready for what she designated as "the wedding corsage." i had been to very few weddings, as i believe i have said before. our part of the country was like the hereafter in that the inhabitants neither married nor gave in marriage, being composed chiefly of bachelors and old maids, with a sprinkling of widowers and widows who seemed to have found once enough. this wedding was even more exciting to me than my first hop. all of us were nervous except miss cox, who was singularly composed. blanche forgot to put any salt in the batter bread that morning, and dum came down to breakfast in odd stockings, one black and one tan. as for zebedee, anyone would think it was his own wedding, he was so upset. "i don't see why they don't have undertakers for weddings as well as funerals," he exclaimed. "someone to take all the responsibility and not leave the matter to amateurs! here i am scared to death for fear the sexton won't remember to open the church in time; that the preacher won't come; that i might lose the ring--by jove! i have lost it! i told bob to keep it himself!" and he slapped his pockets frantically and began to turn them inside out. of course it was in the particular place it should have been, safe in his pocket book; but i know i saw him at least a dozen times go through exactly the same search during the morning, his eyes big with fright and his hands trembling. i don't know what there is about a wedding to make the masculine gender so panic-stricken, but i am told that there never was a man living who could go through a ceremony (whether it be his own or another's) without showing the white feather. maybe brigham young and solomon got so used to it they could at least assume composure, but i have my doubts about even those much-married gentlemen. the trolley was not considered good enough by mr. gordon and zebedee for the wedding party, so we were conveyed to norfolk in automobiles; and in spite of our host's lugubrious prognostications that we were going to be very late and the preacher would be gone, we arrived many minutes before we were due. there were a few persons in the church attracted by curiosity and the rumour of a wedding, and mr. gordon was waiting for us with his next best man, who had just arrived from south carolina. "gee whiz, i'm glad to see that man!" breathed zebedee, looking as though a great weight had fallen from him. "now he can take charge of this confounded ring. this is not in my jurisdiction, anyhow. whoever heard of the father of the bride having to take care of the ring?" then he began his usual search for the offending little circlet of gold, crying nervously: "i've lost it! i've lost it this time for sure!" but i reminded him of the pocket book and with a relieved sigh he handed the ring over to the next best man, who assumed the expression of hercules when atlas got him to hold the world for a while. as the bells rang out high noon, we seated ourselves sedately in the front pews. the minister took his stand in the pulpit and the organ pealed forth the wedding march. a little stir in the back and an almost inaudible titter from the strangers who were scattered about the church, caused us to turn to see what was going on, and who should be marching up the aisle, the observed of all observers, but poor, dear blanche, heading the "wedding corsage"! only a few yards behind her was miss cox on the arm of zebedee. it was awfully funny, but we were too taken up with the serious matter in hand to know how funny it was until afterwards. "thank goodness, she hasn't got on her 'costumery'!" whispered dee. mr. gordon was standing at the altar waiting for his bride, and the best man produced the ring at the proper time without much fumbling. zebedee gave the bride away with an air of great generosity and then wept shamelessly as was his habit. miss cox kept her composure even until she was mrs. robert gordon. the groom shook like an aspen leaf but managed to make his responses in a loud, determined voice. over at last, the knot safely tied and miss jane cox no more! by a word from the minister she had been miraculously turned into mrs. gordon. she looked very happy as she came down the aisle on the arm of her beaming husband, who had stopped trembling and had begun to prance, at least that is what dee declared he was doing. zebedee had stopped weeping and was now in a broad grin, and the next best man was evidently overjoyed to have shifted the burden of the ring to the rightful owner. how pretty the table was in the private room at the montecello hotel where zebedee gave the wedding breakfast! we all suddenly discovered we had eaten next to no breakfast, and now did our best to make up for lost time. there never were such brisk and attentive and omnipresent waiters anywhere before, i am sure. in addition, now and then we could see the delighted countenance of blanche, peeping in from an adjoining room where she had assumed the office of ladies' maid to help us off with our imaginary wraps. she felt that at last she was moving in high society and i think bitterly regretted the tabooed finery, especially when she saw the gleaming shirt fronts and tuxedos of the waiters. the breakfast was perfect. had not tweedles and i spent days going over the menu to be sure we forgot nothing and had everything we should and nothing we shouldn't? dum came very near spoiling the whole effect because she insisted upon having cakes and molasses. "you know zebedee and i like them better than anything and always order them when we eat at hotels. i can't see that it would not be perfectly appropriate. the montecello hotel would not have them on its menu if it wasn't elegant," she declared as we pored over the printed bill of fare that zebedee had brought to willoughby several days before the wedding. "but, dum," we explained, "this is not a real breakfast, just a wedding breakfast. it is to be luncheon instead of breakfast." "all right then, let's have pan-cakes instead of plain cakes! they have those on the luncheon menu." it took much persuading and arguing to convince dum that even pan-cakes would not do at a wedding breakfast. i thought once she and dee would have to resort to trial by combat, a measure they had not had to employ for a long time. they still practiced with the boxing gloves but had not put them on to settle disputes for many a month. they finally appealed to zebedee, who confessed himself to be no ladies' home advisor as to the proper food to be eaten on such occasions, but said: "what does page think?" "well, i think that there is nothing in the world better than plain cakes and molasses except maybe pan-cakes and syrup, but somehow it does not seem to me to be very romantic eating for a wedding breakfast." "the ultimatum is delivered," laughed zebedee. "if you must have pan-cakes, dum, for a wedding breakfast you will have to wait until you get a bridegroom of your own,--and i hope that will be many a day, honey." "all right, if you are all against me," sighed dum, "i'll give in; but i can't see that broiled chicken and english peas are any more romantic than cakes and molasses,--not as much so, in fact. what could be more romantic than a nice passionate hot cake all smothered in sweet, sticky, loving molasses?" what we did agree to have was canteloupe, then filet de sole with parker house rolls, then broiled chicken and peas with pop-overs, a fruit salad with mayonnaise, and last but not least, a great cake with all of the things baked in it that are usual to wedding cakes, and wonderful ice cream in molds appropriate for the occasion. if anyone felt like kicking, his or her feelings were carefully concealed. even the bride and groom ate, and as for the boys from the camp,--you would suppose they had been living on hard tack from the way they devoured that wedding breakfast. just before the cake was to be cut, the head waiter himself came in, a broad grin on his good-natured countenance and in his hands a great tray laden with orders of hot pan-cakes, a surprise and joke of zebedee's. it wasn't such a joke, after all, as every last one of those steaming cakes disappeared as if by magic. one would have thought that the guests had had enough, more than enough, in fact, but as sleepy said, no doubt voicing the sentiment of the crowd: "when there is no room in me for pan-cakes, then you fellows had better get ready for a funeral. it would be a sure indication of the last stages of a wasting disease." "consumption!" suggested wink. "consumption of food!" zebedee told me he had ordered the cakes because he hated to see dum disappointed; and then, too, he had a terrible fear that she might get married some time just so she could have pan-cakes at a wedding breakfast. "i want to keep my girls with me as long as i can, and certainly don't want one of them to marry for the sake of a hot cake. dum is fully capable of going any lengths to carry her point. did you see how she squared her chin when you and dee talked her down?" i hadn't seen it, but i knew full well that when dum did square her chin she meant business. pan-cakes and all were finally cleared away and the cake was cut, with many jests and much laughter. dee got the ring, annie the piece of money and wink the thimble, thereby causing many a merry bit of banter from his friends. he came very near swallowing it, not expecting to find anything in his slice of cake as usually, by some miraculous juggling, the females get the things in the wedding cake. i had not seen wink since the night of the hop. he had absented himself from willoughby, visiting various friends in suffolk and on the eastern shore, and only getting back to the camp in time for the wedding. his absence had been somewhat of a relief to me. i did not know just how he would behave nor was i certain what my attitude should be. i felt that i must treat him as though nothing had happened; but if he was going to show hurt feelings or be silly, i knew i would get embarrassed and stiff. i had not had a good look at him until we were seated at the table. then, to my dismay, he was placed next to me. i knew it was up to me to be pleasant, so i waltzed in to be agreeable but not too charming. if only i could make wink feel as i did! he looked different, somehow, but for a moment i could not account for it; and then it suddenly came over me that wink was growing a moustache! i felt like crawling under the table but instead i turned to the gentleman seated on my other side, no other than the next best man, and i am sure that mabel binks herself could not have got off a greater fire of small talk than i managed to pour forth. when i told wink that he would have to grow a moustache before i could be sure of the state of my feelings towards him, i was not in real earnest and he might have known it! i was quite sure at that wedding breakfast what my feelings were: decided resentment. why could he not realize that i was nothing but a little girl who occasionally played lady? at any rate i was not going to let a little old moustache composed of a few struggling hairs spoil either my pleasure or my appetite. the next best man proved to be most agreeable and very easy to talk to, and the breakfast was good enough to occupy one without conversation had it been necessary to give your attention only to the matter in hand. wink looked rather ruefully at the thimble. "you'll be darning your own socks 'til kingdom come," laughed sleepy, glad that the joke for once was not on him. wink sadly acquiesced, and then zebedee kindly added: "maybe that means the kind of thimble wendy gave peter pan, wink. you remember in that delightful fantasy a thimble was a kiss." "well, anyhow, one can't wear a thimble and a mitten at the same time," muttered wink so that no one heard him but me; and to my dying day i shall hate myself for the way i blushed. it was one of those blushes that hurt. i had a feeling that even my eyes were red. i had just taken the first mouthful of a wonderful molded ice: a pair of white turtle-doves billing and cooing, perched in the heart of a great raspberry sherbet rose. i choked (it must have been on the billing and cooing) and the next best man had to beat me in the back until i could get my breath. i was thankful for the choke and hoped no one had noticed that my crimson countenance had preceded the accident. and now the toasts were in order. everyone had to say something no matter how bromidic. "long life and happiness!" "may your shadows never grow less!" and dum blurted out: "may you have many more wedding breakfasts!" which caused a perfect storm of applause, as it sounded very much as though she meant marriages for the newly wedded couple. mary flannagan got off an impromptu limerick that amused us gresham girls very much, because we were well aware of the fact that miss cox was very unconventional in her ideas and always irritated by narrowness in religion or anything else: "there was a young lady named coxy, who wished to be married by proxy. when asked why this wuz, she said: 'oh, becuz i never could stand orthodoxy.'" then wink, who was very clever at everything but growing moustaches, came back very quickly with: "the groom then he swore and he cust; 'i hate to begin saying "must," but i know my dear jane will surely be sane and be married in church, or i'll bust.'" there had been some discussion about where they were to be married, miss cox rather leaning towards going to some friends in albemarle, but we had joined mr. gordon in talking her out of it. zebedee made a wonderful toast master, encouraging the bashful members of the party with so much tact and kindliness that even the timid annie actually got upon her feet and made a very graceful little speech before she seemed to be aware of the fact that she was really doing it. then sleepy, feeling that if annie did, he must, too, raised his bulky form, and very much in the tone of a schoolboy saying his piece, almost choking with embarrassment, managed to get out the following: "may joy and happiness be your lot, as down the path of life you trot." we expressed ourselves in various ways, but we were all sincere in wishing well for the gordons. i, for one, regretted exceedingly that the one person who had ever made me comprehend mathematics was no longer to teach me. i dreaded the coming year, certain that i would have a terrible time with that bug-bear of a subject. zebedee's speech was: "there are many kinds of toasts i have always known, dry toast, milk toast, french toast and buttered toast, and these may be hot or cold,--but bless me if we haven't more variety of toasts at this nuptial banquet than were ever dreamed of in my philosophy. one thing i can assert: no one has offered a dry toast nor proffered a cold one. each has been buttered and piping hot, and the best thing i can wish my two dear friends is that their toast may always be buttered and piping hot!" and he added feelingly: "may you always eat it together!" then mr. gordon made a very graceful little concession: he actually quoted "alice in the looking glass," substituting jinny for alice. this was pretty nice of him, considering that their early and lasting disagreement had been all because of lewis carroll's nonsense verses. "'then fill up the glasses as quick as you can, and sprinkle the table with buttons and bran; put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea-- and welcome queen jinny with thirty-times-three. "'then fill up your glasses with treacle and ink, or anything else that is pleasant to drink; mix sand with the cider and wool with the wine-- and welcome queen jinny with ninety-times-nine!'" then miss cox arose to answer the toast, and one would have supposed it was some great sonnet in her honour that her new husband had composed, so graciously did she accept the tribute paid her. "'o looking glass creatures,' quoth jinny, 'draw near! 'tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear; 'tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea along with the red queen, the white queen, and me!'" chapter xx. the after-math. they took a steamer to new york, that mecca of the newly-wed, and we all adjourned to the pier to wish them god-speed. as the vessel pulled out, rags produced from his pocket the self-same old tennis shoes that we had found the morning we took possession of mrs. rand's cottage, and threw them after the departing couple. they looked very comical as they floated along for a moment like veritable gun-boats and then filled and sank. "_requiescat in pace!_" muttered wink. "at least you can't forget them again." the boys were breaking camp next day, and the day after we were to get ready to turn over the cottage to mrs. rand's next tenants. zebedee bitterly regretted that he had not taken the place for two months, but it was too late now. besides, his holiday was over and we all well knew that willoughby would not be quite the same thing with our kind host not there, the boys no longer in their camp, and good miss cox married and gone. zebedee had to go back to richmond that night, ready for harness the next morning. "my, but i dread it!" he exclaimed as he took us over to the trolley to start us back to willoughby beach. "i almost wish i had never had a holiday, it is so hard to go back to work. what are stupid old newspapers for, anyhow? who wants to read them?" this made us smile, as zebedee is like a raging lion until he gets the morning paper, and then goes through the same rampageous humour later in the day until the afternoon paper appears to assuage his agony. "we journalists get no thanks, anyhow. i agree with the frenchman who says that a journalist's efforts are no more appreciated than a cook's; no one remembers what he had for yesterday's dinner or what was in yesterday's newspaper." blanche listened to mr. tucker's words with rapt attention. she always stood at a respectful distance but within easy ear-shot of the conversation, which she eagerly drank in and then commented on later to tweedles and me. but this too nearly touched her heart for her to wait until we were alone to make her original and characteristic comments. "oh, mr. tucker, it is so considerable of you to find a symbolarity between the chosen professions of master and handymaiden! sense i have been conductoring of the curlinary apartment of your enstablishment, i have so often felt the infutility of my labours. what i do is enjoyed only for the momentariness of its consumption, and is never more thought of unless it is to say too rich or something; and then, if it disagrees, poor blanche is remembered again, and then not to say agree'bly. sometimes whin i have been placin' clean papers on the kitchen shelves, the same sentimentality has occurred to me that you so apely quotetioned a moment ago, mr. tucker; namely, in relation to journalists and cooks. i see all that pretty printin' going to was'e jes as a restin' place for pots 'n pans, and then in the garbage pail i see the cold waffles that was once as fresh and hot as the next, one no more considered than the other, and i could weep for both of us. our electrocution teacher used to say a piece about 'impervious cæsar, dead and turned to clay doth stop the crack to keep the wind away.'" we stood aghast during this speech. dum looked as though she would welcome death, the deliverer, with joy, anything to relieve the strain she was on to keep from exploding with laughter; but zebedee did not seem to think it was funny at all. he listened with the greatest courtesy and when she had finished with her quotation (which we afterwards agreed was singularly appropriate, since cæsar had been made "impervious" enough to keep out water as well as wind), he answered her very kindly: "i thank you, blanche, for understanding me so well. i can tell you that i, for one, will always remember your waffles; and had i known at the time that there was any more batter, there would not have been any cold ones to find their last ignominious resting place in the garbage pail." "i also have saved some of your writings, mr. tucker,--an editorial that miss dum said you had written before you came for your holiday,--and i will put it in my mem'ry book as an epitaph of you." then dum did explode. she made out that she was sneezing and even insisted upon purchasing a menthol inhaler before she went back to willoughby, declaring she felt a head cold coming on. the beach seemed stale, flat and unprofitable somehow when we got back. we missed miss cox and above all we missed zebedee. "i'm glad we couldn't get the cottage for another month," yawned dum. "old zebedeelums couldn't be here more than once or twice in that time and it would surely be stupid without him;" and all of us agreed with her in our hearts. the cottage was in a terrible state of disorder. we had been too excited in the morning to do our chores. beds were unmade, the living-room messy and untidy with sweaters on chairs, crumbs on the table and floor and shades some up, and some down, and some crooked (nothing to my mind gives a room a more forlorn look than window shades at sixes and sevens); the kitchen, usually in the pink of perfection, just as blanche had left it after cooking what she had termed, a somewhat "forgetable" breakfast. "never do today what you can put off until tomorrow," said dee. "let's leave this mess and take a dip before supper. we will have fifteen minutes at least before blanche can get the funeral baked meats on the table." we were to have a very simple repast and we told blanche just to put it on the table and we would wait on ourselves. the girl was as tired as we were and we felt we must spare her. we determined to get the cottage in perfect order the next day and just to "live keerless" for that evening and night, as blanche expressed it. five hats and five pairs of gloves, dropped where the owners happened to fancy, did not help to make the living-room look any more orderly. dum took off her white kid pumps, that had been pinching a little all day, and left them in the middle of the floor. the morning paper, despised of zebedee but eagerly devoured nevertheless, was scattered all over the divan and floor, and a bag of bananas blanche had been intrusted with was in a state of dishabille on the crummy table. it was surely a place to flee from and flee we did. such a swim as we had! it seemed the best of the whole month. the water was perfect, just a little cooler than the air, and the setting sun turned it to liquid gold. "why, look at annie! she is swimming, really swimming!" called out mary flannagan. and sure enough there was annie staying on top of the water and calmly paddling around like a beautiful white swan. "of course i can swim in golden water! who couldn't? i do wish mr. tucker could see me. isn't it too bad after all his patience with me that i wait until he is gone to show what i can do? somehow this seems like a dream, and the water is fairy water." "let's all catch hold of hands and lie on our backs and float," i suggested. "if you won't leave me when the tide comes, to turn over and swim in," pleaded annie. "i will stay with you until your shoulders grate against the shore," promised mary. and so we lay all in a row on top of the water, faces upturned to the wonderful evening sky, our bodies as light as air and our hearts even lighter. "gee, dee! i am glad you suggested this!" sighed dum. "i never felt more peaceful in my life than i do this minute, and i know i never felt more forlorn than i did when we first got back to the cottage." "me too! me too!" we chorused. "let's float to spain and never come back," suggested annie. "and this from a little lady who has been afraid to get her toes wet all month! well, i'm game if the rest of you are," and mary gave a few vigorous kicks that sent the line some distance from shore; and still annie with her white-swan expression floated peacefully on. we lay there chatting and dreaming, washing off "the cares that infest the day," planning the future and gazing into the clear obscure of the darkening sky. "'star light, star bright, first star i've seen tonight! i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight,'" sang dum, and sure enough there was a star. "look here, girls, it's getting late! i hate to awaken you from this dream of eternal bliss, but we've got to go in," and dee turned over on her face to swim in, thereby causing some commotion in the hearts of the two swimmers newly initiated in the art. "don't leave me!" gasped annie. "didn't your faithful mary swear to take you safe to shore? just lie still and i'll tow you in;" and in they came, mary steaming away like a tug boat and annie floating like an ocean liner, until her shoulders grated on the sand and then and only then was she convinced that she could touch bottom. we raced back to the cottage, hungry and happy, the fifteen minutes that we had meant to stay having turned into an hour in the twinkling of an eye. from afar we espied blanche on the porch, shooing us back with one hand and beckoning with the other. we obeyed the beckoning one and eagerly demanded what was the matter. her face was so pale that the name of blanche was almost appropriate. "what is it, blanche? what has happened?" we cried. but she was speechless except for gasping: "oh, the disgrace, the disgrace!" we followed her trembling form into the living room, wet suits and all, feeling that the exigency of the case was sufficient cause for suspension of rules and for once we would bring dripping bathing suits into the house. the cause of blanche's perturbation of mind was easily understood when we beheld the portly figure of cousin park garnett stiffly seated in a dusty chair (on dum's panama hat it was discovered later). she was indignantly waving her turkey-tail fan, and such an expression of disgust i have never seen on a human countenance. the room looked no better than when we had left it and even a little worse, as the pickup supper we were to have had been dumped on the table in great confusion and not at all in blanche's usual careful style. we had told her not to set the table and she had taken us at our word. the odour of sardines left in the opened boxes mingled with that of the bananas, still in the bursting bag. the bread was cut in thick, uneven slices. a glass jar of pickle and one of olives added to the sketchiness of the table. it was "confusion worse confounded." "oh!" i gasped, on viewing my indignant relative, "i thought you had gone!" "no, i have not yet departed," stiffly from cousin park. "this is rather an unusual time for bathing, is it not?" "yes'm, but----" and i began to stammer out something, fully aware of the dismal figure i cut, standing limply in front of that august presence, my wet clothes sending forth streams of water that settled in little puddles on the floor. i was well aware of the fact that cousin park had never approved of my friendship with the tuckers, and now, coming on us in this far from commendable state, she would have what she would consider a handle for her hitherto unfounded objections. but dee, who by some power that she possessed in common with her father, the power by a certain tact to become master of any situation, no matter how embarrassing, came forward and with all the manners of one much older and clothed in suitable garments, so that you lost sight of her scant and dripping bathing suit, she said: "we are very glad to see you, mrs. garnett, and are extremely sorry to have missed any of your visit. you have found us in some disarray from the fact that we are preparing to move and at the same time have just been engaged in having a wedding in the family." "a wedding! whose wedding?" the wily dee had taken her mind off of the disorder in the room and now she felt she could soon win her over to complacency at least. the wetting paled to insignificance beside the wedding. "why, our dear friend and chaperone, miss cox." "your chaperone! goodness gracious, child! did she marry your father?" "heavens, no!" laughed dee. "mr. bob gordon is the happy man!" "miss binks did not tell me a word of it," said mrs. garnett rather suspiciously. "no, she did not know about it." "not know about it? that is strange! was there any reason for keeping it secret?" "no especial reason for keeping it secret except that it was to be a very quiet affair and the invited guests included only the most intimate friends. mabel binks has a way of getting herself invited by hook or crook, and we just decided not to tell her about the matter." "how long were they engaged? it seems strange behaviour in a chaperone." "i tell you what you do, mrs. garnett. if you won't mind the informality of a picnic supper, you stay and have supper with us. we will run up and get dressed and be down in a moment and then we will tell you the whole thing, how they got engaged and all about it." and so anxious was my cousin for a bit of news to retail to the ladies on the hotel porch that she actually stayed. when we got down stairs after very hasty toilets, we found the good-natured blanche had brought some order out of the chaos of the supper table and with an instinct truly remarkable had made a pot of delicious, fragrant coffee. coffee, i had often heard cousin park declare to be her one weakness. now you may be sure that what cousin park, with her smug self-satisfaction, considered a weakness in herself would really have been a passion in anyone else. as dee, who was doing the honours at the head of the table, it being her week as housekeeper, poured the coffee and our still far from mollified guest saw the beautiful golden brown hue that it assumed the minute it mingled with the cream, her expression softened and she looked very much as she had when judge grayson recited, "my grandmother's turkey-tail fan." the colour of coffee when it is poured on cream is a never failing test of its quality, and the colour of blanche's coffee was beyond compare. the food was very good if not very elegantly served, and i really believe mrs. garnett enjoyed herself as much as she was capable of doing. when anyone's spinal column has solidified she can't have much fun, and i truly believe that was the case with hers. what she enjoyed as much as the coffee and even more, perhaps, was the delightful news she was gathering in every detail to take back to the old hens roosting on the hotel porch. mr. and mrs. gordon had made no secret of their affairs, even their former engagement and cause of the break being known now to some twenty persons; so we felt that it would be all right if we told the whole thing to our eager listener. she agreed with the young lover that the lobster quadrille (of which she had never heard before) was nonsense pure and simple. dum had to recite it twice and finally we all got up and danced it and sang it for her. then she did acknowledge that it might appeal to some persons, but that a girl with as irregular features as the former miss cox had been very foolish to let such twaddle as that stand in the way of matrimony, and she was surely exceedingly fortunate, when time had certainly done nothing to straighten her face, to be able to catch a husband after all. we well knew that while time had not had a beautifying effect on our beloved miss cox's countenance, it had made more lovely her character and soul, and that was after all what mr. gordon loved more than anything else. we kept our knowledge to ourselves, however, as cousin park was not the kind of person to talk metaphysics to. she finally departed, much to our relief, as we were one and all ready for bed. we escorted her to the hotel and before we were out of earshot we could hear her cackling the news to the other old hens very much as a real barnyard fowl will do when she scratches up some delectable morsel too large to swallow at one gulp. she immediately bruits it abroad, attracting all the chickens on the farm, and then such another noise, pecking, grabbing and clucking ensues, until the choice bit is torn to shreds. we were very tired but not too tired to applaud mary flannagan, who imitated cousin park to the life as she recounted the tale to her cronies. then mary followed the gossipy monologue with her favourite stunt of barnyard noises, finally ending up with cousin park's parting speech anent the lobster quadrille and miss cox's imprudence in not taking a husband when she had a chance, even if their taste in the classics did not coincide. chapter xxi. settling up. the next day, our last at the beach, such scrubbing, sweeping and dusting went on as was never seen before i am sure. we were determined that mrs. rand should not say that girls at best were "goatish." blanche insisted that she could do all the cleaning herself, but we thought it but fair to turn in and help. "how could people in one short month collect so much mess?" demanded dum, as she turned bureau drawers out on the beds and did what she called "picking rags." "do you s'pose on a desert island we would find ourselves littered up with a lot of doo-dads?" "well, robinson crusoe collected friday, besides several other days of the week that i can't remember," answered dee, "and it seems to me he got a dog and a cat and a parrot, and he certainly 'made him a coat of an old nannie goat.' he had no luggage at all on his arrival and had much to cart away. and look at swiss family robinson! there was nothing they did not collect in the way of belongings on their desert island, even a wife for one of the boys." "do you know, i used to think swiss family robinson was the best book that had ever been written," said i, emerging from the closet with an arm full of shoes. "well, i don't know but that it is still," declared dum. "wouldn't it be just grand to be cast on a desert island? of course i mean if zebedee could be cast along, too." "of course we wouldn't be cast without him," said dee, "heaven would be more like the other place if zebedee wasn't there. goodness, i wish he didn't have to work and we could all stay together all the time!" "when i grow up a little more and learn how, i am going to sculp such a wonderful statue that zebedee can stop working." dum forgot all about the rags she was picking and with the dreamy expression we knew so well, began to ball up a perfectly clean shirt waist as though it were clay and with her sculptor's thumb shape it into i don't know what image of surpassing beauty. she was rudely awakened from her dream by dee, who snatched the imaginary clay from her twin, exclaiming: "since that happens to be my shirt waist, the one i am going to travel back to richmond in, i'll thank you to get-rich-quick on one of your own ... or this dirty middy blouse might prove a good medium," and she tossed a very soiled article over dum's head. it happened to be a middy that she had gone crabbing in, so it was not overly pleasant. anything was enough to start tweedles in a romp, and in a minute the air was black with shoes and white with pillows, and what work we had accomplished was in a fair way to be done over. annie and i took to the farthest cot for safety and mary perched upon the railing and egged the warriors to fiercer battle by giving her inimitable dog fight with variations. as is often the case, the non-combatants got the worst of the fight. dee ducked a pillow, thrown with tremendous force by her opponent, and annie got it square on her dainty nose, causing that aristocratic feature to bleed profusely. "oh, annie, annie, i'm so sorry!" wailed dum. "it is altogether my fault!" declared dee. "i had no business ducking!" "id's dothing adall," insisted annie, tightly grasping her offending member, "by old dose always bleeds. jusd a liddle dab will draw de clared." "oh, but i just know it hurts awfully," and dee raced off for a basin of cold water while dum rummaged in the debris for some of the gentleman's handkerchiefs that she and dee always used in common with their father. mary insisted upon dropping a large brass door key down the sufferer's back, declaring that nothing stopped nose-bleed so effectively as the shock occasioned by a brass door key dropped down the back. "i just know it is going to disfigure you for days to come!" exclaimed dee. "oh, i don't bind the loogs but id's just the bordification of being such a duisance," answered the poor girl, as usual embarrassed over being the observed of all observers. and just then in spite of the basin of gore and annie's pitiful expression and tweedles' great solicitude, mary and i went off into uncontrollable giggles. "i'm not laughing at you, annie, but at your 'bordification,'" gasped mary, holding her own nose to give the proper accent; and then everybody laughed and it had the effect described in the nursery rhyme: "little tommy grace had a pain in his face so bad he couldn't learn a letter. in came dicky long, singing such a funny song, tommy laughed and his face felt much better." blanche arrived on the scene with a bottle of witch hazel and annie was made to lie down in the farthest corner with healing cloths bound round her injuries. "i never heard sech carryings on!" exclaimed the girl. "mo' like a passel of boys. i couldn't believe my yers that 'twas my young missusses making sech hullybullyboo. that there rent woman come by jes' then, and she rubbered 'til i thought she would sho' twis' her po' white neck off." blanche had as frank a dislike to mrs. rand as that good woman had for all darkeys, and it was only with the most tactful management that we could keep them from coming to blows on the few occasions when mrs. rand came over to inspect our cottage. the white woman was very free in her use of the very objectionable term "nigger," and blanche on the other hand had an insolent bearing in her presence that was entirely foreign to her usual polite manner and gentle disposition. it seemed strange that two persons as excellent in their way as mrs. rand and blanche should be so antagonistic. they were like two chemicals, innocent and mild until brought together and then such a bubbling and boiling and exploding! mrs. rand always entered the house through the kitchen, which in itself was an irritation to blanche. "i don't hold to no back-do' company. if'n she calls herself a lady, wherefore don't she entrance like one? what call is she got to be pryin' and appearin' auspiciously into all my intensils? i ain't goin' to leave no mo' dirt than i found." "did she come in just now?" asked dee as blanche got off the foregoing tirade after having administered to annie. "no'm, she never come in! i squared myself in the do'way and she couldn't git by me and she couldn't git over me and gawd knows she couldn't git under me. i wa'n't goin' to let her or no one else come in my kitchen 'til i got the dislocation indigent to the undue disordinary of yesterday somewhat abated." "did she say anything?" laughed dum. "yessum, she said a absolute piece of po'try what i would not defame my lips by repeating to you." "oh, please tell us what it was!" we begged. "well, 'twas: "'nigger, nigger, never die, black face and shiny eye, flat nose and crooked toes, that's the way the nigger goes.'" "wasn't that horrid of her?" we cried. "and what did you say?" "well, i held my head up same as a white lady, an' i answered her back same as a white lady, an' i called out to her: "'i had a little dog an' his name was dash, 'druther be a nigger than po' white trash!'" "well, i'm glad you got back at her; and now come on and let's get the cottage in such good order that we won't care which way the owner comes in," and dee gave blanche a friendly pat on her broad shoulder. the girl left us, her good-humour restored by our sympathy, and if there was a speck of dirt left in that kitchen it would have taken a magnifying glass to find it. trunks were soon packed, and we had proceeded to the business of dismantling beds (all but on our porch), when we heard the rasping voice of mrs. rand in the living room below, that wily woman having slipped in through the kitchen while blanche's back was turned. "hey--miss tucker twins!! where's that so-called paw of yours? i come over to go over the inventory with him." "inventory! what inventory?" asked tweedles from the balcony. "what inventory? why, land's sakes alive, what are you handin' out to me? didn't i give him a list of my goods and chattels to be returned to me in the same condition in which they was delivered to him on the fust of the month?" "oh, i believe there is a list of things in the blue tea-pot," and dee raced down the steps and drew out the important document from the beautiful old blue tea-pot on the mantelpiece. "but, mrs. rand, our father has gone back to richmond, went yesterday, and he told me to tell you to send him the bill for anything that was broken or missing." "bill, indeed!" she sniffed. "i don't trust to bills with any of these here tenants. richmond is richmond and willoughby is willoughby." "certainly, mrs. rand," said dee with great dignity, "we will not ask you to trust us for any sum provided we have cash enough to reimburse you. there have been very few things broken and i fancy nothing will be missing. a few water glasses and some cups, i think, are the only things broken." "not with a nigger in the kitchen!" said our landlady, rudely. "yer can't tell me a nigger has gone through a month without bustin' mo' things than that." "why, blanche didn't break the things that have been broken. we did it ourselves. i don't believe blanche has broken a single thing," exclaimed dum. "you is quite exactitude in yo' statement, miss dum," said blanche, appearing in the kitchen door, where she had overheard all of mrs. rand's not too complimentary remarks. "i is not been the instructive mimber of the household, and what brokerage has been committed has been performed by you young ladies or yo' papa. i is fractured but one object since i engaged in domestic disuetude and that was a cup without no saucer, and before gawd it was cracked whin i come." blanche no longer looked the mild and peaceful character we had found her to be. her pleasant gingerbread coloured face was purple with rage, and one of her pigtails, usually tightly wrapped, had come unbound and was standing up in a great woolly bush on the top of her head, giving her very much the appearance of a zulu warrior in battle regalia. a rolling pin in one hand and a batter cake turner in the other added to her warlike aspect. "i never seed a nigger yet that didn't say everything she broke was cracked when she come," sniffed mrs. rand scornfully. "blanche is quite right!" exclaimed dum. "the cup she broke was cracked, because i cracked it myself. i cracked the cup and broke the saucer the first night at the beach, didn't i, dee?" "no, you didn't. i did it myself," said dee. "well, hoity-toity! it looks like you both think you done something fine to bust up the chiny," and mrs. rand smiled grimly as she gave an extra twist to her mrs. wiggs knot and got out of her capacious pocket a huge pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. "come on, now, and go over this here inventory. business is business, and if the chiny is busted, no matter who done it, it is the business of the renters to make good. i ain't a-saying the nigger done it, but i'm a-saying if'n she didn't, she's the fust nigger i ever seed that didn't behave like a bull in a chiny shop, bustin' and breakin' wherever she trod." but blanche had not had her say out and she took up the ball and continued: "i is large, 'tis true, but i is light to locomotion, and brokerage is never been one of my failures. my kitchen is open fer yo' conception at any time, miss dee. you kin bring in the rent woman when it suits yo' invention," and with a bow that took in all of us and left out mrs. rand, blanche retired to her domain and lifted up her voice in a doleful hymn. [illustration: "why don't you speak up, girl?"--_page _] everything in the cottage was carefully checked off, living room first and then the sleeping porches. we were thankful indeed that we had cleaned up so well and had all of our accumulated mess out of the way. the old woman complimented us on the appearance of everything. she was not at all an unkind person, except where coloured people were concerned. she seemed to take a motherly interest in us and highly approved of zebedee. "well, you gals is sho' kept my house nice and i must say it is some surprise to me. you look like such harum-scarums that i was fearing you would be worser tenants than them boys---- land sakes, if'n the tick covers ain't clean enough ter use agin. i always changes 'em fer a new tenant, but looks like it would be foolishness to take off perfectly clean things, 'thout spot or speck on 'em. of course, i'll take off the nigger's tick." every time mrs. rand said nigger it made me wince. mammy susan had brought me up to think that that was a word not to be used in polite society or anywhere else. "niggers is the onliest ones what kin say nigger," she used to tell me. "whin white folks says niggers they is demeaning of themselves, an' they is also paintin' of the nigger blacker than his maker done see fit to make him." blanche's room was in perfect order and i wondered if mrs. rand would not give her some praise, but that stern person only sniffed and passed on. dishes were next on the list and we ticketed them off easily. four cups were broken, three saucers and a plate and six water glasses, about a dollar's worth in all, as the china and glass were of the plainest. then came the kitchen and cooking utensils. we hoped blanche would go out, but she stood to her guns bravely and refused to desert the ship. mrs. rand poked her nose into every crack and crevice and seemed to be hunting dirt which she could not discover. the tins were counted and found o. k.; and then the kitchen spoons and forks were as carefully gone over as though they had been of the finest silver. one iron spoon was worn on the edges and a little bent from the vigorous beating and stirring the batter bread had undergone, and the strictly business mrs. rand looked at it dubiously, but finally let it pass along with the "sheep," although her expression was very much what peter's might be if a goat had butt his way into paradise. "where's that there can-opener, a perfectly good one that i bought from a peddler? i wouldn't lose it for a pretty! i never seed one like it before and the man i bought it from said he was the sole agent for it and mor'n likely would not be back this way for years to come," and mrs. rand rummaged in the table drawer like some lady who feared she had lost some precious jewel. blanche stood back abashed and was silent, and tweedles and i looked at one another guiltily. "why don't you speak up, girl? you needn't think you can get off with my can-opener, 'cause you can't." still blanche held to the policy of the tar baby and said nothing, and tweedles and i were as dumb as fish. "it was one of these here combination implements, a cork-screw and can-opener, beer-opener and knife-sharpener, with a potato-parer at one end and apple-corer at the other, and in the middle a nutmeg-grater. i never seen a finer thing, and besides it had a attachment fer the slicin' of sarytogy chips." "i am very sorry, mrs. rand, but your can-opener is--is--lost," said dee. "blanche is not responsible for it, as she had nothing to do with it. here is a very good can-opener, however, that our father brought back from norfolk," and she took from its accustomed nail a sturdy little affair of the old-fashioned kind, meant to open cans and to do nothing but open cans, and in consequence one that did open cans. "here is a cork-screw, and here is a nutmeg-grater! we never did know what all the other parts of the thing were meant for or i am sure my father would have got those, too, as he did not wish to defraud you in any way." "you talk like that there so-called paw of yours had lost it, and i believe you is just trying to shield this nigger. i never seed a nigger yet who had the gumption to use one of these here labor-saving devices." the purple colour again rose in blanche's dusky countenance and the tuft of unwrapped wool began to shake ominously, but still she held her peace, showing that she was a lady at heart. she knew as well as we did what had become of the prized and priceless implement, but her loyalty made her keep silence. the situation was tense and the irate owner looked from one to another of our solemn countenances, trying to solve the riddle of the lost can-opener. annie and mary had come to the kitchen door, annie with her nose not much the worse for the blow, but with her pretty face very pale from the loss of blood, mary with the whimsical expression that she always wore when she was taking mental notes of anyone whom she intended to imitate later on. we all of us could recall with the keenest delight the memorable evening when zebedee undertook to open the sardines at a beach party we were having and his scornful remarks anent our can-opener. "look at this thing!" he had said indignantly. "pretends to do so much and can't do a single thing right! broke the cork in the olive bottle! won't cut anything but a little round, jagged hole in this square can of sardines! i have cut a biscuit out of my hand with this butt end that is meant for the lord knows what!" (that must have been the end that was meant for an apple-corer.) he continued, "if it's the last act of my life, i intend to take this abomination out in the bay and drop it down ten fathoms deep." he was as good as his word, and the very next morning when we went out for our usual before-breakfast dip, zebedee appeared with the can-opener in his mouth (to leave his hands free for swimming) and with strong, rapid strokes shot out far into the bay, there to consign the hated abomination to its watery grave. and now what was to be said to mrs. rand? it wouldn't do to stand like patience on a monument smiling at grief, indefinitely. we looked to dee, our social deliverer, to save us, and i only hoped that mary and i would not disgrace the crowd by going off into our usual giggles. "as i said before, mrs. rand, it is lost and we are as sorry as can be. i will either reimburse you for your property or i'll send you another from richmond." we were mighty proud of dee, her reimburse sounded so grown-up and business-like, but mrs. rand seemed not one whit impressed. "how kin you git something when they ain't no more of them, and how kin you pay fer something when it is valued for its bein' so useful and so rare? i wouldn't a lef' it here if'n i hadn't 'a' thought you was all girls and had been raised proper, not to lose or break other folkses' things." "well then, mrs. rand, all i can say is that we are sorry, and if you will make out a receipted bill for the china and glass that is broken, we will pay you immediately and wish you good-morning, as we have a great deal to do on this our last day at the beach." dee's dignity was wonderful. how often i have seen her father behave in exactly that way: do all he could to keep the peace, exercise all his tact to smooth things over and, that failing, take on a dignity and a toploftical manner that would reduce the offender to pulp. "well, now, you needn't get so huffy about it! business is just business----" "exactly, so please make out the receipted bill and let us pay you what we owe you." "well, i never said i was goin' to charge you fer those few bits of broken chiny. i reckon i kin make my fifteen per cent. off my investment, anyhow," and the old woman gave her rare snaggle-toothed grin. "i'll give it to you that you is leaving my house as clean as you found it, and that's something i can't say of most tenants." "cleaner!" muttered blanche, but if mrs. rand heard, she pretended not to. dee's grande dame manner had had its effect and she now treated us with great cordiality, shaking hands and expressing a wish to see all of us again at the beach and complimenting us again and again on the neatness of the cottage. she sent messages to "that so-called paw" and was almost genial as she bade us good-bye. mary and i managed to wait until she got away before we were shaken by the inevitable storm of giggles. "all of that row about an old can-opener," gasped mary, "and after all it was a can't-opener." chapter xxii. good-bye to the beach. how we did hate to say good-bye to willoughby! when i remembered my feelings on our arrival and compared them to my feelings on departure, i could hardly believe i was the same person or that it was the same place. i no longer missed trees and grass; my eyes were accustomed to the glare; and as for the dead monotony of sand and water: i had learned to see infinite variety in the colour of the land and sea; no two days had been alike, no two hours, indeed. dum had taught me to see these shifting effects, and now land and water and sky instead of seeming as they had at first, like three hard notes that always played the same singsong tune, were turned into three majestic chords that with changing and intermingling could run the whole gamut of harmony. we had spent a perfect month with so little friction that it was not worth naming, and the friendship of the five girls was stronger than ever. it would be impossible to sleep five on a porch, with cots so close together that the covers had no room to slip between, without finding out each other's faults and virtues. dee, for instance, who was an exceptionally rapid dresser, had a habit of using more than her share of hair-pins. she always insisted that they were hers or that she had not used them, and she would not take down her hair to see. then when she finally undressed at night and plaited her thick, blue-black rope, she would be much abashed as we claimed our share of hair-pins. mary flannagan snored louder and more persistently than anyone i have ever known; she also had a habit of talking in her sleep. annie pore did take a little longer to arrange her ripe-wheat hair than was quite fair where there was only one mirror and four other girls trying to beautify themselves in front of it, but there is no telling how long any of us would have taken to prink had we been as pretty as annie. dum's fault was putting on anybody's and everybody's clothes, especially stockings, and then wild horses could not drag them off her when once she had them on. she had a habit of undressing and throwing her clothes on top of other people's. no matter where you put your clothes or how carefully you folded them, you were sure to find something of dum's on top of them in the morning. i was careless enough myself, so this did not bother me much, but it was a continual irritation to dee, who was much more orderly than dum; and poor little annie suffered greatly from this habit of dear old dum's. annie had very few clothes and she was painfully neat and careful with them, and i have seen her turn away her head to hide her emotion when she found dum's wet stockings, that she had been clamming in the day before, balled up on top of her clean shirt waist, and her muddy shoes resting fondly in the lap of her, annie's, last fresh white skirt. i know i had many faults as a room-mate, but i believe my habit of selfishly hogging the bathroom was the worst. i think people born and brought up without plumbing are always piggy about bath tubs when once they come in contact with them. i was irreverent enough to wish with all my heart that mr. pore had my grandfather's hat-tub and that bracken, my beloved home, could have water put into it with an altogether, all-over, all-at-once bath tub. one last look through all the dressing rooms and porches, to be sure that we were not leaving any valuables for the next tenants to find, a lingering glance at the quiet, peaceful living-room where we had spent so many delightful hours, and we went out of the front door as mrs. rand came in the back, pail and broom in hand, to make ready for the incoming hordes. "she won't find no use in that there kitchen fer buckets an' brooms. it's clean enough to ask any potentiate of europe to eat off'n any spot in it. the king of france himself could make no claimant of the perdition of my kitchen," and blanche's countenance began to take on the purple hue of rage. "oh, don't mind her, blanche! she just likes for a new tenant to find her busy. here come the new tenants, too! isn't it a good thing we got out so early in the morning?" sure enough, as dee spoke there loomed on the horizon a large family, coming to take possession of the cottage: a mother and father, four boys, two little girls, two young coloured maids and an old mammy carrying a baby. the last sound we heard as we hurried to catch the trolley was mrs. rand berating them for coming so early in the morning before she had time to clean up after the last tenants. "of course i know it is the fust of august, but the fust of august don't mean the fust thing in the morning. tenants is all alike, skeered to death for fear they ain't going to git all that's coming to them. i never understood when you come dickerin' for my house that you had three niggers. i ain't partial to rentin' to folks that keeps nigger help. now these last folks what jest left didn't keep but one nigger, but----" but what, we never knew, as we got out of earshot. blanche's countenance lost its purple hue as we settled ourselves on the norfolk trolley. we hoped that mrs. rand would realize that to make fifteen per cent. on an investment means one must be willing to put up with many things. the boys who had been at the camp met us in norfolk and engineered us to the pier to see annie and mary off on the james river boat, and then took tweedles and me to the station and put us on the train for richmond. at the boat sleepy shook hands with annie until i really thought the captain would have to interfere. with his face a fiery red, i heard him implore her to write to him. i don't know what she said, but i can't fancy annie in an adamant mood, and as i saw sleepy give her his card and hastily write something in a memorandum book, i have an idea she granted his request. wink's moustache was getting quite bushy, but his manner was still grand, gloomy and peculiar. he would walk by me, but would not talk to me, although i made every effort to make myself agreeable. he tugged viciously at his little moustache until i felt like telling him: "kill it, but don't worry it to death!" just before we got on the train he said to me in a cold and formal tone: "may i write to you, miss allison?" "certainly, mr. white!" "but will you answer my letters?" he looked so sad and melodramatic that i burst out laughing. "of course i will, wink! don't be so silly!" the last i saw of him he was trying seemingly to pull his poor little moustache out by the roots. chapter xxiii. until next time. zebedee met us at the station in richmond with the faithful henry ford, quite spruced up (i mean henry) with a new coat of paint, put on while the family was at the beach. brindle, dee's precious dog, was perched on the front seat with the air of injured dignity he always assumed, so dee said, when they went off to the seashore and left him behind. his damson-jam eyes were moist and sad and his breathing even more stertorous than usual. "well, you know yourself how you hate the water and how grouchy you were the last time you went with us!" said brindle's mistress, hugging the old dog and speaking to him as though in answer to the reproach in his eyes. "if you would learn to be a more agreeable traveling companion and eat fish like a respectable canine, we would never leave you. goodness knows, i miss you and long for you every minute of the day and night." brindle snorted and gurgled and licked dee's ear in token of forgiveness. "i am sure any physician would say that brindle's adenoids should be removed," commented dum from the back seat. "did you ever hear such a noise in your life as that old dog makes just simply living? every breath he draws seems to require all the force and strength he can muster." "virginia tucker, i will thank you not to be personal with brindle. his breathing shows his breeding, which is more than your conversation does. you know how easy it is to hurt his feelings," and dee looked daggers at her twin. "oh, excuse me, brindle, i was merely joking!" "you know perfectly well that brindle's one fault is that he has no sense of humour." "well, i had forgotten it for the moment.--i saved him a chocolate peppermint out of the box we bought on the train. do you think that would serve as balm to his wounded feelings?" "it might!" said dee dubiously. "brindle is very fond of chocolate peppermints, but he does hate to be guyed." it did, however, and peace was restored before zebedee finished attending to the trunks and cranking up henry. blanche's brother, "po' jo," had met her at the station, much to the relief of all of us. "i am no snob," declared zebedee, "but i'll be hanged if i was relishing the prospect of running poor, dear blanche uptown in henry ford, bedecked as she was in all that glory of second mourning." blanche's feelings were so hurt when we suggested that she should travel in the decent black skirt and plain shirtwaist bought for the wedding that we had to give in and let her return in the costume in which she had arrived. "po' jo" was quite as comfortable in figure as his sister. he was, in fact, as fat and sleek as a 'possum, and like that animal he had a perpetual grin on his coffee-coloured countenance. his portly form stretched the seams of a palm beach suit, on the left sleeve of which was stitched a large black heart in honour of his recent bereavement. brother and sister beamed on each other with family pride written all over their good-natured faces. "well, sister blanche, you is looking quite swanky, as a english gentleman at the club is contingently saying." jo was waiter at the club. "and you, brother jo, you is bearin' up wonderful an' lookin' mighty well in yo' new palm leaf suit," and she smoothed the sleeve with the black heart stitched thereon with an air of conscious pride that she could boast such a wonderful brother. we were sorry to tell blanche good-bye. she had endeared herself to all of us, and in spite of the fun we got out of her peculiarities, we were really very fond of her. she was perfectly honest and faithful, and above and beyond all that, as zebedee said, she was a born cook. she was to stay a while with jo and then go down to pay mammy susan a visit before returning to her school. i was to spend one night with the tuckers and then go back to my beloved bracken. i was reproaching myself for staying even the one night longer away from father, but zebedee had planned all kinds of things for my pleasure, and tweedles were so persistent in their entreaties that i had submitted, although i was getting very homesick for father and mammy susan, to say nothing of the dogs and peg, my old horse. lunch first! dee made all of us eat beefsteak, ordering a huge porterhouse so she could get the bone for brindle. "i know he is tired of the food at that old café," she said. "he does not look nourished to me and i intend to give him some building-up food." "why, dee, he is as fat as a pig," insisted dum. "yes, i know he is fat, but i don't like the colour of his tongue. flesh is not always an indication of health, dum tucker." "that's so," put in zebedee, "i've seen many a fat corpse, but my opinion is that brindle needs exercise. he is so lazy." after lunch as we spun up broad street, we noticed quite a crowd gathered near the marketplace. zebedee, with an eye ever open and nose ever twitching for news, slowed up his car. "nothing but a street fakir, but he must have something fine or be a very convincing talker." just then henry indulged in his little habit of stopping altogether, and zebedee had to get out and crank up. this enabled us to hear the fakir and see his wares. "this, ladies and gentlemen, is a most remarkable implement, taking the place of a whole chest of tools! this is a potato-parer! this is an apple-corer! this is a cork-screw! this is a can-opener! this is a nutmeg-grater! this is a knife-sharpener! this----" but dum leapt from the car and without any ceremony interrupted the man's stream of convincing eloquence. with every "this" he had illustrated the virtues of his wares by slicing potatoes, coring apples, opening bottles and cans, etc. "how much?" she asked excitedly. "ten cents! ten cents! eight perfect implements in one for ten cents! i am the sole agent in the united states and canada and you miss the chance of a lifetime if you do not purchase one. i am now on my way to california and will not return to virginia for many years." "give me five," demanded dum recklessly, producing her last fifty cents. the delighted and mystified salesman counted them out to her and the crowd began to buy excitedly, as though they thought that the wonderful magic implements would start on their trip to california and back by the great lakes and through canada and they might be old men and women before another chance came to own one of these rare combinations. "mrs. rand's lost treasure," gasped dee. "here's another for good measure!" and the man tossed an extra one into dum's lap as henry got up steam and moved off. "you started my sales and i won't have a one left by night at this rate." "i am going to send all of these to that hateful old mrs. rand," and dum settled herself on the cushions, her lap full of can-openers. we had told zebedee of mrs. rand's carryings-on over her precious tool and he had been vastly amused. "don't send them all," i pleaded. "take one back to gresham. it would be invaluable at boarding school to get olives out of the bottles, and to open trunks when the keys got lost. as a shoe-horn i am sure it could not be surpassed, for the apple-corer end would do for that. as for a finger-nail file, what could equal the nutmeg-grater?" so dum sent only five to mrs. rand, and one we took to boarding school with us, where it ever after played an important part in the curriculum under the pseudonym of "mrs. rand." the tuckers' apartment seemed especially crowded after the large simplicity of the living-room at willoughby. as a family they usually managed to get anything they wanted very much, and they had had some sixteen years of wanting and satisfying their desires. it was a fortunate thing that they had, one and all, innate good taste. mr. tucker had wanted pictures and prints; dum had wanted bronzes, carved curios of all sorts and casts of masterpieces; dee had a leaning towards soft persian rugs, old china and pets. the pets had some of them been mercifully overtaken by fate or i am sure we could not have squeezed into the apartment on that hot afternoon in early august. all of them had wanted books and the books wanted shelves, so wherever there wasn't anything else there were book shelves. small pictures were actually hung on the doors, as there was no wall space available, and the rugs lapped over each other on the floors. "we usually have the rugs stored for the summer, but brindle misses them so much that i wouldn't let zebedee do it this year. he loves to lie on them and i truly believe he appreciates their colour as well as their softness," and dee leaned over and patted her beloved dog, who had chosen a particularly wonderful old blue rug on which to take his after-lunch nap. "well, i only hope they won't get moths in them with your and zebedee's foolishness," sniffed dum. "oh, no, brindle promised me to catch all the moths, didn't you, brindle, old boy?" brindle, as though in answer to his mistress, looked solemnly up and snapped at some tiny-winged creature which had recklessly come too close to his powerful jaws. "look here, girls! do you realize that our vacation is more than half over? before we can turn around we will be back at gresham," i said, fearing a discussion was imminent. i had heard the subject of moths and brindle's fondness for persian rugs thoroughly threshed out before and the gloves had had to be resorted to to prove the point that brindle's comfort was more important than mere rugs. "oh, page, don't introduce such sad subjects!" exclaimed dum. "gresham is all right in its way, but i can't bear to contemplate another winter there. still, i know it is up to us to go back." "we'll be juniors, too--and juniors are always in hot water," sighed dee. "well, anyhow, we won't be beau-crazy juniors like last year's class," declared dum. "did you ever see such a lot of boy grabbers in your life?" "i can't fancy our being grabby about boys, but i tell you one thing," i laughed, "we are certainly much fonder of the male sex than we were a year ago. boys are nice and i do like 'em, and i don't care who knows it, so there!" zebedee came in from his afternoon work just then and overheard the last of my remarks. "what's all this? page confessing to a fondness for the opposite sex? you like boys, do you? well, i am glad indeed of my eternal youth. i am nothing but a boy, eh, dum," he said, tweaking his daughter's ear. "boy, indeed! you are nothing but a baby!" "well, i am a tired and hot baby and i thought i would find all of you old ladies dressed and ready to go to the country club with me for a game of tennis, a shower bath and supper afterwards on the terrace." "ready in a minute!" we chorused, and so we were. richmond was looking singularly attractive, i thought, as we spun along franklin street, in spite of the fact that most of the houses were closed for the summer and the female inhabitants off to the seashore or springs. here and there a lone man could be seen spreading himself and his afternoon papers over his empty porch and steps, and occasionally a faithful wife was conspicuous by reason of the absence of other faithful wives. usually she bore a conscious air of virtue and an expression that plainly said: "am i not a paragon to be sticking it out with john?" the trees, however, seemed to be flourishing in the masculine element, and in many places on that most beautiful of all streets the elms met overhead, forming a dark-green arch. there was a delicious odour of freshly watered asphalt and the streets were full of automobiles, all seeming to be on pleasure bent now that the day's work was over. a few carriages were making their stately way, but very few. the occupants of the carriages were as a rule old and fat. i thought i saw cousin park garnett in one, with her cross, stupid, old pug dog on the seat by her, but we were just then engaged in placing ourselves liable to arrest by breaking the speed law, so i could not be quite sure. dum was running the car and she always seemed to court arrest and fine. "when i see a clear stretch of road in front of me i simply have to whoop her up a bit," she explained when zebedee remonstrated with her. "that's all right if you are sure you are out of sight of a cop, but i have no idea of going your bail if you are hailed to the juvenile court for speeding. a one hundred dollar fine would just about break me right now. i don't set much store by the eleventh commandment in anything but motoring, but in this thing of running a car it is mighty important: 'don't get found out.' there's a cop now!" dum slowed up and looked very meek and ladylike as a mounted policeman approached us, touching his cap to mr. tucker in passing. "zebedee knows every policeman on the force," said dum teasingly. "there is nothing like keeping in with the law." "certainly not, if a man happens to own two such harum-scarums as i do." the country club was delightful, but they always are. when people club together to have a good out-door time and to give others a chance to do the same, a success always seems to be assured. certainly that particular club was most popular and prosperous and although we heard repeatedly that everybody was out of town, there were, to my mind, a great many left. the tennis courts were full to overflowing before the evening light became too dim to see the balls, and the golf links had so many players it resembled more a croquet ground. i had never played golf and while the tuckers all could, they did not care much for it, preferring the more strenuous game of tennis. "i'm saving up golf for that old age that they tell me is sure to come some day," sighed zebedee. "i don't really believe them." none of us did, either. how could old age claim such a boy as jeffry tucker? however, time itself was flying, and the one day and night i was to spend in richmond with my friends passed in the twinkling of an eye. before i realized it, it was really over, my vacation with the tucker twins was finished, and i was on the train for milton, a volume of alfred noyes' latest poems in my suitcase for father and a box of martha washington candy for mammy susan, who thought more of "white folkses' sto' candy" than of all the silks of the orient or jewels of the sultan of turkey. chapter xxiv. a bread-and-butter letter. milton, va., august , --. dear tuckers: how can i ever tell you what a good time i have had with you? maybe you know already by the glowing countenance i must have presented for the last month, only i can't believe it is really a month, it went flying by so fast. it took june tenants going out of mrs. rand's cottage and august tenants coming in to convince me that july was really gone, and still i don't see where it went. father met me at milton, driving the colt as usual, only the colt is getting to be quite a staid and respectable roadster. father says a country doctor's horse that can stay skittish very long is a wonder, with all of the hard driving he is forced to give him. he still shies at automobiles, but i truly believe it is nothing but jealousy. i don't think he is in the least afraid of them, but he thinks the automobile is snorting and puffing at him, and like a spirited animal, he wants to let the car know that he is perfectly ready to fight and orders coffee and pistols for two. mammy susan was pathetically glad to see me. she is very grieved, however, over the new freckles on my nose and tried to make me bind cucumber peelings on that much-abused and perfectly inoffensive member. the dough mask is too fresh in my memory, however, for me to get myself messed up with anything else. our neighbor, jo winn, was at the station and in his shy, husky voice actually had the spunk to inquire after dee. he says his cousin, mr. reginald kent, is making good in new york, and in every letter he writes he has something to say of the deer hunt and the wonderful miss tucker who shot the stag. his sister, sally winn, is at her old trick of trying to die. it is her midnight hurry calls that have tamed the colt, so father declares. bracken is looking very lovely and peaceful. some of father's old-maid cousins have just left; they were nice, soft ones, so father really enjoyed having them. next week cousin park garnett is coming for her annual visitation. i told father about judge grayson and the turkey-tail fan and he nearly died laughing. he says he is going to try reading his new book of alfred noyes to her and see what effect it will have on her. dear cousin sue lee is coming tomorrow and all of us are delighted. she is the dearest and sweetest in the world. i do hope you will all motor down to bracken while she is here. you simply must get to know one another. father is still regretting that he could not get to willoughby. i think he works too hard and he says he knows he does, but what is a doctor to do? the people will get sick and will send for him. good-bye, my dear friends! i would feel depressed that our wonderful vacation together is over, if i did not have the future to look forward to and know that i will soon be back at school with the tucker twins! your best friend, page allison. chapter xxv. bracken in august. it was good to be home and how easily i slipped back into being a child again! i could hardly believe i had been so grown-up for a month, going to hops and having a proposal and what not. i spent a great deal of my time driving around with father, who was very pleased to have me. sometimes we squeezed cousin sue lee into the narrow-seated buggy and then we would have a jolly time. cousin sue seemed younger even than the year before. it was incredible that she should be nearly fifty. it was not that she looked so young, as her hair was turning quite gray, but she was so young in her attitude towards life. we had to have our annual confab on the subject of clothes, and a catalogue from the mail order house was soon the chief in interest of all our literature. "i can't think what i would have done last year if you had not taken hold for me, cousin sue. my clothes were so satisfactory." i told her of poor annie pore and at her suggestion sent my little english friend a catalogue with things marked that i was going to order. my order was almost a duplicate of the year before except that i did not need quite so many things, as i had a goodly number of middies left over and some shirt waists. miss pinky davis, our country sempstress, was sent for, and again cousin sue spent hours planning how best to cut up and trim the bolts of nainsook she had ordered from richmond. she laughed at my awkwardness with a needle and declared i did regular "nigger sewing." i tried to whip lace, but no matter how clean my hands were when i started, i ended with a dirty knotted thread and the lace went on in little bunches with plain, tightly drawn spaces intervening. "i declare, child, i don't believe jimmy allison himself could have done it any worse," she said, looking at my attempt to whip lace on a petticoat. cousin sue always called father, jimmy. "how do you get it so grubby?" "it gets itself! i don't get it!" i exclaimed. "i washed my hands with lye soap so as to be sure they were clean, but they just seem to ooze dirt when i begin to sew." "well, in the first place you are sewing with a needle as big as a tenpenny nail and who ever heard of whipping on lace with thirty-six thread?" and my dear cousin patiently threaded me a finer needle with the proper thread and started me again. "go from left to right, honey, you are not a chinaman." "no, you are a zulu, my dear, and should go clothed as such," said father, coming in to view our operations. "i believe even you could string beads for your summer costume and cut a hole in a blanket for winter." "well, i do hate to sew so, no wonder i can't do it. i want the clothes but i don't want them bad enough to make 'em myself." "the time will come when you will like to sew," said miss pinky, her mouth full of pins. "that sounds terribly sad," laughed father. "what is going to make her like it, miss pinky?" "oh, the time will come when she will find it soothing to sew." miss pinky snipped away with a great pair of sharp shears as nonchalantly as though she were cutting newspapers instead of very sheer organdy for another white dress that cousin sue had decided i must have. i never could see how she could tell where the scissors were going to cut next, they were so big and she was so little. miss pinky always reminded me of a paper doll, somehow. she seemed to have no thickness at all to her. her profile was like a bas-relief and rather low relief at that. i remember when i was quite a little girl i examined her dress very carefully to see if it could be fastened on the shoulders in the manner of my paper dolls, with little folded-over flaps. "maybe it will, but it is certainly not soothing now. it makes me want to scream." "don't do it! just put up that flimsy foolishness and come drive over to milton with me. i think i'll drop in on poor sally winn before supper and maybe she will get through the night without me. we can call for the mail, too, and beat r. f. d. to it." the rural free delivery is a great institution in the country where persons cannot go for the mail, but sometimes it was a great irritation to us. our mail was taken from the post office very early in the morning and did not reach us until quite late in the afternoon, the carrier circling all around the county before he landed at our box. "come on, sue, you can squeeze in and we can have a jolly drive." we found sally winn up and very busy. as she had been snatched from a yawning grave only two nights before, we were rather astonished. "comp'ny's coming and i had to get up and put things to rights. i've stirred up a cake and set some sally lunn for supper, and while i was up i thought i had better preserve those peaches on the tree by the dairy before they got too ripe. they make the best tasting preserves of any peaches i ever saw. i am certainly going to fix a jar for you, doctor. don't let me forget it. i've got two of aunt keziah's children, she is raising, here helping me, but they are not much good for anything but just to run to the spring and wring the frying size chickens' necks." in writing i am perforce compelled to use a few periods, but not so sally. she poured forth this flow of conversation with never a pause for breath or reply. "the company that's coming is reginald kent, son of my first cousin once removed. he is a great hand at eating and made so much fuss over my cooking that it seemed like an awful pity for me to lay up in bed when he was here, although it may be the death of me to be up and doing and no doubt will bring on one of my spells." "if it does," broke in my wily parent, "take a teaspoonful of that pink medicine out of the low flat bottle and repeat in half an hour. be sure you do not take more than a teaspoonful and be very careful to have half an hour between doses." father told us afterwards that there was nothing in the pink medicine in the flat bottle but a most harmless and attenuated mixture of bromide, but he warned her to take the exact dose and wait the full half hour to make her feel it was a potent medicine that she must handle with great care so she would think it would make her well. there was nothing much the matter with sally winn but imagination; but imagination is sometimes more powerful than the most potent drugs, and sally was just as sick as she thought she was, so father said. he was wonderfully patient with her and treated her ailments as seriously as though they really existed. she had a leaky heart but there was a chance of her outliving her whole generation. of course there was also a chance of her being taken away at any time, but father considered the chance quite small as she seemed to be growing better as time went on instead of worse. "reginald kent is hoping that those tuckers will be back here when he comes on this visit, though he doesn't exactly say so. he just intimates it by asking if the allisons have any visitors. he is a mighty likely young fellow and is getting on fine with his work. he really is coming down here on business in a way. he wants to get some illustrations of some of these views around here. he says he wants aunt keziah's cabin and some of the little darkeys, and he wants an inside view of old aunt rosana's and uncle peter's house." here father stopped her long enough to say that he would go over to milton for the mail and come back for cousin sue and me. we had not got in a word edgewise, but i never tried to when sally once started. i should think that anyone who saw as few persons as she did would want to listen and find out things instead of imparting knowledge, but sally just seemed to be full to overflowing and she simply had to let off steam before she could take on anything more. she wanted to know but she wanted more to let you know. she told us all she could about reginald kent, which was on the whole rather interesting. then she began on her turkeys and chickens and enlarged somewhat on the subject of jo and his irritating way of keeping news to himself, and then with a bound she leapt upon her symptoms. i knew it was coming and bowed my head in resignation. "it looks like if i get to studying about things that one of my spells is sure to follow. now i have been thinking a lot lately about reginald kent's mother, my first cousin once removed, and the more i think of her the more i get to brooding. if you would believe me, in the night i got to trembling so that i could have sworn there was an earthquake going through the county. my bed fairly rocked. i had to call jo. he gave me a dose of my pink medicine and it ca'med me some. each time i get one of those attacks i hope it means the end, but somehow i always come back." "but, sally, why do you hope it is the end?" i asked. "i don't see why you want to die. it would be very hard on jo if you should leave him." "why, child, dying is one of the things i have always wanted to do. i somehow feel that in the other life i'm going to be so happy. i dream i am dead sometimes and, do you know, i am always real pretty and have curly hair in that dream and lots of young folks around me who seem somehow to belong to me." poor sally! i felt very sorry for her and so did cousin sue, whom i saw wiping a furtive tear away. i fancy sally's life had been a very stale, flat and unprofitable one and she had formed the habit of looking upon death as at least a change, an adventure where she would be the heroine for once. i determined to come to see her oftener and try to bring some young life into her middle-aged existence. father brought us quite a bunch of mail. in it was a letter from dee telling the good news that they were going to motor down to bracken on friday, the very next day, and stay over sunday with us. "now you will know them and they will know you," i exclaimed, hugging cousin sue. "i am going to bring them over to see you, too," i promised sally, noting her wistful expression. silent jo winn, who had come back from the station with father, grinned with delight when he heard that the tuckers were coming. i remembered on our memorable deer hunt of the winter before how dee had won his shy heart and had actually made him talk just like other folks. "i tell you what let's do," he ventured. "this young cousin of ours, reginald kent, is to be here to-night and he has to go over to uncle peter's cabin to take some pictures. what's the reason we couldn't all go on a picnic? we might fish in the river near uncle peter's, where miss dum tucker shot her deer." "splendid!" from cousin sue and me. cousin sue was always in for a picnic. sally winn gasped and clutched her heart until i thought we'd have to run for her pink medicine; but she pulled herself together. it was nothing but astonishment at the long speech from jo. jo actually stringing words together and getting up a picnic! it was too much for sally, but she rose to the occasion with plans for a big lunch. "i've a ham all cooked--and some blue dominicker chickens that have just reached the frying size--i'll make some fried pies--and some light rolls--some columbus eggs would eat good--and my pear pickle can't be beat, and a stem to every one so you can eat it without messing yourself up----" "i have some news that is not quite so entrancing as yours, my dear," said father, interrupting sally's flow of eatables as he read from a fat, crested, vellum letter. "cousin park garnett will be with us to-morrow, also." "but she said monday next, in her last letter!" "she has changed her mind. she arrives on the afternoon train and will bring her pug with her." "pug!" "yes, it seems the pug is the reason for her coming sooner. the doctor thinks he needs a change of air." "heavens! and dee is bringing brindle, too!" "well, they'll have to fight it out." "but, father," i wailed, "can we go on and have the picnic?" "yes, my dear," broke in cousin sue. "i'll stay with cousin park." "indeed you won't!" declared father. "cousin park can be invited to go to the picnic, which of course she will not do. she can just stay at home with mammy susan to wait on her and miss pinky davis to listen to her, while the pug dog breathes in great chunks of change of air. i have some business to attend to over in the neck of the woods near uncle peter's, so i can land at the ford for dinner with you." father was a great comfort to me. he always took such a sane view of subjects. i was very uneasy for fear he might think we would have to stay at home because of cousin park, as he was very strict with himself and me, too, where hospitality to disagreeable relatives was concerned. cousin park, however, could be perfectly well taken care of at bracken without us and there was no reason why we could not go on with our plans; certainly no reason why dear little cousin sue should have to forego the pleasure of the picnic to stay with a person who never lost an occasion to mention her lee nose and her spinsterhood. chapter xxvi. the picnic. the tuckers arrived right on the dot with cousin park. i had hoped they would get in first, but henry ford had a blow out and they had to stop for repairs. we always had to send for cousin park in a great old sea-going rockaway that was never pulled out of the carriage house except on state occasions. father and i hated to ride in it as it always reminded us of funerals and cousin park. it was a low swung vehicle with high, broad mud guards and a peculiar swaying motion that was apt either to put you to sleep or make you very seasick, if you were inclined that way. it took two large strong plow horses to propel it. i don't know where father got it but i do know that he had always had it. i believe there are no more built like it but its counterpart may be seen in museums. i used to play dolls in it when i was a kid, and on rare hilarious occasions when i had a companion we would get up great games of jesse james and dick turpin and other noted highwaymen who would stop the coach and rob all the dolls. cousin park came riding up in state, her ugly, cross old pug placed between her and cousin sue, who had most generously offered to go to milton to meet our august relative so i could be at home to receive the tuckers. as the rockaway made its ponderous way down the drive, the plow horses foaming painfully after their twelve-mile pull, six to milton and six back, i spied henry ford, in a swirling cloud of dust, turn into the avenue, and in a trice he was whizzing up behind the old sea-going rockaway. pug wrinkled his fat neck and whimpered when he saw brindle, who occupied the back seat with dee; cousin park gave an audible snort. brindle paid no attention at all to pug but sat like a bulldog done in bronze and for the time being even refrained from snuffling. i dreaded the meeting between my dear friends, the tuckers, and cousin park, knowing that lady's overbearing manner when things did not go to suit her. but i really had not fathomed the depth of zebedee's mixing powers. i remembered what dee had said about his being able to make crabs and ice cream agree if he set his mind to it. all the tuckers looked rather aghast as they drew up near the rockaway from which cousin park was emerging, pug clasped in her arms. they composed their countenances quickly, however, at least dee and zebedee did; dum was never able to pull her social self together quite so quickly as her father and sister. zebedee shut off his engine and in a moment was assisting my dignified relative with her many traveling necessities: small pillows of various sizes and shapes, designed to ease different portions of one's anatomy on trains and in carriages (she carried four of them); several silk bags bulging with mysterious contents; a black sunshade; her turkey-tail fan; pug and a box of dog biscuit. zebedee got them all safely into the house, even taking pug tenderly in his arms, much to the astonishment of that dull-witted canine. he assured cousin park that brindle would not hurt pug, provided pug did not try to get too intimate with him and bore him. "we can count on brindle up to a certain point, but if he gets very bored he is apt to be cross," another human attribute my dear tuckers gave their pet. cousin park rather bridled at the idea of her precious dog's boring anything, but zebedee's manner was so deferential and his solicitude so apparent that mortal woman could not have withstood him. cousin sue and the tuckers took to one another from the beginning. i had thought they would, but sometimes the friends that you expect to like one another are the very ones that act "dr. fell" and develop a strange and unreasoning dislike. the picnic was under discussion and was approved of unanimously. i thought dum blushed a little when i announced that mr. reginald kent was back in the county. she undoubtedly had a soft spot in her girl's heart for the good looking young illustrator who had been so enamoured of her the winter before. one thing occurred to mar our pleasant anticipations: cousin park, instead of declining the invitation to go on the picnic, which father and i pressed upon her, expecting of course that she would refuse, accepted with alacrity, announcing that the piney air would be good for pug. we told her the road was impossible for the rockaway and that she would have to go in a spring wagon; but that made no difference, go she would and go she did, four little cushions, bulging silk bags, purple and black knitting, pug and package of dog biscuit, turkey-tail fan and all. we made an early start to avoid the heat of the august day. mammy susan had packed a hamper with every conceivable good thing the countryside afforded, and the floor of the spring wagon was filled with watermelons, the pride of my dear father's heart. next to his library, father loved his watermelon patch. my earliest remembrance is watermelon seed spread out on letter paper to dry, with a description of that particular melon written on the paper. every good melon must have some seed saved from it for the purpose of reproducing the species. "very rich in colour with black seeds and thin rind. sweet and juicy," would be one; then another: "small, round, dark green,--meat pale in colour but mealy and very delicious;" another: "large, striped rattlesnake variety,--good if allowed to ripen, but great favourite with niggers." on that hot day in august small round ones rubbed noses with large rattlesnake varieties and the rich red ones with thin rinds and black seeds jostled each other in the bottom of the wagon as we bumped over the none too smooth roads that our country boasted. cousin park required a whole back seat for herself and pug and her many belongings. zebedee drove with cousin sue lee and brindle on the front seat with him, and we three girls sat in the back with the tail gate down and our legs a-dangling. it was thoroughly selfish of cousin park to allow us to do it but we enjoyed it hugely. father had many morning calls to make but was to land at the ford for dinner. jo winn was waiting at the cross roads in his knock-about, his favourite setter between his knees and his handsome cousin by his side. mr. kent could hardly wait for the vehicle to stop to jump out and speak to us. again he seemed to think we needed masculine protection so dee changed places with him and joined the grinning and delighted jo, and the young advertising artist squeezed in between dum and me. a jolly ride we had in spite of the many bumps in the road and the fact that at every bump the watermelons would roll against our backs. cousin park sat in solemn silence, but zebedee and cousin sue kept up a lively conversation on the front seat and we three with our legs a-dangling never paused a moment in our lively chatter. i think cousin park regretted many times that she had not decided to spend the day quietly at bracken with miss pinky davis for company and mammy susan to wait on her. we had not let her come without informing her of the bad roads and the long drive to uncle peter's cabin and then the rough walk to the ford, but nothing would keep her from coming and now she was making the best of it. she emitted an occasional groan but never a word of complaint, which was quite fine of her in a way. we found uncle peter hoeing his tobacco but glad of an excuse to stop. aunt rosana was as fat as ever and her cabin just as clean. she was overjoyed to see us and flattered beyond measure when mr. kent told her he had come all the way back from new york just to get another picture of the inside of her house. this time he wanted to make a drawing, not being satisfied with the time exposure he had taken before. of course he could not possibly find his way to the ford alone, so the wily youth persuaded dum to wait with him while he made his sketch. she seemed nothing loath and even made a sketch herself. "lawsamussy, rosana! come look at dese here watermillions docallison done sent to de pickanigger!" exclaimed uncle peter, his eyes rolling in delight. aunt rosana waddled out. "great gawd! they mus' be one apiece." "so they are, aunt rosana, and you must have one left here for you so you can have your share. which kind do you like best?" i asked. "well, all watermillions is good but some is scrumptious, and i low i'll take a chanct on one er dem striped rattlers. if it do prove to be scrumptious they will be so much er it. i is jes' lak a lil' pig wif a million--whin he'll eat a whole bucket er slop an' thin git in de bucket. i eats all they is an' thin jes' fair wallows in de rime." "i can't raise no millions, it looks like," said uncle peter sadly. "dem dere swamp niggers comes an' gathers 'em whin dey's no bigger 'n cowcumbers." he reached into the back of the wagon and thumped every melon with his horny forefinger, a smile of extreme satisfaction lighting his kindly features. "i tell yer, docallison ain't a gwine ter hab no millions on his plantation pulled green. he knows de music ub a ripe un 'bout as well as he reckernizes de soun' ub pneumony in a sick man's chist. whin i comes to think ub it they is similar sounds. i'll be boun' docallison done got up hisself an' pulled dese here millions wif de dew on 'em. dey's still cold in spite of the heat dey done been in." that was so. father always pulled the watermelons himself and always did it very early in the morning when the dew was still on them. we started on our walk to the ford, the same walk we had taken the winter before on our memorable deer hunt. uncle peter loaded the melons into his wheelbarrow and zebedee and jo winn swung the baskets on a stout pole which they carried between them. cousin park got between dee and me and taking an arm of each proceeded on her ponderous way. i would gladly have wheeled the watermelons or carried the hampers. it would have been child's play beside the load we carried. pug and brindle trotted along, brindle still ignoring the existence of pug and pug whimpering every time he caught brindle's eye. jo's setter kept well in advance and pretended he was none of us. "why do we go so far? why not sit down right here and have our repast?" panted poor cousin park. "but we are to fish at the river," suggested cousin sue, who was laden with cousin park's many cushions and bags and the knitting and dog biscuit. "and there is such a fine spring there, too," i said, and added, knowing cousin park's weakness: "we can't make the coffee unless we get near a spring." and so we trudged on, zebedee and uncle peter taking down the worm fences to let cousin park and the watermelons through, and then patiently building them up again. there was the deep cathedral peace in the pine woods and our presence seemed almost a sacrilege as we tramped heavily over the soft bed of fragrant pine needles. cousin park had to sit down and rest every now and then and it took the combined effort of all the males, white and coloured, to get her on her feet after one of these pauses. at last we reached our camping ground. the kindly and resourceful zebedee made a bed for my august relative of pine boughs and with the help of the different sized and shaped pillows she was quite comfortable. with her various bags distributed around her and her knitting and her stupid pug by her side she went off into a deep sleep, much to the relief and delight of all of us. "now we can be ourselves!" exclaimed zebedee, turning handsprings like a boy; and cousin sue and dee and i caught hold of hands and ran to the spring which sparkled and gurgled in a beautiful stone grotto at the foot of the hill near the river ford. uncle peter put all the melons into the little branch flowing from the spring and there they cooled to a queen's taste. we made the camp fire and prepared the coffee well away from cousin park and we devoutly hoped that she would sweetly sleep until her favourite beverage was ready. what a good time we did have that day! we fished in the river, and while our catch was nothing to be proud of, we had fun all the same. dee caught a catfish that pulled and tugged at her line like a veritable whale. she finally landed it with a shriek that made cousin park stir uneasily from her bed of pine boughs and brought on herself, dee, a good shaking from zebedee. "wake her up, and i declare you will have to entertain her! it's your turn, anyhow." i caught what uncle peter called "a mud turkle." we threw him back into his delectable mud and he went in with a grateful "kerchunk," sending back many bubbles of appreciation. "almost as good at making bubbles as a young lady i know," said zebedee, re-baiting my hook for me. enough small river perch were caught to make a little mess which uncle peter cleaned with great skill and fried on our camp fire. dum and her cavalier, having finished the sketching, joined us with such a racket that cousin park really waked up and confessed herself much refreshed when she detected the odour of coffee in the air. she was much more of a sport than i had expected to find her and not such a bad picnicker after all. father got there in time to sit down to as good a dinner as was served in all the land on that hot day in august, i am sure. sally winn had put on the big pot and the little, and mammy susan had out-susaned herself. we had no forks for our fried fish, but the person who can't eat a fried fish without a fork deserves to go fishless. cousin park drank so much strong coffee that she was really boozy and actually flirted with zebedee. the watermelons were--well, there are no words to describe those melons. watermelons are like sunsets--no words can picture them. you have to be on the spot with both wonders to appreciate them. father's pockets were bulging with seeds, saved for next year's planting. uncle peter, who sat over behind a pine tree having his dinner, declared himself "fittin' fur to bust!" all of us had reached our limit of endurance and when the food was all disposed of decided we should either have to go on a long walk or drop to sleep. cousin park again sought her pine bough couch where she sat in state, dozing and knitting on her ugly black and purple shawl. uncle peter acted as body guard to her while all the rest of us went on a long tramp on the other side of the river. we came back feeling fine and no longer full to "stuffifaction," as poor dear blanche used to say. zebedee held up two fingers, the sign all the world over among boys that a swim would be in order. father responded with a boyish laugh and all the men trooped off to a swimming hole that jo knew of a little way down the river. we could hear their shouts of laughter and a great splashing. they were hardly out of sight when we were out of our shoes and stockings and in wading, cousin sue as eager as any of us. how good it felt! i'd rather wiggle my toes in a clear brown stream with a sandy bottom than do anything in the world. we took bits of bark and slender twigs and scraps of stray paper and sailed them down the swift-flowing water, watching to see which reached the tiny eddying rapids first and cheering the winners. then at dee's suggestion we picked up little pieces of wood and named them _volunteer_, _valiant_, _vixen_, and _valkyrie_ and held an exciting cup race. we dabbled our hands in the cool water. we splashed and sang. we romped and ran. you know what we did and what fun we had if you ever spent part of an august day in such a lovely spot. but bye and bye we heard laughter again and voices, and we knew the men were coming back. so we scrambled out of the stream, dried our feet on the sunny bank and popped them again into demure and proper coverings. we sighed a little that it was over--that glorious bit of freedom--but argued that it must stop sometime. and that reminds me: this book, too, must stop, and it might as well be now, although the picnic story is not quite ended. i had thought of telling how uncle peter took cousin park back to the spring wagon in his wheelbarrow, and something of the wonderful drive home with the crescent moon shining in the glow of the sunset. how father drove cousin sue in his buggy and i sat on the front seat with zebedee,--but i must stop. i wonder,--shall i meet you all again when i am "back at school with the tucker twins?" * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. varied hyphenation was retained. this includes words such as cork-screw and corkscrew; football and foot-ball. this text spells the more usual "monticello" as "montecello." table of contents, chapter viii actually begins on page instead of the that the original prints. this was changed. page , "dun" changed to "dum" (come!" wailed dum) page , "dinnor" changed to "dinner" (for yesterday's dinner) page , "po'" changed to "po'" ("po' jo," had met her) the bobbsey twins at the seashore laura lee hope chapter i chasing the duck "suah's yo' lib, we do keep a-movin'!" cried dinah, as she climbed into the big depot wagon. "we didn't forget snoop this time," exclaimed freddie, following close on dinah's heels, with the box containing snoop, his pet cat, who always went traveling with the little fellow. "i'm glad i covered up the ferns with wet paper," flossie remarked, "for this sun would surely kill them if it could get at them." "bert, you may carry my satchel," said mrs. bobbsey, "and be careful, as there are some glasses of jelly in it, you know." "i wish i had put my hat in my trunk," remarked nan. "i'm sure someone will sit on this box and smash it before we get there." "now, all ready!" called uncle daniel, as he prepared to start old bill, the horse. "wait a minute!" aunt sarah ordered. "there was another box, i'm sure. freddie, didn't you fix that blue shoe box to bring along?" "oh, yes, that's my little duck, downy. get him quick, somebody, he's on the sofa in the bay window!" bert climbed out and lost no time in securing the missing box. "now we are all ready this time," mr. bobbsey declared, while bill started on his usual trot down the country road to the depot. the bobbseys were leaving the country for the seashore. as told in our first volume, "the bobbsey twins," the little family consisted of two pairs of twins, nan and bert, age eight, dark and handsome, and as like as two peas, and flossie and freddie, age four, as light as the others were dark, and "just exactly chums," as flossie always declared. the bobbsey twins lived at lakeport, where mr. richard bobbsey had large lumber yards. the mother and father were quite young themselves, and so enjoyed the good times that came as naturally as sunshine to the little bobbseys. dinah, the colored maid, had been with the family so long the children at lakeport called her dinah bobbsey, although her real name was mrs. sam johnston, and her husband, sam, was the man of all work about the bobbsey home. our first volume told all about the lakeport home, and our second book, "the bobbsey twins in the country," was the story of the bobbseys on a visit to aunt sarah and uncle daniel bobbsey in their beautiful country home at meadow brook. here cousin harry, a boy bert's age, shared all the sports with the family from lakeport. now the lakeport bobbseys were leaving meadow brook, to spend the month of august with uncle william and aunt emily minturn at their seashore home, called ocean cliff, located near the village of sunset beach. there they were also to meet their cousin, dorothy minturn, who was just a year older than nan. it was a beautiful morning, the very first day of august, that our little party started off. along the meadow brook road everybody called out "good-by!" for in the small country place all the bobbseys were well known, and even those from lakeport had many friends there. nettie prentice, the one poor child in the immediate neighborhood (she only lived two farms away from aunt sarah), ran out to the wagon as uncle daniel hurried old bill to the depot. "oh, here, nan!" she called. "do take these flowers if you can carry them. they are in wet cotton battin at the stems, and they won't fade a bit all day," and nettie offered to nan a gorgeous bouquet of lovely pure white, waxy lilies, that grow so many on a stalk and have such a delicious fragrance. nettie's house was an old homestead, and there delicate blooms crowded around the sitting-room window. nan let her hatbox down and took the flowers. "these are lovely, nettie," she exclaimed; "i'll take them, no matter how i carry them. thank you so much, and i hope i'll see you next summer." "yes, do come out again!" nettie faltered, for she would miss nan, the city girl had always been so kind--even lent her one of her own dresses for the wonderful fourth of july parade. "maybe you will come down to the beach on an excursion," called nan, as bill started off again with no time to lose. "i don't think so," answered nettie, for she had never been on an excursion--poor people can rarely afford to spend money for such pleasures. "i've got my duck," called freddie to the little girl, who had given the little creature to freddie at the farewell party as a souvenir of meadow brook. "have you?" laughed nettie. "give him plenty of water, freddie, let him loose in the ocean for a swim!" then nettie ran back to her home duties. "queer," remarked nan, as they hurried on. "the two girls i thought the most of in meadow brook were poor: nettie prentice, and nellie the little cash girl at the fresh-air camp. somehow, poor girls seem so real and they talk to you so close--i mean they seem to just speak right out of their eyes and hearts." "that's what we call sincerity, daughter," said mrs. bobbsey. "you see, children who have trials learn to appreciate more keenly than we, who have everything we need. that appreciation shows in their eyes, and so they seem closer to you, as you say." "oh! oh! oh!" screamed freddie, "i think my duck is choked. he's got his head out the hole. take snoop, quick, bert, till i get downy in again," and the poor little fellow looked as scared as did the duck with his "head out of the hole." "he can't get it in again," cried freddie, pushing gently on the little lump of down with the queer yellow bill--the duck's head. "the hole ain't big enough and he'll surely choke in it." "tear the cardboard down," said bert. "that's easy enough," and the older brother, coming to the rescue, put his fingers under the choking neck, gave the paper box a jerk, and freed poor downy. "when we get to the depot we will have to paste some paper over the tear," continued bert, "or downy will get out further next time." "here we are," called uncle daniel, pulling up to the old station. "i'll attend to the baggage," announced mr. bobbsey, "while you folks all go to the farther end of the platform. our car will stop there." for a little place like meadow brook seven people getting on the express seemed like an excursion, and dave, the lame old agent, hobbled about with some consequence, as he gave the man in the baggage car instruction about the trunk and valises. during that brief period, harry, aunt sarah, and uncle daniel were all busy with "good-byes": aunt sarah giving flossie one kiss more, and uncle daniel tossing freddie up in the air in spite of the danger to downy, the duck. "all aboard!" called the conductor. "good-by!" "good-by!" "come and see us at christmas!" called bert to harry. "i may go down to the beach!" answered harry while the train brakes flew off. "we will expect you thanksgiving," mrs. bobbsey nodded out the window to aunt sarah. "i'll come if i can," called back the other. "good-by! good-by!" "now, let us all watch out for the last look at dear old meadow brook," exclaimed nan, standing up by the window. "let snoop see!" said freddie, with his hand on the cover of the kitten's box. "oh, no!" called everybody at once. "if you let that cat out we will have just as much trouble as we did coming up. keep him in his box." "he would like to see too," pouted freddie. "snoop liked meadow brook. didn't you, snoopy!" putting his nose close to the holes in the box. "i suppose by the time we come back from the beach freddie will have a regular menagerie," said bert, with a laugh. "he had a kitten first, now he has a kitten and a duck, and next he'll have a kitten, a duck, and a---" "sea-serpent," put in freddie, believing that he might get such a monster if he cared to possess one. "there goes the last of meadow brook," sighed nan, as the train rounded a curve and slowed up on a pretty bridge. "and we did have such a lovely time there!" "isn't it going to be just as nice at the ocean?" freddie inquired, with some concern. "we hope so," his mother replied, "but sister nan always likes to be grateful for what she has enjoyed." "so am i," insisted the little fellow, not really knowing what he meant himself. "i likes dis yere car de best," spoke up dinah, looking around at the ordinary day coach, the kind used in short journeys. "de red velvet seats seems de most homey," she went on, throwing her kinky head back, "and i likes to lean back wit'out tumbling ober." "and there's more to see," agreed bert. "in the pullman cars there are so few people and they're always---" "proud," put in flossie. "yes, they seem so," declared her brother, "but see all the people in this car, just eating and sleeping and enjoying themselves." now in our last book, "the bobbsey twins in the country," we told about the trip to meadow brook in the pullman car, and how snoop, the kitten, got out of his box, and had some queer experiences. this time our friends were traveling in the car with the ordinary passengers, and, of course, as bert said, there was more to be seen and the sights were different. "it is splendid to have so much room," declared mrs. bobbsey, for nan and flossie had a big seat turned towards bert and freddie's, while dinah had a seat all to herself (with some boxes of course), and mr. and mrs. bobbsey had another seat. the high-back, broad plush seats gave more room than the narrow, revolving chairs, besides, the day coach afforded so much more freedom for children. "what a cute little baby!" exclaimed nan, referring to a tiny tot sleeping under a big white netting, across the aisle. "we must be quiet," said mrs. bobbsey, "and let the little baby sleep. it is hard to travel in hot weather." "don't you think the duck should have a drink?" suggested mr. bobbsey. "you have a little cup for him, haven't you, freddie?" "yep!" answered freddie, promptly, pulling the cover off downy's box. instantly the duck flew out! "oh! oh! oh!" yelled everybody, as the little white bird went flying out through the car. first he rested on the seat, then he tried to get through the window. somebody near by thought he had him, but the duck dodged, and made straight for the looking glass at the end of the car. "oh, do get him, somebody!" cried freddie, while the other strange children in the car yelled in delight at the fun. "he's kissing himself in the looking glass," declared one youngster, as the frightened little duck flapped his wings helplessly against the mirror. "he thinks it's another duck," called a boy from the back of the car, clapping his hands in glee. mr. bobbsey had gone up carefully with his soft hat in his hand. everybody stopped talking, so the duck would keep in its place. nan held freddie and insisted on him not speaking a word. mr. bobbsey went as cautiously as possible. one step more and he would have had the duck. he raised his hand with the open hat--and brought it down on the looking glass! the duck was now gazing down from the chandelier! "ha! ha! ha!" the boys laughed, "that's a wild duck, sure!" "who's got a gun!" the boy in the back hollered. "oh, will they shoot my duck!" cried freddie, in real tears. "no, they're only making fun," said bert. "you keep quiet and we will get him all right." by this time almost everyone in the car had joined in the duck hunt, while the frightened little bird seemed about ready to surrender. downy had chosen the highest hanging lamps as his point of vantage, and from there he attempted to ward off all attacks of the enemy. no matter what was thrown at him he simply flew around the lamp. as it was a warm day, chasing the duck was rather too vigorous exercise to be enjoyable within the close confines of a poorly ventilated car, but that bird had to be caught somehow. "oh, the net!" cried bert, "that mosquito netting over there. we could stretch it up and surely catch him." this was a happy thought. the baby, of course, was awake and joined in the excitement, so that her big white mosquito netting was readily placed at the disposal of the duck hunters. a boy named will offered to help bert. "i'll hold one end here," said will, "and you can stretch yours opposite, so we will screen off half of the car, then when he comes this way we can readily bag him." will was somewhat older than bert, and had been used to hunting, so that the present emergency was sport to him. the boys now brought the netting straight across the car like a big white screen, for each held his hands up high, besides standing on the arm of the car seats. "now drive him this way," called bert to his father and the men who were helping him. "shoo! shoo! shoo!" yelled everybody, throwing hats, books, and newspapers at the poor lost duck. "shoo!" again called a little old lady, actually letting her black silk bag fly at the lamp. of course poor downy had to shoo, right into the net! bert and will brought up the four ends of the trap and downy flopped. "that's the time we bagged our game," laughed will, while everybody shouted and clapped, for it does not take much to afford real amusement to passengers, who are traveling and can see little but the other people, the conductor, and newspapers. "we've got him at last," cried freddie in real glee, for he loved the little duck and feared losing his companionship. "and he will have to have his meals served in his room for the rest of his trip," laughed mrs. bobbsey, as the tired little downy was once more put in his perforated box, along the side of the tin dipper of water, which surely the poor duck needed by this time. chapter ii a traveling menagerie it took some time for the people to get settled down again, for all had enjoyed the fun with the duck. the boys wanted freddie to let him out of the box, on the quiet, but bert overheard the plot and put a stop to it. then, when the strange youngsters got better acquainted, and learned that the other box contained a little black kitten, they insisted on seeing it. "we'll hold him tight," declared the boy from the back seat, "and nothing will happen to him." "but you don't know snoop," insisted bert. "we nearly lost him coming up in the train, and he's the biggest member of freddie's menagerie, so we have to take good care of him." mr. bobbsey, too, insisted that the cat should not be taken out of the box; so the boys reluctantly gave in. "now let us look around a little," suggested mrs. bobbsey, when quiet had come again, and only the rolling of the train and an occasional shrill whistle broke in on the continuous rumble of the day's journey. "yes, dinah can watch the things and we can look through the other cars," agreed mr. bobbsey. "we might find someone we know going down to the shore." "be awful careful of snoop and downy," cautioned freddie, as dinah took up her picket duty. "look out the boys don't get 'em," with a wise look at the youngsters, who were spoiling for more sport of some kind. "dis yeah circus won't move 'way from dinah," she laughed. "when i goes on de police fo'ce i takes good care ob my beat, and you needn't be a-worryin', freddie, de snoopy kitty cat and de downy duck will be heah when you comes back," and she nodded her wooly head in real earnest. it was an easy matter to go from one car to the other as they were vestibuled, so that the bobbsey family made a tour of the entire train, the boys with their father even going through the smoker into the baggage car, and having a chance to see what their own trunk looked like with a couple of railroad men sitting on it. "don't you want a job?" the baggagemaster asked freddie. "we need a man about your size to lift trunks off the cars for us." of course the man was only joking, but freddie always felt like a real man and he answered promptly: "nope, i'm goin' to be a fireman. i've put lots of fires out already, besides gettin' awful hurted on the ropes with 'frisky.'" "frisky, who is he?" inquired the men. "why, our cow out in meadow brook. don't you know frisky?" and freddie looked very much surprised that two grown-up people had never met the cow that had given him so much trouble. "why didn't you bring him along?" the men asked further. "have you got a cow car?" freddie asked in turn. "yes, we have. would you like to see one?" went on one of the railroaders. "if your papa will bring you out on the platform at the next stop, i'll show you how our cows travel." mr. bobbsey promised to do this, and the party moved back to meet nan, flossie, and their mamma. freddie told them at once about his promised excursion to the cattle car, and, of course, the others wanted to see, too. "if we stop for a few minutes you may all come out," mr. bobbsey said. "but it is always risky to get off and have to scramble to get back again. sometimes they promise us five minutes and give us two, taking the other three to make up for lost time." the train gave a jerk, and the next minute they drew up to a little way station. "here we are, come now," called mr. bobbsey, picking freddie up in his arms, and telling the others to hurry after him. "oh, there go the boys from our car!" called bert, as quite a party of youngsters alighted. "they must be going on a picnic; see their lunch boxes." "i hope snoop is all right," freddie reflected, seeing all the lunch boxes that looked so much like snoop's cage. "come on, little fellow," called the baggage man, "we only have a few minutes." then they took freddie to the rear car and showed him a big cage of cows--it was a cage made of slates, with openings between, and through the openings could be seen the crowded cattle. "oh, i would never put frisky in a place like that," declared freddie; "he wouldn't have room to move." "there is not much room, that's a fact," agreed the man. "but you see cows are not first-class passengers." "but they are good, and know how to play, and they give milk," said freddie, speaking up bravely for his country friends. "what are you going to do with all of these cows?" "i don't know," replied the man, not just wanting to talk about beefsteak. "maybe they're going out to the pasture." one pretty little cow tried to put her head out through the bars, and bert managed to give her a couple of crackers from his pocket. she nibbled them up and bobbed her head as if to say: "thank you, i was very hungry." "they are awfully crowded," nan ventured, "and it must be dreadful to be packed in so. how do they manage to get a drink?" "they will be watered to-night," replied the man, and then the bobbseys had to all hurry to get on the train again, for the locomotive whistle had blown and the bell was ringing. they found dinah with her face pressed close to the window pane, enjoying the sights on the platform. "i specked you was clean gone and left me," she laughed. "s'pose you saw lots of circuses, freddie?" "a whole carful," he answered, "but, dinah," he went on, looking scared, "where's snoop?" the box was gone! "right where you left him," she declared. "i nebber left dis yeah spot, and nobody doan come ter steal de snoopy kitty cat." dinah was crawling around much excited, looking for the missing box. bert, nan, and flossie, of course, all rummaged about, and even mr. and mrs. bobbsey joined in the search. but there was no box to be found. "oh, the boys have stoled my cat!" wailed freddie. "i dust knowed they would!" and he cried outright, for snoop was a dear companion of the little fellow, and why should he not cry at losing his pet? "now wait," commanded his father, "we must not give up so easily. perhaps the boys hid him some place." "but suah's you lib i nebber did leab dis yeah seat," insisted dinah, which was very true. but how could she watch those boys and keep her face so close to the window? besides, a train makes lots of noise to hide boys' pranks. "now, we will begin a systematic search," said mr. bobbsey, who had already found out from the conductor and brakeman that they knew nothing about the lost box. "we will look in and under every seat. then we will go through all the baggage in the hangers" (meaning the overhead wire baskets), "and see if we cannot find snoop." the other passengers were very kind and all helped in the hunt. the old lady who had thrown her hand bag at downy thought she had seen a boy come in the door at the far end of the car, and go out again quickly, but otherwise no one could give any information that would lead to the discovery of the person or parties who had stolen snoop. all kinds of traveling necessities were upset in the search. some jelly got spilled, some fresh country eggs were cracked, but everybody was good-natured and no one complained. yet, after a thorough overhauling of the entire car there was no snoop to be found! "he's gone!" they all admitted, the children falling into tears, while the older people looked troubled. "they could hardly have stolen him," mr. bobbsey reflected, "and the conductor is sure not one of those boys went in another car, for they all left the train at ramsley's." "i don't care!" cried freddie, aloud, "i'll just have every one of them arrested when we get to auntie's. i knowed they had snoop in their boxes." how snoop could be "in boxes" and how the boys could be found at auntie's were two much mixed points, but no one bothered freddie about such trifles in his present grief. "why doan you call dat kitty cat?" suggested dinah, for all this time no one had thought of that. "i couldn't," answered freddie, "'cause he ain't here to call." and he went on crying. "snoop! snoop! snoop cat!" called dinah, but there was no familiar "me-ow" to answer her. "now, freddie boy," she insisted, "if dat cat is alibe he will answer if youse call him, so just you stop a-sniffing and come along. dere's a good chile," and she patted him in her old way. "come wit dinah and we will find snoop." with a faint heart the little fellow started to call, beginning at the front door and walking slowly along toward the rear. "stoop down now and den," ordered dinah, "cause he might be hiding, you know." freddie had reached the rear door and he stopped. "now jist gib one more good call" said dinah, and freddie did. "snoop! snoop!" he called. "me-ow," came a faint answer. "oh, i heard him!" cried freddie. "so did i!" declared dinah. instantly all the other bobbseys were on the scene. "he's somewhere down here," said dinah. "call him, freddie!" "snoop! snoop!" called the boy again. "me-ow--me-ow!" came a distant answer. "in the stove!" declared bert, jerking open the door of the stove, which, of course, was not used in summer, and bringing out the poor, frightened, little cat. chapter iii railroad tennis "oh, poor little snoop!" whispered freddie, right into his kitten's ear. "i'm so glad i got you back again!" "so are we all," said a kind lady passenger who had been in the searching party. "you have had quite some trouble for a small boy, with two animals to take care of." everybody seemed pleased that the mischievous boys' pranks had not hurt the cat, for snoop was safe enough in the stove, only, of course, it was very dark and close in there, and snoop thought he surely was deserted by all his good friends. perhaps he expected freddie would find him, at any rate he immediately started in to "purr-rr," in a cat's way of talking, when freddie took him in his arms, and fondled him. "we had better have our lunch now," suggested mrs. bobbsey, "i'm sure the children are hungry." "it's just like a picnic," remarked flossie, when dinah handed around the paper napkins and mrs. bobbsey served out the chicken and cold-tongue sandwiches. there were olives and celery too, besides apples and early peaches from uncle daniel's farm. "let us look at the timetable, see where we are now, and then see where we will be when we finish," proposed bert. "oh yes," said nan, "let us see how many miles it takes to eat a sandwich." mr. bobbsey offered one to the conductor, who just came to punch tickets. "this is not the regular business man's five-minute lunch, but the five-mile article seems more enjoyable," said mr. bobbsey. "easier digested," agreed the conductor, accepting a sandwich. "you had good chickens out at meadow brook," he went on, complimenting the tasty morsel he was chewing with so much relish. "yes, and ducks," said freddie, which remark made everybody laugh, for it brought to mind the funny adventure of little white downy, the duck. "they certainly can fly," said the conductor with a smile, as he went along with a polite bow to the sandwich party. bert had attended to the wants of the animals, not trusting freddie to open the boxes. snoop got a chicken leg and downy had some of his own soft food, that had been prepared by aunt sarah and carried along in a small tin can. "well, i'se done," announced dinah, picking up her crumbs in her napkins. "bert, how many miles you say it takes me to eat?" "let me see! five, eight, twelve, fourteen: well, i guess dinah, you had fifteen miles of a chicken sandwich." "an' you go 'long!" she protested. "'taint no sech thing. i ain't got sich a long appetite as date. fifteen miles! lan'a massa! whot you take me fo?" everybody laughed and the children clapped hands at the length of dinah's appetite, but when the others had finished they found their own were even longer than the maid's, the average being eighteen miles! "when will we get to aunt emily's?" flossie asked, growing tired over the day's journey. "not until night," her father answered. "when we leave the train we will have quite a way to go by stage. we could go all the way by train, but it would be a long distance around, and i think the stage ride in the fresh air will do us good." "oh yes, let's go by the stage," pleaded freddie, to whom the word stage was a stranger, except in the way it had been used at the meadow brook circus. "this stage will be a great, big wagon," bert told him, "with seats along the sides." "can i sit up top and drive?" the little one asked. "maybe the man will let you sit by him," answered mr. bobbsey, "but you could hardly drive a big horse over those rough roads." the train came to a standstill, just then, on a switch. there was no station, but the shore train had taken on another section. "can flossie and i walk through that new car?" nan asked, as the cars had been separated and the new section joined to that directly back of the one which the bobbseys were in. "why, yes, if you are very careful," the mother replied, and so the two little girls started off. dinah took freddie on her lap and told him his favorite story about "pickin' cotton in de souf," and soon the tired little yellow head fell off in the land of nod. bert and his father were enjoying their magazines, while mrs. bobbsey busied herself with some fancy work, so a half-hour passed without any more excitement. at the end of that time the girls returned. "oh, mother!" exclaimed nan, "we found mrs. manily, the matron of the meadow brook fresh air camp, and she told us nellie, the little cash girl, was so run down the doctors think she will have to go to the seashore. mother, couldn't we have her down with us awhile?" "we are only going to visit, you know, daughter, and how can we invite more company? but where is mrs. manily? i would like to talk to her," said mrs. bobbsey, who was always interested in those who worked to help the poor. nan and flossie brought their mother into the next car to see the matron. we told in our book, "the bobbsey twins in the country," how good a matron this mrs. manily was, and how little nellie, the cash girl, one of the visitors at the fresh air camp, was taken sick while there, and had to go to the hospital tent. it was this little girl that nan wanted to have enjoy the seashore, and perhaps visit aunt emily. mrs. manily was very glad to see mrs. bobbsey, for the latter had helped with money and clothing to care for the poor children at the meadow brook camp. "why, how pleasant to meet a friend in traveling!" said the matron as she shook hands with mrs. bobbsey. "you are all off for the seashore, the girls tell me." "yes," replied mrs. bobbsey. "one month at the beach, and we must then hurry home to lakeport for the school days. but nan tells me little nellie is not well yet?" "no, i am afraid she will need another change of air to undo the trouble made by her close confinement in a city store. she is not seriously sick, but so run down that it will take some time for her to get strong again," said the matron. "have you a camp at the seashore?" asked mrs. bobbsey. "no; indeed, i wish we had," answered the matron. "i am just going down now to see if i can't find some place where nellie can stay for a few weeks." "i'm going to visit my sister, mrs. minturn, at ocean cliff, near sunset beach," said mrs. bobbsey. "they have a large cottage and are always charitable. if they have no other company i think, perhaps, they would be glad to give poor little nellie a room." "that would be splendid!" exclaimed the matron. "i was going to do a line of work i never did before. i was just going to call on some of the well-to-do people, and ask them to take nellie. we had no funds, and i felt so much depended on the change of air, i simply made up my mind to go and do what i could." "then you can look in at my sister's first," said mrs. bobbsey. "if she cannot accommodate you, perhaps she can tell who could. now, won't you come in the other car with us, and we can finish our journey together?" "yes, indeed i will. thank you," said the matron, gathering up her belongings and making her way to the bobbsey quarters in the other car. "won't it be lovely to have nellie with us!" nan said to flossie, as they passed along. "i am sure aunt emily will say yes." "so am i," said little flossie, whose kind heart always went out when it should. "i know surely they would not let nellie die in the city while we enjoy the seaside." freddie was awake now, and also glad to see mrs. manily. "where's sandy?" he inquired at once. sandy had been his little chum from the meadow brook camp. "i guess he is having a nice time somewhere," replied mrs. manily. "his aunt found him out, you know, and is going to take care of him now." "well, i wish he was here too," said freddie, rubbing his eyes. "we're goin' to have lots of fun fishing in the ocean." the plan for nellie was told to mr. bobbsey, who, of course agreed it would be very nice if aunt emily and uncle william were satisfied. "and what do you suppose those boxes contain?" said mrs. bobbsey to mrs. manily, pointing to the three boxes in the hanger above them. "shoes?" ventured the matron. "nope," said freddie. "one hat, and my duck and my cat. downy is my duck and snoop is my cat." then nan told about the flight of the duck and the "kidnapping" of snoop. "we put them up there out of the way," finished nan, "so that nothing more can happen to them." the afternoon was wearing out now, and the strong summer sun shrunk into thin strips through the trees, while the train dashed along. as the ocean air came in the windows, the long line of woodland melted into pretty little streams, that make their way in patches for many miles from the ocean front. "like 'baby waters'" nan said, "just growing out from the ocean, and getting a little bit bigger every year." "won't we soon be there?" asked freddie, for long journeys are always tiresome, especially to a little boy accustomed to many changes in the day's play. "one hour more," said mr. bobbsey, consulting his watch. "let's have a game of ball, nan?" suggested bert, who never traveled without a tennis ball in his pocket. "how could we?" the sister inquired. "easily," said bert. "we'll make up a new kind of game. we will start in the middle of the car, at the two center seats, and each move a seat away at every catch. then, whoever misses first must go back to center again, and the one that gets to the end first, wins." "all right," agreed nan, who always enjoyed her twin brother's games. "we will call it railroad tennis." just as soon as nan and bert took their places, the other passengers became very much interested. there is such a monotony on trains that the sports the bobbseys introduced were welcome indeed. we do not like to seem proud, but certainly these twins did look pretty. nan with her fine back eyes and red cheeks, and bert just matching her; only his hair curled around, while hers fell down. their interest in railroad tennis made their faces all the prettier, and no wonder the people watched them so closely. freddie was made umpire, to keep him out of a more active part, because he might do damage with a ball in a train, his mother said; so, as nan and bert passed the ball, he called,--his father prompting him: "ball one!" "ball two!" "ball three!" bert jerked with a sudden jolt of the train and missed. "striker's out!" called the umpire, while everybody laughed because the boy had missed first. then bert had to go all the way back to center, while nan was four seats down. three more balls were passed, then nan missed. "i shouldn't have to go all the way back for the miss," protested nan. "you went three seats back, so i'll go three back." this was agreed to by the umpire, and the game continued. a smooth stretch of road gave a good chance for catching, and both sister and brother kept moving toward the doors now, with three points "to the good" for nan, as a big boy said. who would miss now? everybody waited to see. the train struck a curve! bert threw a wild ball and nan missed it. "foul ball!" called the umpire, and bert did not dispute it. then nan delivered the ball. "oh, mercy me!" shrieked the old lady, who had thrown the handbag at downy, the duck, "my glasses!" and there, upon the floor, lay the pieces. nan's ball had hit the lady right in the glasses, and it was very lucky they did not break until they came in contact with the floor. "i'm so sorry!" nan faltered. "the car jerked so i could not keep it." "never mind, my dear," answered the nice old lady, "i just enjoyed that game as much as you did, and if i hadn't stuck my eyes out so, they would not have met your ball. so, it's all right. i have another pair in my bag." so the game ended with the accident, for it was now time to gather up the baggage for the last stop. chapter iv night in a barn "beach junction! all off for the junction!" called the train men, while the bobbseys and mrs. manily hurried out to the small station, where numbers of carriages waited to take passengers to their cottages on the cliffs or by the sea. "sure we haven't forgotten anything?" asked mrs. bobbsey, taking a hasty inventory of the hand baggage. "bert's got snoop and i've got downy," answered freddie, as if the animals were all that counted. "and i've got my hatbox and flowers," added nan. "and i have my ferns," said little flossie. "i guess we're all here this time," mr. bobbsey finished, for nothing at all seemed to be missing. it was almost nightfall, and the beautiful glow of an ocean sunset rested over the place. at the rear of the station an aged stage driver sat nodding on his turnout. the stage coach was an "old timer," and had carried many a merry party of sightseers through the sandy roads of oceanport and sunset beach, while hank, the driver, called out all spots of interest along the way. and hank had a way of making things interesting. "pike's peak," he would call out for cliff hill. "the giant's causeway," he would announce for rocky turn. and so hank was a very popular stage driver, and never had to look for trade--it always came to him. "that's our coach," said mr. bobbsey, espying hank. "hello there! going to the beach?" he called to the sleepy driver. "that's for you to say," replied hank, straightening up. "could we get to ocean cliff--minturn's place--before dark?" asked mr. bobbsey, noticing how rickety the old stagecoach was. "can't promise," answered hank, "but you can just pile in and we'll try it." there was no choice, so the party "piled" into the carryall. "isn't this fun?" remarked mrs. manily, taking her seat up under the front window. "it's like going on a may ride." "i'm afraid it will be a moonlight ride at this rate," laughed mr. bobbsey, as the stagecoach started to rattle on. freddie wanted to sit in front with hank but mrs. bobbsey thought it safer inside, for, indeed, the ride was risky enough, inside or out. as they joggled on the noise of the wheels grew louder and louder, until our friends could only make themselves heard by screaming at each other. "night is coming," called mrs. bobbsey, and dinah said: "suah 'nough we be out in de night dis time." it seemed as if the old horses wanted to stand still, they moved so slowly, and the old wagon creaked and cracked until hank, himself, turned round, looked in the window, and shouted: "all right there?" "guess so," called back mr. bobbsey, "but we don't see the ocean yet." "oh, we'll get there," drawled hank, lazily. "we should have gone all the way by train," declared mrs. bobbsey, in alarm, as the stage gave one squeak louder than the others. "haven't you got any lanterns?" shouted mr. bobbsey to hank, for it was pitch-dark now. "never use one," answered the driver. "when it's good and dark the moon will come up, but we'll be there 'fore that. get 'long there, doll!" he called to one horse. "go 'long, kit!" he urged the other. the horses did move a little faster at that, then suddenly something snapped and the horses turned to one side. "whoa! whoa!" called hank, jerking on the reins. but it was too late! the stage coach was in a hole! several screamed. "sit still!" called mr. bobbsey to the excited party. "it's only a broken shaft and the coach can't upset now." flossie began to cry. it was so dark and black in that hole. hank looked at the broken wagon. "well, we're done now," he announced, with as little concern as if the party had been safely landed on aunt emily's piazza, instead of in a hole on the roadside. "do you mean to say you can't fix it up?" mr. bobbsey almost gasped. "not till i get the stage to the blacksmith's," replied hank. "then, what are we going to do?" mr. bobbsey asked, impatiently. "well, there's an empty barn over there," hank answered. "the best thing you can do is pitch your tent there till i get back with another wagon." "barn!" exclaimed mrs. bobbsey. "how long will it take you to get a wagon?" demanded mr. bobbsey. "not long," said hank, sprucing up a trifle. "you just get yourselves comfortable in that there barn. i'll get the coach to one side, and take a horse down to sterritt's. he'll let me have a horse and a wagon, and i'll be back as soon as i kin make it." "there seems nothing else to do," mr. bobbsey said. "we may as well make the best of it." "why, yes," mrs. manily spoke up, "we can pretend we are having a barn dance." and she smiled, faintly. nevertheless, it was not very jolly to make their way to the barn in the dark. dinah had to carry freddie, he was so sleepy; mrs. manily took good care of flossie. but, of course, there was the duck and the cat, that could not be very safely left in the broken-down stagecoach. "say, papa!" bert exclaimed, suddenly, "i saw an old lantern up under the seat in that stagecoach. maybe it has some oil in it. i'll go back and see." "all right, son," replied the father, "we won't get far ahead of you." and while bert made his way back to the wagon, the others bumped up and down through the fields that led to the vacant barn. there was no house within sight. the barn belonged to a house up the road that the owners had not moved into that season. "i got one!" called bert, running up from the road. "this lantern has oil in, i can hear it rattle. have you a match, pa?" mr. bobbsey had, and when the lantern had been lighted, bert marched on ahead of the party, swinging it in real signal fashion. "you ought to be a brakeman," nan told her twin brother, at which remark bert swung his light above his head and made all sorts of funny railroad gestures. the barn door was found unlocked, and excepting for the awful stillness about, it was not really so bad to find refuge in a good, clean place like that, for outside it was very damp--almost wet with the ocean spray. mr. bobbsey found seats for all, and with the big carriage doors swung open, the party sat and listened for every sound that might mean the return of the stage driver. "come, freddie chile," said dinah, "put yer head down on dinah's lap. she won't let nothin' tech you. an' youse kin jest go to sleep if youse a mind ter. i'se a-watchin' out." the invitation was welcome to the tired little youngster, and it was not long before he had followed dinah's invitation. next, flossie cuddled up in mrs. manily's arms and stopped thinking for a while. "it is awfully lonely," whispered nan, to her mother, "i do wish that man would come back." "so do i," agreed the mother. "this is not a very comfortable hotel, especially as we are all tired out from a day's journey." "what was that?" asked bert, as a strange sound, like a howl, was heard. "a dog," lightly answered the father. "i don't think so," said bert. "listen!" "oh!" cried flossie, starting up and clinging closer to mrs. manily, "i'm just scared to death!" "dinah, i want to go home," cried freddie. "take me right straight home." "hush, children, you are safe," insisted their mother. "the stage driver will be back in a few minutes." "but what is that funny noise?" asked freddie. "it ain't no cow, nor no dog." the queer "whoo-oo-oo" came louder each time. it went up and down like a scale, and "left a hole in the air," bert declared. "it's an owl!" exclaimed mrs. bobbsey, and she was right, for up in the abandoned hay loft the queer old birds had found a quiet place, and had not been disturbed before by visitors. "let's get after them," proposed bert, with lantern in hand. "you would have a queer hunt," his father told him; "i guess you had better not think of it. hark! there's a wagon! i guess hank is coming back to us," and the welcome sound of wheels on the road brought the party to their feet again. "hello there!" called hank. "here you are. come along now, we'll make it this time." it did not take the bobbseys long to reach the roadside and there they found hank with a big farm wagon. the seats were made of boards, and there was nothing to hold on to but the edge of the boards. but the prospect of getting to aunt emily's at last made up for all their inconveniences, and when finally hank pulled the reins again, our friends gave a sigh of relief. chapter v a queer stage driver "i reckon i'll have to make another trip to get that old coach down to the shop," growled the stage driver, as he tried to hurry the horses, kit and doll, along. "i hardly think it is worth moving," mr. bobbsey said, feeling somewhat indignant that a hackman should impose upon his passengers by risking their lives in such a broken-down wagon. "not worth it? wall! i guess hank don't go back on the old coach like that. why, a little grease and a few bolts will put that rig in tip-top order." and he never made the slightest excuse for the troubles he had brought upon the bobbseys. "oh, my!" cried nan, "my hatbox! bert you have put your foot right into my best hat!" "couldn't help it," answered the brother; "i either had to go through your box or go out of the back of this wagon, when that seat slipped," and he tried to adjust the board that had fallen into the wagon. "land sakes alive!" exclaimed dinah. "say, you driver man there!" she called in real earnest, "ef you doan go a little carefuler wit dis yere wagon you'll be spilling us all out. i just caught dat cat's box a-sliding, and lan' only knows how dat poor little downy duck is, way down under dat old board." "hold on tight," replied hank, as if the whole thing were a joke, and his wagon had the privilege of a toboggan slide. "my!" sighed mrs. bobbsey, putting her arms closer about flossie, "i hope nothing more happens." "i am sure we are all right now," mrs. manily assured her. "the road is broad and smooth here, and it can't be far to the beach." "here comes a carriage," said bert, as two pretty coach lights flashed through the trees. "hello there!" called someone from the carriage. "uncle william!" nan almost screamed, and the next minute the carriage drew up alongside the wagon. "well, i declare," said uncle william minturn, jumping front his seat, and beginning to help the stranded party. "we are all here," began mr. bobbsey, "but it was hard work to keep ourselves together." "oh, uncle william," cried freddie, "put me in your carriage. this one is breakin' down every minute." "come right along, my boy. i'll fix you up first," declared the uncle, giving his little nephew a good hug as he placed him on the comfortable cushions inside the big carriage. there was not much chance for greetings as everybody was too anxious to get out of the old wagon. so, when all the boxes had been carefully put outside with the driver, and all the passengers had taken their places on the long side seats (it was one of those large side-seated carriages that uncle william had brought, knowing he would have a big party to carry), then with a sigh of relief mrs. bobbsey attempted to tell something of their experiences. "but how did you know where we were?" bert asked. "we had been waiting for you since four o'clock," replied uncle william. "then i found out that the train was late, and we waited some more. but when it came to be night and you had not arrived, i set out looking for you. i went to the junction first, and the agent there told me you had gone in hank's stage. i happened to be near enough to the livery stable to hear some fellows talking about hank's breakdown, with a big party aboard. i knew then what had happened, and sent dorothy home,--she had been out most of the afternoon waiting--got this carryall, and here we are," and uncle william only had to hint "hurry up" to his horses and away they went. "oh, we did have the awfulest time," insisted freddie. "i feel as if we hadn't seen a house in a whole year," sighed little flossie. "and we only left meadow brook this morning," added nan. "it does seem much longer than a day since we started." "well, you will be in aunt emily's arms in about two minutes now," declared uncle william, as through the trees the lights from ocean cliff, the minturn cottage, could now be seen. "hello! hello!" called voices from the veranda. "aunt emily and dorothy!" exclaimed bert, and called back to them: "here we come! here we are!" and the wagon turned in to the broad steps at the side of the veranda. "i've been worried to death," declared aunt emily, as she began kissing the girls. "we have brought company," said mrs. bobbsey, introducing mrs. manily, "and i don't know what we should have done in all our troubles if she had not been along to cheer us up." "we are delighted to have you," said aunt emily to mrs. manily, while they all made their way indoors. "oh, nan!" cried dorothy, hugging her cousin as tightly as ever she could, "i thought you would never come!" "we were an awfully long time getting here," nan answered, returning her cousin's caress, "but we had so many accidents." "nothing happened to your appetites, i hope," laughed uncle william, as the dining-room doors were swung open and a table laden with good things came into sight. "i think i could eat," said mrs. bobbsey, then the mechanical piano player was started, and the party made their way to the dining room. uncle william took mrs. manily to her place, as she was a stranger; bert sat between dorothy and nan, mr. bobbsey looked after aunt emily, and mr. jack burnet, a friend of uncle william, who had been spending the evening at the cottage, escorted mrs. bobbsey to her place. "come, flossie, my dear, you see i have gotten a tall chair for you," said aunt emily, and flossie was made comfortable in one of those "between" chairs, higher than the others, and not as high as a baby's. it was quite a brilliant dinner party, for the minturns were well-to-do and enjoyed their prosperity as they went along. mrs. minturn had been a society belle when she was married. she was now a graceful young hostess, with a handsome husband. she had married earlier than her sister, mrs. bobbsey, but kept up her good times in spite of the home cares that followed. during the dinner, dinah helped the waitress, being perhaps a little jealous that any other maid should look after the wants of flossie and freddie. "oh, dinah!" exclaimed freddie, as she came in with more milk for him, "did you take snoop out of the box and did you give downy some water?" "i suah did, chile," said dinah, "and you jest ought ter see that downy duck fly 'round de kitchen. why, he jest got one of dem fits he had on de train, and we had to shut him in de pantry to get hold ob him." the waitress, too, told about the flying duck, and everybody enjoyed hearing about the pranks of freddie's animals. "we've got a lovely little pond for him, freddie," said dorothy. "there is a real little lake out near my donkey barn, and your duck will have a lovely time there." "but he has to swim in the ocean," insisted freddie, "'cause we're going to train him to be a circus duck." "you will have to put him in a bag and tie a rope to him then," uncle william teased, "because that's the only way a duck can swim in the ocean." "but you don't know about downy," argued freddie. "he's wonderful! he even tried to swim without any water, on the train." "through the looking glass!" said bert, laughing. "and through the air," added nan. "i tell you, freddie," said uncle william, quite seriously: "we could get an airship for him maybe; then he could really swim without water." but freddie took no notice of the way they tried to make fun of his duck, for he felt downy was really wonderful, as he said, and would do some wonderful things as soon as it got a chance. when dinner was over, dorothy took nan up to her room. on the dresser, in a cut-glass bowl, were little nettie prentice's lilies that nan had carried all the way from meadow brook, and they were freshened up beautifully, thanks to dorothy's thoughtfulness in giving them a cold spray in the bath tub. "what a lovely room!" nan exclaimed, in unconcealed admiration. "do you like it?" said dorothy. "it has a lovely view of the ocean and i chose it for you because i know you like to see pretty sights out of your window. the sun seems to rise just under this window," and she brushed aside the dainty curtains. the moonlight made a bright path out on the ocean and nan stood looking out, spellbound. "i think the ocean is so grand," she said. "it always makes me feel so small and helpless." "when you are under a big wave," laughed her cousin, who had a way of being jolly. "i felt that way the other day. just see my arm," and dorothy pushed up her short sleeve, displaying a black and blue bruise too high up to be seen except in an evening dress or bathing costume. "how did you do that?" asked nan, in sympathy. "ran into a pier," returned the cousin, with unconcern. "i thought my arm was broken first. but we must go down," said dorothy, while nan wanted to see all the things in her pretty room. "we always sit outside before retiring. mamma says the ocean sings a lullaby that cures all sorts of bad dreams and sleeplessness." on the veranda nan and dorothy joined the others. freddie was almost asleep in aunt emily's arms; uncle william, mr. bobbsey, and mr. burnet were talking, with bert as an interested listener; while mrs. manily told aunt emily of her mission to the beach. as the children had thought, aunt emily readily gave consent to have nellie, the little cash girl, come to ocean cliff, and on the morrow nan and dorothy were to write the letter of invitation. chapter vi the ocean is there anything more beautiful than sunrise on the ocean? nan crept out of bed at the first peep of dawn, and still in her white robe, she sat in the low window seat to see the sun rise "under her window." "what a beautiful place!" nan thought, when dawn gave her a chance to see ocean cliff. "dorothy must be awfully happy here. to see the ocean from a bedroom window!" and she watched the streaks of dawn make maps on the waves. "if i were a writer i would always put the ocean in my book," she told herself, "for there are so many children who never have a chance to see the wonderful world of water!" nettie's flowers were still on the dresser. "poor little nettie prentice," thought nan. "she has never seen the ocean and i wonder if she ever will!" nan touched the lilies reverently. there was something in the stillness of daybreak that made the girl's heart go out to poor nettie, just like the timid little sunbeams went out over the waters, trying to do their small part in lighting up a day. "i'll just put the lilies out in the dew," nan went on to herself, raising the window quietly, for the household was yet asleep. "perhaps i'll find someone sick or lonely to-morrow who will like them, and it will be so much better if they bring joy to someone, for they are so sweet and pretty to die just for me." "oh!" screamed nan the next minute, for someone had crept up behind her and covered her eyes with hands. "it is you, dorothy!" she declared, getting hold of the small fingers. "did i wake you with the window?" "yes, indeed, i thought someone was getting in from the piazza. they always come near morning," said dorothy, dropping down on the cushions of the window seat like a goddess of morn, for dorothy was a beautiful girl, all pink and gold, bert said, excepting for her eyes, and they were like meadow brook violets, deep blue. "did you have the nightmare?" she asked. "nightmare, indeed!" nan exclaimed. "why, you told me the sun would rise under my window and i got up to---" "see it do the rise!" laughed dorothy, in her jolly way. "well, if i had my say i'd make mr. sol-sun wear a mask and keep his glare to himself until respectable people felt like crawling out. i lower my awning and close the inside blinds every night. i like sunshine in reasonable doses at reasonable hours, but the moon is good enough for me in the meantime," and she fell over in a pretty lump, feigning sleep in nan's cushions. "i hope i did not wake anyone else," said nan. "makes no difference about me, of course," laughed the jolly dorothy. "well, i'll pay you back, nan. be careful. i am bound to get even," and nan knew that some trick was in store for her, as dorothy had the reputation of being full of fun, and always playing tricks. the sun was up in real earnest now, and the girls raised the window sash to let in the soft morning air. "i think this would really cure nellie, my little city friend," said nan, "and you don't know what a nice girl she is." "just bring her down and i'll find out all about her," said dorothy. "i love city girls. they are so wide awake, and never say silly things like--like some girls i know," she finished, giving her own cousin a good hug that belied the attempt at making fun of her. "nellie is sensible," nan said, "and yet she knows how to laugh, too. she said she had never been in a carriage until she had a ride with us at meadow brook. think of that!" "wait till she sees my donkeys!" dorothy finished, gathering herself up from the cushions and preparing to leave. "well, nannie dear, i have had a lovely time," and she made a mock social bow. "come to see me some time and have some of my dawn, only don't come before eleven a.m. or you might get mixed up, for its awful dark in the blue room until that hour." and like a real fairy dorothy shook her golden hair and, stooping low in myth fashion, made a "bee-line" across the hall. "she doesn't need any brother," nan thought as she saw dorothy bolt in her door like a squirrel; "she is so jolly and funny!" but the girls were not the only ones who arose early that morning, for bert and his father came in to breakfast from a walk on the sands. "it's better than meadow brook," bert told nan, as she took her place at the table. "i wish harry would come down." "it is so pleasant we want all our friends to enjoy it," said mrs. bobbsey. "but i'm sure you have quite a hotel full now, haven't you, dorothy?" "lots more rooms up near the roof," replied dorothy, "and it's a pity to waste them when there's plenty of ocean to spare. now, freddie," went on dorothy, "when we finish breakfast i am going to show you my donkeys. i called one doodle and the other dandy, because papa gave them to me on decoration day." "why didn't you call one uncle sam?" asked freddie, remembering his part in the meadow brook parade. "well, i thought doodle dandy was near enough red, white, and blue," said dorothy. the children finished breakfast rather suddenly and then made their way to the donkey barn. "oh, aren't they lovely!" exclaimed nan, patting the pretty gray animals. "i think they are prettier than horses, they are not so tall." "i know all about goats and donkeys," declared freddie. "i know nan likes everything early, so we will give her an early ride," proposed dorothy. the bobbseys watched their cousin with interest as she fastened all the bright buckles and put the straps together, harnessing the donkeys. bert helped so readily that he declared he would do all the harnessing thereafter. the cart was one of those pretty, little basket affairs, with seats at the side, and bert was very proud of being able to drive a team. there were dorothy, nan, freddie, flossie, and bert in the cart when they rode along the sandy driveway, and they made a very pretty party in their bright summer costumes. freddie had hold of doodle's reins, and he insisted that his horse went along better than did dandy, on the other side. "oh, won't nellie enjoy this!" cried nan, thinking of the little city girl who had only had one carriage ride in all her life. "mrs. manily is going up to the city to bring her to-day," said bert. "aunt emily sent for the depot wagon just as we came out." like many people at the seashore, the minturns did not keep their own horses, but simply had to telephone from their house to the livery stable when they wanted a carriage. "oh, i see the ocean!" called out freddie, as bert drove nearer the noise of the waves. "why didn't we bring downy for his swim?" "too early to bathe yet!" said dorothy. "we have a bathing house all to ourselves,--papa rented it for the summer,--and about eleven o'clock we will come down and take a dip. mamma always comes with me or sends susan, our maid. mamma cannot believe i really know how to swim." "and do you?" asked nan, in surprise. "wait until you see!" replied the cousin. "and i am going to teach you, too." "i'd love to know how, but it must be awfully hard to learn," answered nan. "not a bit," went on dorothy; "i learned in one week. we have a pool just over there, and lots of girls are learning every day. you can drive right along the beach, bert; the donkeys are much safer than horses and never attempt to run away." how delightful it was to ride so close to the great rolling ocean! even freddie stopped exclaiming, and just watched the waves, as one after another they tried to get right under dorothy's cart. "it makes me almost afraid!" faltered little flossie, as the great big waves came up so high out on the waters, they seemed like mountains that would surely cover up the donkey cart. but when they "broke" on the sands they were only little splashy puddles for babies to wash their pink toes in. "there's blanche bowden," said dorothy, as another little cart, a pony cart, came along. "we have lovely times together. i have invited her up to meet us this afternoon, nan." the other girl bowed pleasantly from her cart, and even freddie remembered to raise his cap, something he did not always think necessary for "just girls." "some afternoon our dancing class is going to have a matinee," said dorothy. "do you like dancing, bert?" "some," replied her cousin in a boy's indifferent way. "nan is a good dancer." "oh, we don't have real dances," protested nan; "they are mostly drills and exercises. mamma doesn't believe in young children going right into society. she thinks we will be old soon enough." "we don't have grown-up dances," said dorothy, "only the two-step and minuet. i think the minuet is the prettiest of all dances." "we have had the varsovienne," said nan, "that is like the minuet. mother says they are old-time dances, but they are new in our class." "we may have a costume affair next month," went on dorothy. "some of the girls want it, but i don't like wigs and long dresses, especially for dancing. i get all tangled up in a train dress." "i never wore one," said nan, "excepting at play, and i can't see how any girl can dance with a lot of long skirts dangling around." "oh, they mostly bow and smile," put in bert, "and a boy has to be awfully careful at one of those affairs. if he should step on a skirt there surely would be trouble," and he snapped his whip at the donkeys with the air of one who had little regard for the graceful art of dancing. "we had better go back now," said dorothy, presently. "you haven't had a chance to see our own place yet, but i thought you wanted to get acquainted with the ocean first. everybody does!" "i have enjoyed it so much!" declared nan. "it is pleasanter now than when the sun grows hot." "but we need the sun for bathing," dorothy told her. "that is why we 'go in' at the noon hour." the drive back to the cliff seemed very short, and when the children drove up to the side porch they found mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily sitting outside with their fancy work. freddie could hardly find words to tell his mother how big the ocean was, and flossie declared the water ran right into the sky it was so high. "now, girls," said aunt emily, "mrs. manily has gone to bring nellie down, so you must go and arrange her room. i think the front room over nan's will be best. now get out all your pretty things, dorothy, for little nellie may be lonely and want some things to look at." "all right, mother," answered dorothy, letting bert put the donkeys away, "we'll make her room look like--like a valentine," she finished, always getting some fun in even where very serious matters were concerned. the two girls, with flossie looking on, were soon very busy with nellie's room. "we must not make it too fussy," said dorothy, "or nellie may not feel at home; and we certainly want her to enjoy herself. will we put a pink or blue set on the dresser?" "blue," said nan, "for i know she loves blue. she said so when we picked violets at meadow brook." "all right," agreed dorothy. "and say! let's fix up something funny! we'll get all the alarm clocks in the house and set them so they will go off one after the other, just when nellie gets to bed, say about nine o'clock. we'll hide them so she will just about find one when the other starts! she isn't really sick, is she?" dorothy asked, suddenly remembering that the visitor might not be in as good spirits as she herself was. "oh, no, only run down," answered nan, "and i'm sure she would enjoy the joke." so the girls went on fixing up the pretty little room. nan ran downstairs and brought up nettie prentice's flowers. "i thought they would do someone good," she said. "they are so fragrant." "aren't they!" dorothy said, burying her pretty nose in the white lilies. "they smell better than florists' bouquets. i suppose that's from the country air. now i'll go collect clocks," and without asking anyone's permission dorothy went from room to room, snatching alarm clocks from every dresser that held one. "susan's is a peach," she told nan, apologizing with a smile, for the slang. "it goes off for fifteen minutes if you don't stop it, and it sounds like a church bell." "nellie will think she has gotten into college," nan said, laughing. "this is like hazing, isn't it?" "only we won't really annoy her," said dorothy. "we just want to make her laugh. college boys, they say, do all sorts of mean things. make a boy swim in an icy river and all that." "i hope bert never goes to a school where they do hazing," said nan, feeling for her brother's safety. "i think such sport is just wicked!" "so do i," declared dorothy, "and if i were a new fellow, and they played such tricks on me, i would just wait for years if i had to, to pay them back." "i'd put medicine in their coffee, or do something." "they ought to be arrested," nan said, "and if the professors can't stop it they should not be allowed to run such schools." "there," said dorothy, "i guess everything is all right for nellie." she put a rose jar on a table in the alcove window. "now i'll wind the clocks. you mustn't look where i put them," and she insisted that not even nan should know the mystery of the clocks. "this will be a real surprise party," finished dorothy, having put each of five clocks in its hiding place, and leaving the tick-ticks to think it over, all by themselves, before going off. chapter vii nellie "shall i take my cart over to meet nellie and mrs. manily, mother?" dorothy asked mrs. minturn, that afternoon, when the city train was about due. "why, yes, daughter, i think that would be very nice," replied the mother. "i intended to send the depot wagon, but the cart would be very enjoyable." bert had the donkeys hitched up and at the door for nan and dorothy in a very few minutes, and within a half-hour from that time nan was greeting nellie at the station, and making her acquainted with dorothy. if dorothy had expected to find in the little cash girl a poor, sickly, ill child, she must have been disappointed, for the girl that came with mrs. manily had none of these failings. she was tall and graceful, very pale, but nicely dressed, thanks to mrs. manily's attention after she reached the city on the morning train. with a gift from mrs. bobbsey, nellie was "fitted up from head to foot," and now looked quite as refined a little girl as might be met anywhere. "you were so kind to invite me!" nellie said to dorothy, as she took her seat in the cart. "this is such a lovely place!" and she nodded toward the wonderful ocean, without giving a hint that she had never before seen it. "yes, you are sure the air is so strong you must swallow strength all the time," and nellie knew from the remark that dorothy was a jolly girl, and would not talk sickness, like the people who visit poor children at hospital tents. even mrs. manily, who knew nellie to be a capable girl, was surprised at the way she "fell in" with nan and dorothy, and mrs. manily was quite charmed with her quiet, reserved manner. the fact was that nellie had met so many strangers in the big department store, she was entirely at ease and accustomed to the little polite sayings of people in the fashionable world. when nellie unpacked her bag she brought out something for freddie. it was a little milk wagon, with real cans, which freddie could fill up with "milk" and deliver to customers. "that is to make you think of meadow brook," said nellie, when she gave him the little wagon. "yes, and when there's a fire," answered freddie, "i can fill the cans with water and dump it on the fire like they do in meadow brook, too." freddie always insisted on being a fireman and had a great idea of putting fires out and climbing ladders. there was still an hour to spare before dinner, and nan proposed that they take a walk down to the beach. nellie went along, of course, but when they got to the great stretch of white sand, near the waves, the girls noticed nellie was about to cry. "maybe she is too tired," nan whispered to dorothy, as they made some excuse to go back home again. all along the way nellie was very quiet, almost in tears, and the other girls were disappointed, for they had expected her to enjoy the ocean so much. as soon as they reached home nellie went to her room, and nan and dorothy told mrs. minturn about their friend's sudden sadness. mrs. minturn of course, went up to see if she could do anything for nellie. there she found the little stranger crying as if her heart would break. "oh, i can't help it, mrs. minturn!" she sobbed. "it was the ocean. father must be somewhere in that big, wild sea!" and again she cried almost hysterically. "tell me about it, dear," said mrs. minturn, with her arm around the child. "was your father drowned at sea?" "oh no; that is, we hope he wasn't." said nellie, through her tears, "but sometimes we feel he must be dead or he would write to poor mother." "now dry your tears, dear, or you will have a headache," said mrs. minturn, and nellie soon recovered her composure. "you see," she began, "we had such a nice home and father was always so good. but a man came and asked him to go to sea. the man said they would make lots of money in a short time. this man was a great friend of father and he said he needed someone he could trust on this voyage. first father said no, but when he talked it over with mother, they, thought it would be best to go, if they could get so much money in a short time, so he went." here nellie stopped again and her dark eyes tried hard to keep back the tears. "when was that?" mrs. minturn asked. "a year ago," nellie replied, "and he was only to be away six months at the most." "and that was why you had to leave school, wasn't it?" mrs. minturn questioned further. "yes, we had not much money saved, and mother got sick from worrying, so i did not mind going to work. i'm going back to the store again as soon as the doctor says i can," and the little girl showed how anxious she was to help her mother. "but your father may come back," said mrs. minturn; "sailors are often out drifting about for months, and come in finally. i would not be discouraged--you cannot tell what day your father may come back with all the money, and even more than he expected." "oh, i know," said nellie. "i won't feel like that again. it was only because it was the first time i saw the ocean. i'm never homesick or blue. i don't believe in making people pity you all the time." and the brave little girl jumped up, dried her eyes, and looked as if she would never cry again as long as she lived--like one who had cried it out and done with it. "yes, you must have a good time with the girls," said mrs. minturn. "i guess you need fun more than any medicine." that evening at dinner nellie was her bright happy self again, and the three girls chatted merrily about all the good times they would have at the seashore. there was a ride to the depot after dinner, for mrs. manily insisted that she had to leave for the city that evening, and after a game of ball on the lawn, in which everybody, even flossie and freddie, had a hand, the children prepared to retire. there was to be a shell hunt very early in the morning (that was a long walk on the beach, looking for choice shells), so the girls wanted to go to bed an hour before the usual time. "wait till the clock strikes, nellie," sang dorothy, as they went upstairs, and, of course, no one but nan knew what she meant. two hours after this the house was all quiet, when suddenly, there was the buzz of an alarm clock. "what was that?" asked mrs. minturn, coming out in the hall. "an alarm clock," called nellie, in whose room the disturbance was. "i found it under my pillow," she added innocently, never suspecting that dorothy had put it there purposely. by and by everything was quiet again, when another gong went off. "well, i declare!" said mrs. minturn. "i do believe dorothy has been up to some pranks." _"ding--a-ling--a-long--a-ling!"_ went the clock, and nellie was laughing outright, as she searched about the room for the newest alarm. she had a good hunt, too, for the clock was in the shoe box in the farthest corner of the room. after that there was quite an intermission, as dorothy expressed it. even nellie had stopped laughing and felt very sleepy, when another clock started. this was the big gong that belonged in susan's room, and at the sound of it freddie rushed out in the hall, yelling. "that's a fire bell! fire! fire! fire!" he shouted, while everybody else came out this time to investigate the disturbance. "now, dorothy!" said mrs. minturn, "i know you have done this. where did you put those clocks?" dorothy only laughed in reply, for the big bell was ringing furiously all the time. nellie had her dressing robe on, and opened the door to those outside her room. "i guess it's ghosts," she laughed. "they are all over." "a serenade," called bert, from his door. "what ails dem der clocks?" shouted dinah. "'pears like as if dey had a fit, suah. nebber heard such clockin' since we was in de country," and susan, who had discovered the loss of her clock, laughed heartily, knowing very well who had taken the alarm away. when the fifteen minutes were up that clock stopped, and another started. then there was a regularly cannonading, bert said, for there was scarcely a moment's quiet until every one of the six clocks had gone off "bing, bang, biff," as freddie said. there was no use trying to locate them, for they went off so rapidly that nellie knew they would go until they were "all done," so she just sat down and waited. "think you'll wake up in time?" asked dorothy, full of mischief as she came into the clock corner. "i guess so," nellie answered, laughing. "we surely were alarmed to-night." then aside to nan, nellie whispered: "wait, we'll get even with her, won't we?" and nan nodded with a sparkle in her eyes. chapter viii exploring--a race for pond lilies "now let's explore," bert said to the girls the next morning. "we haven't had a chance yet to see the lake, the woods, or the island." "hal bingham is coming over to see you this morning," dorothy told bert. "he said you must be tired toting girls around, and he knows everything interesting around here to show you." "glad of it," said bert. "you girls are very nice, of course, but a boy needs another fellow in a place like this," and he swung himself over the rail of the veranda, instead of walking down the steps. it was quite early, for there was so much planned, to be accomplished before the sun got too hot, that all the children kept to their promise to get up early, and be ready for the day's fun by seven o'clock. the girls, with mrs. bobbsey, mrs. minturn, and freddie, were to go shell hunting, but as bert had taken that trip with his father on the first morning after their arrival, he preferred to look over the woods and lake at the back of the minturn home, where the land slid down from the rough cliff upon which the house stood. "here comes hal now," called dorothy, as a boy came whistling up the path. he was taller than bert, but not much older, and he had a very "jolly squint" in his black eyes; that is, dorothy called it a "jolly squint," but other people said it was merely a twinkle. but all agreed that hal was a real boy, the greatest compliment that could be paid him. there was not much need of an introduction, although dorothy did call down from the porch, "bert that's hal; hal that's bert," to which announcement the boys called back, "all right, dorothy. we'll get along." "have you been on the lake yet?" hal asked, as they started down the green stretch that bounded the pretty lake on one side, while a strip of woodland pressed close to the edge across the sheet of water. "no," bert answered, "we have had so much coming and going to the depot since we came down, i couldn't get a chance to look around much. it's an awfully pretty lake, isn't it?" "yes, and it runs in and out for miles," hal replied. "i have a canoe down here at our boathouse. let's take a sail." the bingham property, like the minturn, was on a cliff at the front, and ran back to the lake, where the little boathouse was situated. the house was made of cedars, bound together in rustic fashion, and had comfortable seats inside for ladies to keep out of the sun while waiting for a sail. "father and i built this house," hal told bert. "we were waiting so long for the carpenters, we finally got a man to bring these cedars in from oakland. then we had him cut them, that is, the line of uprights, and we built the boathouse without any trouble at all. it was sport to arrange all the little turns and twists, like building a block house in the nursery." "you certainly made a good job of it," said bert, looking critically over the boathouse. "it's all in the design, of course; the nailing together is the easiest part." "you might think so," said hal, "but it's hard to drive a nail in round cedar. but we thought it so interesting, we didn't mind the trouble," finished hal, as he prepared to untie his canoe. "what a pretty boat!" exclaimed bert, in real admiration. the canoe was green and brown, the body being colored like bark, while inside, the lining was of pale green. the name, _dorothy_, shone in rustic letters just above the water edge. "and you called it _dorothy_," bert remarked. "yes, she's the liveliest girl i know, and a good friend of mine all summer," said hal. "there are some boys down the avenue, but they don't know as much about good times as dorothy does. why, she can swim, row, paddle, climb trees, and goes in for almost any sport that's on. last week she swam so far in the sun she couldn't touch an oar or paddle for days, her arms were so blistered. but she didn't go around with her hands in a muff at that. dorothy's all right," finished hal. bert liked to hear his cousin complimented, especially when he had such admiration himself for the girl who never pouted, and he knew that the tribute did not in any way take from dorothy's other good quality, that of being a refined and cultured girl. "girls don't have to be babies to be ladylike," added bert. "nan always plays ball with me, and can skate and all that. she's not afraid of a snowball, either." "well, i'm all alone," said hal. "haven't even got a first cousin. we've been coming down here since i was a youngster, so that's why dorothy seems like my sister. we used to make mud pies together." the boys were in the canoe now, and each took a paddle. the water was so smooth that the paddles merely patted it, like "brushing a cat's back," bert said, and soon the little bark was gliding along down the lake, in and out of the turns, until the "narrows" were reached. "here's where we get our pond lilies," said hal. "oh, let's get some!" exclaimed bert. "mother is so fond of them." it was not difficult to gather the beautiful blooms, that nested so cosily on the cool waters, too fond of their cradle to ever want to creep, or walk upon their slender green limbs. they just rocked there, with every tiny ripple of the water, and only woke up to see the warm sunlight bleaching their dainty, yellow heads. "aren't they fragrant?" said bert, as he put one after the other into the bottom of the canoe. "there's nothing like them," declared hal. "some people like roses best, but give me the pretty pond lilies," he finished. the morning passed quickly, for there was so much to see around the lake. wild ducks tried to find out how near they could go to the water without touching it, and occasionally one would splash in, by accident. "what large birds there are around the sea," bert remarked. "i suppose they have to be big and strong to stand long trips without food when the waves are very rough and they can hardly see fish." "yes, and they have such fine plumage," said hal. "i've seen birds around here just like those in museums, all colors, and with all kinds of feathers--birds of paradise, i guess they call them." "do you ever go shooting?" "no, not in summer time," replied hal. "but sometimes father and i take a run down here about thanksgiving. that's the time for seaside sport. why, last year we fished with rakes; just raked the fish up in piles--'frosties,' they call them." "that must be fun," reflected bert. "maybe you could come this year," continued hal. "we might make up a party, if you have school vacation for a week. we could camp out in our house, and get our meals at the hotel." "that would be fine!" exclaimed bert. "maybe uncle william would come, and perhaps my cousin harry, from meadow brook. he loves that sort of sport. by the way, we expect him down for a few days; perhaps next week." "good!" cried hal. "the boat carnival is on next week. i'm sure he would enjoy that." the boys were back at the boathouse now, and bert gathered up his pond lilies. "there'll be a scramble for them when the girls see them," he said. "nellie mclaughlin, next to dorothy, is out for fun. she is not a bit like a sick girl." "perhaps she isn't sick now," said hal, "but has to be careful. she seems quite thin." "mother says she wants fun, more than medicine," went on bert. "i guess she had to go to work because her father is away at sea. he's been gone a year and he only expected to be away six months." "so is my uncle george," remarked hal. "he went to the west indies to bring back a valuable cargo of wood. he had only a small vessel, and a few men. say, did you say her name was mclaughlin?" exclaimed hal, suddenly. "yes; they call him mack for short, but his name is mclaughlin." "why, that was the name of the man who went with uncle george!" declared hal. "maybe it was her father." "sounds like it," bert said. "tell uncle william about it sometime. i wouldn't mention it to nellie, she cut up so, they said, the first time she saw the ocean. poor thing! i suppose she just imagined her father was tossing about in the waves." the boys had tied the canoe to its post, and now made their way up over the hill toward the house. "here they come," said bert, as nan, nellie, and dorothy came racing down the hill. "oh!" cried dorothy, "give me some!" "oh, you know me, bert?" pleaded nellie. "hal, i wound up your kite string, didn't i?" insisted nan, by way of showing that she surely deserved some of hal's pond lilies. "and i found your ball in the bushes, bert," urged dorothy. "they're not for little girls," hal said, waving his hand comically, like a duke in a comic opera. "run along, little girls, run along," he said, rolling his r's in real stage fashion, and holding the pond lilies against his heart. "but if we get them, may we have them sir knight?" asked dorothy, keeping up the joke. "you surely can!" replied hal, running short on his stage words. at this nellie dashed into the path ahead of hal, and dorothy turned toward bert. nan crowded in close to dorothy, and the boys had some dodging to get a start. finally hal shot out back of the big bush, and nellie darted after him. of course, the boys were better runners than the girls, but somehow, girls always expect something wonderful to happen, when they start on a race like that. hal had tennis slippers on, and he went like a deer. but just as he was about to call "home free" and as he reached the donkey barn, he turned on his ankle. nellie had her hands on the pond lilies instantly, for hal was obliged to stop and nurse his ankle. "they're yours," he gave in, handing her the beautiful bunch of blooms. "oh, aren't they lovely!" exclaimed the little cash girl, but no one knew that was the first time she ever, in all her life, held a pond lily in her hand. "i'm going to give them to mrs. bobbsey," she decided, starting at once to the house with the fragrant prize in her arms. neither dorothy nor nan had caught bert, but he handed his flowers to his cousin. "give them to aunt emily," he said gallantly, while dorothy took the bouquet and declared she could have caught bert, anyhow, if she "only had a few more feet," whatever that meant. chapter ix fun on the sands "how many shells did you get in your hunt?" bert asked the girls, when the excitement over the pond lilies had died away. "we never went," replied dorothy. "first, freddie fell down and had to cry awhile, then he had to stop to see the gutter band, next he had a ride on the five-cent donkey, and by that time there were so many people out, mother said there would not be a pretty shell left, so we decided to go to-morrow morning." "then hal and i will go along," said bert. "i want to look for nets, to put in my den at home." "we are going for a swim now," went on dorothy; "we only came back for our suits." "there seems so much to do down here, it will take a week to have a try at everything," said bert. "i've only been in the water once, but i'm going for a good swim now. come along, hal." "yes, we always go before lunch," said hal starting off for his suit. soon dorothy, nan, nellie, and flossie appeared with their suits done up in the neat little rubber bags that aunt emily had bought at a hospital fair. then freddie came with mrs. bobbsey, and dorothy, with her bag on a stick over her shoulder, led the procession to the beach. as dorothy told nan, they had a comfortable bathhouse rented for the season, with plenty of hooks to hang things on, besides a mirror, to see how one's hair looked, after the waves had done it up mermaid fashion. it did not take the girls long to get ready, and presently all appeared on the beach in pretty blue and white suits, with the large white sailor collars, that always make bathing suits look just right, because real sailors wear that shape of collar. flossie wore a white flannel suit, and with her pretty yellow curls, she "looked like a doll," so nellie said. freddie's suit was white too, as he always had things as near like his twin sister's as a boy's clothes could be. altogether the party made a pretty summer picture, as they ran down to the waves, and promptly dipped in. "put your head under or you'll take cold," called dorothy, as she emerged from a big wave that had completely covered her up. nellie and nan "ducked" under, but flossie was a little timid, and held her mother's right hand even tighter than freddie clung to her left. "we must get hold of the ropes," declared mrs. bobbsey, seeing a big wave coming. they just reached the ropes when the wave caught them. nellie and nan were out farther, and the billow struck nellie with such force it actually washed her up on shore. "ha! ha!" laughed dorothy, "nellie got the first tumble." and then the waves kept dashing in so quickly that there was no more chance for conversation. freddie ducked under as every wave came, but flossie was not always quick enough, and it was very hard for her to keep hold of the ropes when a big splasher dashed against her. dorothy had not permission to swim out as far as she wanted to go, for her mother did not allow her outside the lines, excepting when mr. minturn was swimming near her, so she had to be content with floating around near where the other girls bounced up and down, like the bubbles on the billows. "look out, nan!" called dorothy, suddenly, as nan stood for a moment fixing her belt. but the warning came too late, for the next minute a wave picked nan up and tossed her with such force against a pier, that everybody thought she must be hurt. mrs. bobbsey was quite frightened, and ran out on the beach, putting freddie and flossie at a safe distance from the water, while she made her way to where nan had been tossed. for a minute or so, it seemed, nan disappeared, but presently she bobbed up, out of breath, but laughing, for hal had her by the hand, and was helping her to shore. the boys had been swimming around by themselves near by, and hal saw the wave making for nan just in time to get there first. "i had to swim that time," laughed nan, "whether i knew how or not." "you made a pretty good attempt," hal told her; "and the water is very deep around those piles. you had better not go out so far again, until you've learned a few strokes in the pools. get dorothy to teach you." "oh, oh, oh, nellie!" screamed mrs. bobbsey. "where is she? she has gone under that wave!" sure enough, nellie had disappeared. she had only let go the ropes one minute, but she had her back to the ocean watching nan's rescue, when a big billow struck her, knocked her down, and then where was she? "oh," cried freddie. "she is surely drowned!" hal struck out toward where nellie had been last seen, but he had only gone a few strokes when bert appeared with nellie under his arm. she had received just the same kind of toss nan got, and fortunately bert was just as near by to save her, as hal had been to save nan. nellie, too, was laughing and out of breath when bert towed her in. "i felt like a rubber ball," she said, as soon as she could speak, "and bert caught me on the first bounce." "you girls should have ropes around your waists, and get someone to hold the other end," teased dorothy, coming out with the others on the sands. "well, i think we have all had enough of the water for this morning," said mrs. bobbsey, too nervous to let the girls go in again. boys and girls were willing to take a sun bath on the beach, so, while hal and bert started in to build a sand house for freddie, the four girls capered around, playing tag and enjoying themselves generally. flossie thought it great fun to dig for the little soft crabs that hide in the deep damp sand. she found a pasteboard box and into this she put all her fish. "i've got a whole dozen!" she called to freddie, presently. but freddie was so busy with his sand castle he didn't have time to bother with baby crabs. "look at our fort," called bert to the girls. "we can shoot right through our battlements," he declared, as he sank down in the sand and looked out through the holes in the sand fort. "shoot the indian and you get a cigar," called dorothy, taking her place as "indian" in front of the fort, and playing target for the boys. first hal tossed a pebble through a window in the fort, then bert tried it, but neither stone went anywhere near dorothy, the "indian." "now, my turn," she claimed, squatting down back of the sand wall and taking aim at hal, who stood out front. and if she didn't hit him--just on the foot with a little white pebble! "hurrah for our sharpshooter!" cried bert. of course the hard part of the trick was to toss a pebble through the window without knocking down the wall, but dorothy stood to one side, and swung her arm, so that the stone went straight through and reached hal, who stood ten feet away. "i'm next," said nellie, taking her place behind "the guns." nellie swung her arm and down came the fort! "oh my!" called freddie, "you've knocked down the whole gun wall. you'll have to be---" "court-martialed," said hal, helping freddie out with his war terms. "she's a prisoner of war," announced bert, getting hold of nellie, who dropped her head and acted like someone in real distress. just as if it were all true, nan and dorothy stood by, wringing their hands, in horror, while the boys brought the poor prisoner to the frontier, bound her hands with a piece of cord, and stood her up against an abandoned umbrella pole. hal acted as judge. "have you anything to say why sentence should not be pronounced upon you?" he asked in a severe voice. "i have," sighed nellie. "i did not intend to betray my country. the enemy caused the--the--downfall of quebec," she stammered, just because the name of that place happened to come to her lips. "who is her counsel?" asked the judge. "your honor," spoke up dorothy, "this soldier has done good service. she has pegged stones at your honor with good effect, she has even captured a company of wild pond lilies in your very ranks, and now, your honor, i plead for mercy." the play of the children had, by this time, attracted quite a crowd, for the bathing hour was over, and idlers tarried about. "fair play!" called a strange boy in the crowd, taking up the spirit of fun. "that soldier has done good service. she took a sassy little crab out of my ear this very day!" freddie looked on as if it were all true. flossie did not laugh a bit, but really seemed quite frightened. "i move that sentence be pronounced," called bert, being on the side of the prosecution. "the prisoner will look this way!" commanded hal. nellie tossed back her wet brown curls and faced the crowd. "the sentence of the court is that the prisoner be transported for life," announced hal, while four boys fell in around nellie, and she silently marched in military fashion toward the bathing pavilion, with dorothy and nan at her heels. here the war game ended, and everyone was satisfied with that day's fun on the sands. chapter x the shell hunt "now, all ready for the hunting expedition," called uncle william, very early the next morning, he having taken a day away from his office in the city, to enjoy himself with the bobbseys at the seashore. it was to be a long journey, so aunt emily thought it wise to take the donkey cart, so that the weary travelers, as they fell by the wayside, might be put in the cart until refreshed. besides, the shells and things could be brought home in the cart. freddie expected to capture a real sea serpent, and dorothy declared she would bring back a whale. nellie had an idea she would find something valuable, maybe a diamond, that some fish had swallowed in mistake for a lump of sugar at the bottom of the sea. so, with pleasant expectations, the party started off, bert and hal acting as guides, and leading the way. "if you feel like climbing down the rocks here we can walk all along the edge," said hal. "but be careful!" he cautioned, "the rocks are awfully slippery. dorothy will have to go on ahead down the road with the donkeys, and we can meet her at the point." freddie and flossie went along with dorothy, as the descent was considered too dangerous for the little ones. dorothy let freddie drive to make up for the fun the others had sliding down the rocks. uncle daniel started down the cliffs first, and close behind him came mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily. nan and nellie took another path, if a small strip of jagged rock could be called a path, while hal and bert scaled down over the very roughest part, it seemed to the girls. "oh, mercy!" called nan, as a rock slipped from under her foot and she promptly slipped after it. "nellie, give me your hand or i'll slide into the ocean!" nellie tried to cross over to nan, but in doing so she lost her footing and fell, then turned over twice, and only stopped as she came in contact with uncle william's heels. "are you hurt?" everybody asked at once, but nellie promptly jumped up, showing the toss had not injured her in the least. "i thought i was going to get an unexpected bath that time," she said, laughing, "only for mr. minturn interfering. i saw a star in each heel of his shoe," she declared' "and i was never before glad to bump my nose." without further accident the party reached the sands, and saw dorothy and the little ones a short distance away. freddie had already filled his cap with little shells, and flossie was busy selecting some of the finest from a collection she had made. "let's dig," said hal to bert. "there are all sorts of mussels, crabs, clams, and oysters around here. the fisheries are just above that point." so the boys began searching in the wet sand, now and then bringing up a "fairy crab" or a baby clam. "here's an oyster," called nellie, coming up with the shellfish in her hand. it was a large oyster and had been washed quite clean by the noisy waves. "let's open it," said hal. "shall i, nellie?" "yes, if you want to," replied the girl, indifferently, for she did not care about the little morsel. hal opened it easily with his knife, and then he asked who was hungry. "oh, see here!" he called, suddenly. "what this? it looks like a pearl." "let me see," said mr. minturn, taking the little shell in his hand, and turning out the oyster. "yes, that surely is a pearl. now, nellie, you have a prize. sometimes these little pearls are quite valuable. at any rate, you can have it set in a ring," declared mr. minturn. "oh, let me see," pleaded dorothy. "i've always looked for pearls, and never could find one. how lucky you are, nellie. it's worth some money." "maybe it isn't a pearl at all," objected nellie, hardly believing that anything of value could be picked up so easily. "yes, it is," declared mr. minturn. "i've seen that kind before. i'll take care of it for you, and find out what it is worth," and he very carefully sealed the tiny speck in an envelope which he put in his pocketbook. after that everybody wanted to dig for oysters, but it seemed the one that nellie found had been washed in somehow, for the oyster beds were out in deeper water. yet, every time freddie found a clam or a mussel, he wanted it opened to look for pearls. "let us get a box of very small shells and we can string them for necklaces," suggested nan. "we can keep them for christmas gifts too, if we string them well." "oh, i've got enough for beads and bracelets," declared flossie, for, indeed, she had lost no time in filling her box with the prettiest shells to be found on the sands. "oh, i see a net," called bert, running toward a lot of driftwood in which an old net was tangled. bert soon disentangled it and it proved to be a large piece of seine, the kind that is often used to decorate walls in libraries. "just what i wanted!" he declared. "and smell the salt. i will always have the ocean in my room now, for i can close my eyes and smell the salt water." "it is a good piece," declared hal. "you were lucky to find it. those sell for a couple of dollars to art dealers." "well, i won't sell mine at any price," bert said. "i've been wishing for a net to put back of my swords and indian arrows. they make a fine decoration." the grown folks had come up now, and all agreed the seine was a very pretty one. "well, i declare!" said uncle william, "i have often looked for a piece of net and never could get that kind. you and nellie were the lucky ones to-day." "oh, oh, oh!" screamed freddie. "what's that?" and before he had a chance to think, he ran down to the edge of the water to meet a big barrel that had been washed in. "look out!" screamed bert, but freddie was looking in, and at that moment the water washed in right over freddie's shoes, stockings, and all. "oh!" screamed everybody in chorus, for the next instant a stronger wave came in and knocked freddie down. quick as a flash dorothy, who was nearest the edge, jumped in after freddie, for as the wave receded the little boy fell in again, and might have been washed out into real danger if he had not been promptly rescued. but as it was he was dripping wet, even his curls had been washed, and his linen suit looked just like one of dinah's dish towels. dorothy, too, was wet to the knees, but she did not mind that. the day was warming up and she could get along without shoes or stockings until she reached home. "freddie's always fallin' in," gasped flossie, who was always getting frightened at her twin brother's accidents. "well, i get out, don't i?" pouted freddie, not feeling very happy in his wet clothing. "now we must hurry home," insisted mrs. bobbsey, as she put freddie in the donkey cart, while dorothy, after pulling off her wet shoes and stockings, put a robe over her feet, whipped up the donkeys, doodle and dandy, and with freddie and flossie in the seat of the cart, the shells and net in the bottom, started off towards the cliffs, there to fix freddie up in dry clothing. of course he was not "wet to the skin," as he said, but his shoes and stockings were soaked, and his waist was wet, and that was enough. five minutes later dorothy pulled up the donkeys at the kitchen door, where dinah took freddie in her arms, and soon after fixed him up. "you is de greatest boy for fallin' in," she declared. "nebber saw sech a faller. but all de same you'se dinah's baby boy," and kind-hearted dinah rubbed freddie's feet well, so he would not take cold; then, with fresh clothing, she made him just as comfortable and happy as he had been when he had started out shell hunting. chapter xi downy on the ocean "harry is coming to-day," bert told freddie, on the morning following the shell hunt, "and maybe aunt sarah will come with him. i'm going to get the cart now to drive over to the station. you may come along, freddie, mother said so. get your cap and hurry up," and bert rushed off to the donkey barn to put doodle and dandy in harness. freddie was with bert as quickly as he could grab his cap off the rack, and the two brothers promptly started for the station. "i hope they bring peaches," freddie said, thinking of the beautiful peaches in the meadow brook orchard that had not been quite ripe when the bobbseys left the country for the seaside. numbers of people were crowded around the station when the boys got there, as the summer season was fast waning, so that bert and freddie had hard work to get a place near the platform for their cart. "that's the train!" cried bert. "now watch out so that we don't miss them in the crowd," and the older brother jumped out of the cart to watch the faces as they passed along. "there he is," cried freddie, clapping his hands. "harry! harry! aunt sarah!" he called, until everybody around the station was looking at him. "here we are!" exclaimed aunt sarah the next minute, having heard freddie's voice, and followed it to the cart. "i'm so glad you came," declared bert to harry. "and i'm awfully glad you came," freddie told aunt sarah, when she stopped kissing him. "but we cannot ride in that little cart," aunt sarah said, as bert offered to help her in. "oh, yes, you can," bert assured her. "these donkeys are very strong, and so is the cart. put your satchel right in here," and he shoved the valise up in front, under the seat. "but we have a basket of peaches somewhere," said aunt sarah. "they came in the baggage car." "oh goody! goody!" cried freddie, clapping his little brown hands. "let's get them." "no, we had better have them sent over," bert insisted, knowing that the basket would take up too much room, also that freddie might want to sample the peaches first, and so make trouble in the small cart. much against his will the little fellow left the peaches, and started off for the cliffs. the girls, dorothy, nellie, and nan, were waiting at the driveway, and all shouted a welcome to the people from meadow brook. "you just came in time," declared dorothy. "we are going to have a boat carnival tomorrow, and they expect it will be lovely this year." aunt emily and mrs. bobbsey met the others now, and extended such a hearty welcome, there could be no mistaking how pleased they all were to see harry and aunt sarah. as soon as harry had a chance to lay his traveling things aside bert and freddie began showing him around. "come on down to the lake, first," bert insisted. "hal bingham may have his canoe out. he's a fine fellow, and we have splendid times together." "and you'll see my duck, downy," said freddie. "oh, he's growed so big--he's just like a turkey." harry thought downy must be a queer duck if he looked that way, but, of course, he did not question freddie's description. "here, downy, downy!" called freddie, as they came to the little stream where the duck always swam around. but there was no duck to be seen. "where is he?" freddie asked, anxiously. "maybe back of some stones," ventured harry. then he and bert joined in the search, but no duck was to be found. "that's strange," bert reflected. "he's always around here." "where does the lake run to?" harry inquired. "into the ocean," answered bert; "but downy never goes far. there's hal now. we'll get in his boat and see if we can find the duck." hal, seeing his friends, rowed in to the shore with his father's new rowboat that he was just trying. "we have lost freddie's duck," said bert. "have you seen him anywhere?" "no, i just came out," replied hal. "but get in and we'll go look for him." "this is my cousin harry i told you about," said bert, introducing harry, and the two boys greeted each other, cordially. all four got into the boat, and harry took care of freddie while the other boys rowed. "oh. i'm afraid someone has stoled downy," cried freddie, "and maybe they'll make--make--pudding out of him." "no danger," said hal, laughing. "no one around here would touch your duck. but he might have gotten curious to see the ocean. he certainly doesn't seem to be around here." the boys had reached the line where the little lake went in a tunnel under a road, and then opened out into the ocean. "we'll have to leave the boat here," said hal, "and go and ask people if downy came down this way." tying up the boat to a stake, the boys crossed the bridge, and made their way through the crowd of bathers down to the waves. "oh, oh!" screamed freddie. "i see him! there he is!" and sure enough, there was downy, like a tiny speck, rolling up and down on the waves, evidently having a fine swim, and not being in the least alarmed at the mountains of water that came rolling in. "oh, how can we get him?" cried freddie, nearly running into the water in his excitement. "i don't know," hal admitted. "he's pretty far out." just then a life-saver came along. freddie always insisted the life-guards were not white people, because they were so awfully browned from the sun, and really, this one looked like some foreigner, for he was almost black. "what's the trouble?" he asked, seeing freddie's distress. "oh, downy is gone!" cried the little fellow in tears now. "gone!" exclaimed the guard, thinking downy was some boy who had swam out too far. "yes, see him out there," sobbed freddie, and before the other boys had a chance to tell the guard that downy was only a duck, the life-saver was in his boat, and pulling out toward the spot where freddie said downy was "downing"! "there's someone drowning!" went up the cry all around. then numbers of men and boys, who had been bathing, plunged into the waves, and followed the life-saver out to the deeper water. it was useless for harry, hal, or bert to try to explain to anyone about the duck, for the action of the life-saver told a different story. another guard had come down to the beach now, and was getting his ropes ready, besides opening up the emergency case, that was locked in the boat on the shore. "wait till they find out," whispered hal to bert, watching the guard in the boat nearing the white speck on the waves. it was a long ways out, but the boys could see the guard stop rowing. "he's got him," shouted the crowd, also seeing the guard pick something out of the water. "i guess he had to lay him in the bottom of the boat." "maybe he's dead!" the people said, still believing the life-saver had been after some unfortunate swimmer. "oh, he's got him! he's got him!" cried freddie, joyfully, still keeping up the mistake for the sightseers. as the guard in the boat had his back to shore, and pulled in that way, even his companion on land had not yet discovered his mistake, and he waited to help revive whoever lay in the bottom of the boat. the crowd pressed around so closely now that freddie's toes were painfully trampled upon. "he's mine," cried the little fellow. "let me have him." "it's his brother," whispered a sympathetic boy, almost in tears. "let him get over by the boat," and so the crowd made room for freddie, as the life-saver pulled up on the beach. the people held their breath. "he's dead!" insisted a number, when there was no move in the bottom of the boat. then the guard stooped down and brought up--downy! "only a duck!" screamed all the boys in the crowd, while the other life-saver laughed heartily over his preparations to restore a duck to consciousness. "he's mine! he's mine!" insisted freddie, as the life-saver fondled the pretty white duck, and the crowd cheered. "yes, he does belong to my little brother," bert said, "and he didn't mean to fool you at all. it was just a mistake," the older brother apologized. "oh, i know that," laughed the guard. "but when we think there is any danger we don't wait for particulars. he's a very pretty duck all the same, and a fine swimmer, and i'm glad i got him for the little fellow, for likely he would have kept on straight out to smooth water. then he would never have tried to get back." the guard now handed downy over to his young owner, and without further remarks than "thank you," freddie started off through the crowd, while everybody wanted to see the wonderful duck. the joke caused no end of fun, and it took harry, hal, and bert to save freddie and downy from being too roughly treated, by the boys who were over-curious to see both the wonderful duck and the happy owner. chapter xii real indians "now we will have to watch downy or he will be sure to take that trip again," said bert, as they reached home with the enterprising duck. "we could build a kind of dam across the narrowest part of the lake," suggested hal; "kind of a close fence he would not go through. see, over there it is only a little stream, about five feet wide. we can easily fence that up. i've got lots of material up in our garden house." "that would be a good idea," agreed bert. "we can put downy in the barn until we get it built. we won't take any more chances." so downy was shut up in his box, back of the donkey stall, for the rest of the day. "how far back do these woods run?" harry asked his companions, he always being interested in acres, as all real country boys are. "i don't know," hal bingham answered. "i never felt like going to the end to find out. but they say the indians had reservations out here not many years ago." "then i'll bet there are lots of arrow heads and stone hatchets around. let's go look. have we time before dinner, bert?" harry asked. "i guess so," replied the cousin. "uncle william's train does not get in until seven, and we can be back by that time. we'll have to slip away from freddie, though. here he comes. hide!" and at this the boys got behind things near the donkey house, and freddie, after calling and looking around, went back to the house without finding the "boy boys." "we can cross the lake in my boat," said hal, as they left their hiding-places. "then, we will be right in the woods. i'll tie the boat on the other side until we come back; no one will touch it." "is there no bridge?" harry asked. "not nearer than the crossings, away down near the ocean beach," said bert. "but the boat will be all right. there are no thieves around here." it was but a few minutes' work to paddle across the lake and tie up the canoe on the opposite shore. hal and bert started off, feeling they would find something interesting, under harry's leadership. it was quite late in the afternoon, and the thick pines and ferns made the day almost like night, as the boys tramped along. "fine big birds around here," remarked harry, as the feathered creatures of the ocean darted through the trees, making their way to the lake's edge. "yes, we're planning for a thanksgiving shoot," hal told him. "we hope, if we make it up, you can come down." "i'd like to first-rate," said harry. "hello!" he suddenly exclaimed, "i thought i kicked over a stone hatchet head." instantly the three boys were on their knees searching through the brown pine needles. "there it is!" declared harry, picking up a queer-shaped stone. "that's real indian--i know. father has some, but this is the first i was ever lucky enough to find." the boys examined the stone. there were queer marks on it, but they were so worn down it was impossible to tell what they might mean. "what tribe camped here?" asked harry. "i don't know," answered hal. "i just heard an old farmer, out berkley way, talking about the indians. you see, we only come down here in the summer time. then we keep so close to the ocean we don't do much exploring." the boys were so interested now they did not notice how dark it was getting. neither did they notice the turns they were making in the deep woodlands. now and then a new stone would attract their attention. they would kick it over, pick it up, and if it were of queer shape it would be pocketed for further inspection. "say," said hal, suddenly, "doesn't it look like night?" and at that he ran to a clear spot between the trees, where he might see the sky. "sure as you live it is night!" he called back to the others. "we better pick the trail back to our canoe, or we may have to become real indians and camp out here in spite of our appetites." then the boys discovered that the trees were much alike, and there were absolutely no paths to follow. "well, there's where the sun went down, so we must turn our back to that," advised hal, as they tramped about, without making any progress toward finding the way home. what at first seemed to be fun, soon turned out to be a serious matter; for the boys really could not find their way home. each, in turn, thought he had the right way, but soon found he was mistaken. "well, i'll give up!" said hal. "to think we could be lost like three babies!" "only worse," added harry, "for little fellows would cry and someone might help them." "oh! oh! oh! oh! we're lost! we're the babes in the woods!" shouted bert at the top of his voice, joking, yet a little in earnest. "let's build a fire," suggested harry. "that's the way the indians used to do. when our comrades see the smoke of the fire they will come and rescue us." the other boys agreed to follow the chief's direction. so they set to work. it took some time to get wood together, and to start the fire, but when it was finally lighted, they sat around it and wasted a lot of time. it would have been better had they tried to get out of the woods, for as they waited, it grew darker. "i wouldn't mind staying here all night," drawled harry, stretching himself out on the dry leaves alongside the fire. "well, i'd like supper first," put in hal. "we were to have roast duck to-night," and he smacked his lips. "what was that!" harry exclaimed, jumping up. "a bell, i thought," whispered hal, quite frightened. "indians!" added bert. "oh, take me home!" he wailed, and while he tried to laugh, it was a failure, for he really felt more like crying. "there it is again. a cow bell!" declared harry, who could not be mistaken on bells. "let's find the cow and maybe she will then find us," he suggested, starting off in the direction that the "tink-tink-tink-tink" came from. "here she is!" he called, the next moment, as he walked up to a pretty little cow with the bell on her neck. "now, where do you belong?" harry asked the cow. "do you know where the cliffs are, and how we can get home?" the cow was evidently hungry for her supper, and bellowed loud and long. then she rubbed her head against harry's sleeve, and started to walk through the dark woods. "if we follow her she will take us out, all right," said harry, and so the three boys willingly started off after the cow. just as harry had said, she made her way to a path, then the rest of the way was clear. "hurrah!" shouted hal, "i smell supper already," and now, at the end of the path, an opening in the trees showed a few scattered houses. "why, we are away outside of berkley," went on hal. "now, we will have a long tramp home, but i'm glad even at that, for a night under the trees was not a pleasant prospect." "we must take this cow home first," said harry, with a farmer's instinct. "where do you suppose she belongs?" "we might try that house first," suggested bert, pointing to a cottage with a small barn, a little way from the wood. "come, cush," said harry, to the strange cow, and the animal obediently walked along. there was no need to make inquiries, for outside of the house a little woman met them. "oh, you've found her!" she began. "well, my husband was just going to the pound, for that old miser of a pound master takes a cow in every chance he gets, just for the fine. come, daisy, you're hungry," and she patted the cow affectionately. "now, young men, i'm obliged to you, and you have saved a poor man a day's pay, for that is just what the fine would be. if you will accept a pail of milk each, i have the cans, and would be glad to give you each a quart. you might have berries for dinner," she finished. "we would be very glad of the milk," spoke up harry, promptly, always wide awake and polite when there was a question that concerned farmers. "do you live far?" asked the woman. "only at the cliffs," said harry. "we will soon he home now. but we were lost until your cow found us. she brought us here, or we would be in the woods yet." "well, i do declare!" laughed the little woman, filling each of three pails from the fresh milk, that stood on a bench, under the kitchen window. "now, our man goes right by your house to-morrow morning, and if you leave the pails outside he will get them. maybe your mothers might like some fresh milk, or buttermilk, or fresh eggs, or new butter?" she asked. "shouldn't wonder," said hal. "we have hard work to get fresh stuff; they seem to send it all to the hotels. i'll let the man know when he comes for the pails." "thank you, thank you," replied the little woman, "and much obliged for bringing daisy home. if you ever want a drink of milk, and are out this way, just knock at my door and i'll see you don't go away thirsty." after more thanks on both sides, the lost boys started homeward, like a milk brigade, each with his bright tin pail of sweet new milk in his hand. chapter xiii the boat carnival "it didn't seem right to take all this milk," remarked hal, as the three boys made their way in the dark, along the ocean road. "but we would have offended the lady had we refused," said harry. "besides, we may be able to get her good customers by giving out the samples," he went on. "i'm sure it is good milk, for the place was clean, and that cow we found, or that found us, was a real jersey." the other boys did not attempt to question harry's right to give expert views where cows and milk were concerned; so they made their way along without further comment. "i suppose our folks will think we are lost," ventured hal. "then they will think right," admitted bert, "for that was just what we were, lost." crossing the bridge, the boys could hear voices. "that's father," declared hal. then they listened. "and that's uncle william," said bert, as another voice reached them. "gracious! i'm sorry this happened the first day i came," spoke up harry, realizing that the other boys would not have gone into the deep woods if he had not acted as leader. "here we are!" called hal. "hello there! that you, hal?" came a call. "yes; we're coming," hal answered, and the lost boys quickened their steps, as much as the pails of milk allowed. presently uncle william and mr. bingham came up, and were so glad to find that hal, harry, and bert were safe, they scarcely required any explanation for the delay in getting home. of course, both men had been boys themselves, and well remembered how easy it was to get lost, and be late reaching home. the milk pails, too, bore out the boys' story, had there been any doubt about it, but beyond a word of caution about dangerous places in deep woodlands there was not a harsh word spoken. a little farther on the road home, dorothy, nan, and nellie met the wanderers, and then the woodland escapade seemed a wild tale about bears, indians, and even witches, for each girl added, to the boys' story, so much of her own imagination that the dark night and the roaring of the ocean, finished up a very wild picture, indeed. "now, you are real heroes," answered dorothy, "and you are the bravest boys i know. i wish i had been along. just think of sitting by a campfire in a dark woods, and having no one to bring you home but a poor little cow!" and dorothy insisted on carrying bert's milk pail to show her respect for a real hero. even dinah and susan did not complain about serving a late dinner to the boys, and both maids said they had never before seen such perfectly splendid milk as came from the farmhouse. "we really might take some extra milk from that farm," said aunt emily, "for what we get is nothing like as rich in cream as this is." so, as harry said, the sample brought good results, for on the following morning, when the man called for the empty pail, susan ordered two quarts a day, besides some fresh eggs and new butter to be delivered twice a week. "do you know," said uncle william to mrs. bobbsey next morning at breakfast, when the children had left the table, "mr. bingham was telling me last night that his brother is at sea, on just such a voyage as little nellie's father went on. and a man named mclaughlin went with him, too. now, that's nellie's name, and i believe george bingham is the very man he went with." "you don't tell me!" exclaimed mrs. bobbsey. "and have they heard any news from mr. bingham's brother?" "nothing very definite, but a vessel sighted the schooner ten days ago. mr. bingham has no idea his brother is lost, as he is an experienced seaman, and the binghams are positive it is only a matter of the schooner being disabled, and the crew having a hard time to reach port," replied mr. minturn. "if nellie's mother only knew that," said mrs. bobbsey. "tell you what i'll do," said the brother-in-law; "just give me mrs. mclaughlin's address, and i'll go to see her to-day while i'm in town. then i can find out whether we have the right man in mind or not." of course, nothing was said to nellie about the clew to her father's whereabouts, but mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily were quite excited over it, for they were very fond of nellie, and besides, had visited her mother and knew of the poor woman's distress. "if it only could be true that the vessel is trying to get into port," reflected mrs. bobbsey. "surely, there would be enough help along the coast to save the crew." while this very serious matter was occupying the attention of the grown-up folks, the children were all enthusiasm over the water carnival, coming off that afternoon. hal and bert were dressed like real indians, and were to paddle in hal's canoe, while harry was fixed up like a student, a french explorer, and he was to row alone in hal's father's boat, to represent father marquette, the discoverer of the upper mississippi river. it was quite simple to make harry look like the famous discoverer, for he was tall and dark, and the robes were easily arranged with susan's black shawl, a rough cord binding it about his waist. uncle william's traveling cap answered perfectly for the french skullcap. "then i'm going to be pocahontas," insisted dorothy, as the boys' costumes brought her mind back to colonial days. "oh, no," objected hal, "you girls better take another period of history. we can't all be indians." "well, i'll never be a puritan, not even for fun," declared dorothy, whose spirit of frolic was certainly quite opposite that of a priscilla. "who was some famous girl or woman in american history?" asked harry, glad to get a chance to "stick" dorothy. "oh, there are lots of them," answered the girl, promptly. "don't think that men were the only people in america who did anything worth while." "then be one that you particularly admire," teased harry, knowing very well dorothy could not, at that minute, name a single character she would care to impersonate. "oh, let us be real," suggested nellie. "everybody will be all make-believe. i saw lots of people getting ready, and i'm sure they will all look like christmas-tree things, tinsel and paper and colored stuffs." "what would be real?', questioned dorothy. "well, the fisherman's daughters," nellie said, very slowly. "we have a picture at home of two little girls waiting--for their--father." the boys noticed nellie's manner, and knew why she hesitated. surely it would be real for her to be a fisherman's daughter, waiting for her father! "oh, good!" said dorothy. "i've got that picture in a book, and we can copy it exactly. you and i can be in a boat alone. i can row." "you had better have a line to my boat," suggested harry. "it would be safer in the crowd." it had already been decided that flossie, freddie, and nan should go in the minturn launch, that was made up to look like a venetian gondola. mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily and aunt sarah were to be italian ladies, not that they cared to be in the boat parade, but because aunt emily, being one of the cottagers, felt obliged to encourage the social features of the little colony. it was quite extraordinary how quickly and how well dorothy managed to get up her costume and nellie's. of course, the boys were wonderful indians, and harry a splendid frenchman; mrs. bobbsey, aunt sarah, and aunt emily only had to add lace headpieces to their brightest dinner gowns to be like the showy italians, while freddie looked like a little prince in his black velvet suit, with flossie's red sash tied from shoulder to waist, in gay court fashion. flossie wore the pink slip that belonged under her lace dress, and on her head was a silk handkerchief pinned up at the ends, in that square quaint fashion of little ladies of venice. there were to be prizes, of course, for the best costumes and prettiest boats, and the judges' stand was a very showy affair, built at the bridge end of the lake. there was plenty of excitement getting ready, but finally all hands were dressed, and the music from the lake told our friends the procession was already lining up. mrs. minturn's launch was given second place, just back of the mayor's, and mrs. bingham's launch, fixed up to represent an automobile, came next. then, there were all kinds of boats, some made to represent impossible things, like big swans, eagles, and one even had a lot of colored ropes flying about it, while an automobile lamp, fixed up in a great paper head, was intended to look like a monster sea-serpent, the ropes being its fangs. by cutting out a queer face in the paper over the lighted lamp the eyes blazed, of course, while the mouth was red, and wide open, and there were horns, too, made of twisted pieces of tin, so that altogether the sea-serpent looked very fierce, indeed. the larger boats were expected to be very fine, so that as the procession passed along the little lake the steam launches did not bring out much cheering from the crowd. but now the single boats were coming. "father marquette!" cried the people, instantly recognizing the historic figure harry represented. so slowly his boat came along, and so solemn he looked! then, as he reached the judges' stand, he stood up, put his hand over his eyes, looking off in the distance, exactly like the picture of the famous french explorer. this brought out long and loud cheering, and really harry deserved it, for he not only looked like, but really acted, the character. there were a few more small boats next. in one the summer girl was all lace and parasol, in another there was a rude fisherman, then; some boys were dressed to look like dandies, and they seemed to enjoy themselves more than did the people looking at them. there was also a craft fixed up to look like a small gunboat. hal and bert then paddled along. they were perfect indians, even having their faces browned with dark powder. susan's feather duster had been dissected to make up the boys' headgear, and two overall suits, with jumpers, had been slashed to pieces to make the indian suits. the canoe, of course, made a great stir. "who are they?" everybody wanted to know. but no one could guess. "oh, look at this!" called the people, as an old boat with two little girls drifted along. the fisherman's daughters! perhaps it was because there was so much gayety around that these little girls looked so real. from the side of their weather-beaten boat dragged an old fishnet. each girl had on her head a queer half-hood, black, and from under this nellie's brown hair fell in tangles on her bare shoulders, and dorothy's beautiful yellow ringlets framed in her own pretty face. the children wore queer bodices, like those seen in pictures of dutch girls, and full skirts of dark stuff finished out their costumes. as they sat in the boat and looked out to sea, "watching for the fisherman's return," their attitude and pose were perfect. the people did not even cheer. they seemed spellbound. "that child is an actress," they said, noting the "real" look on nellie's face. but nellie was not acting. she was waiting for the lost father at sea. when would he come back to her? chapter xiv the first prize when the last craft in the procession had passed the judges' stand, and the little lake was alive with decorations and nautical novelties, everybody, of course, in the boats and on land, was anxious to know who would get the prizes. there were four to be given, and the fortunate ones could have gifts in silver articles or the value in money, just as they chose. everybody waited anxiously, when the man at the judges' stand stood up and called through the big megaphone: "let the fisherman's daughters pass down to the stand!" "oh, we are going to get a prize," dorothy said to nellie. "i'll just cut the line to harry's boat and row back to the stand." then, when the two little girls sailed out all by themselves, dorothy rowing gracefully, while nellie helped some, although not accustomed to the oars, the people fairly shouted. for a minute the girls waited in front of the stand. but the more people inspected them the better they appeared. finally, the head judge stood up. "first prize is awarded to the fisherman's daughters," he announced. the cheering that followed his words showed the approval of the crowd. nellie and dorothy were almost frightened at the noise. then they rowed their boat to the edge, and as the crowd gathered around them to offer congratulations, the other prizes were awarded. the second prize went to the indians! "lucky they don't know us," said hal to bert, "for they would never let the two best prizes get in one set." the indians were certainly well made-up, and their canoe a perfect redman's bark. the third prize went to the "sea-serpent," for being the funniest boat in the procession; and the fourth to the gunboat. then came a great shouting! a perfect day had added to the success of the carnival, and now many people adjourned to the pavilion, where a reception was held, and good things to eat were bountifully served. "but who was the little girl with dorothy minturn?" asked the mayor's wife. of course everybody knew dorothy, but nellie was a stranger. mrs. minturn, mrs. bobbsey, aunt sarah, mrs. bingham, and mrs. blake, the latter being the mayor's wife, had a little corner in the pavilion to themselves. here nellie's story was quietly told. "how nice it was she got the prize," said mrs. blake, after hearing about nellie's hardships. "i think we had better have it in money--and we might add something to it," she suggested. "i am sure mr. blake would be glad to. he often gives a prize himself. i'll just speak to him." of course dorothy was to share the prize, and she accepted a pretty silver loving cup. but what do you suppose they gave nellie? fifty dollars! was not that perfectly splendid? the prize for nellie was twenty-five dollars, but urged by mrs. blake, the mayor added to it his own check for the balance. naturally nellie wanted to go right home to her mother with it, and nothing about the reception had any interest for her after she received the big check. however, mrs. bobbsey insisted that mr. minturn would take the money to nellie's mother the next day, so the little girl had to be content. then, when all the festivities were over, and the children's excitement had brought them to bed very tired that night, nellie sat by her window and looked out at the sea! always the same prayer, but to-night, somehow, it seemed answered! was it the money for mother that made the father seem so near? the roaring waves seemed to call out: "nellie--nellie dear! i'm coming--coming home to you!" and while the little girl was thus dreaming upstairs, mr. minturn down in the library was telling about his visit to nellie's mother. "there is no doubt about it," he told mrs. bobbsey. "it was nellie's father who went away with george bingham, and it was certainly that schooner that was sighted some days ago." the ladies, of course, were overjoyed at the prospect of the best of luck for nellie--her father's possible return,--and then it was decided that uncle william should again go to mrs. mclaughlin, this time to take her the prize money, and that mrs. bobbsey should go along with him, as it was such an important errand. "and you remember that little pearl that nellie found on the beach? well, i'm having it set in a ring for her. it is a real pearl, but not very valuable, yet i thought it would be a souvenir of her visit at the cliffs," said mr. minturn. "that will be very nice," declared mrs. bobbsey. "i am sure no one deserves to be made happy more than that child does, for just fancy, how she worked in that store as cash girl until her health gave way. and now she is anxious to go back to the store again. of course she is worried about her mother, but the prize money ought to help mrs. mclaughlin so that nellie would not need to cut her vacation short." "what kind of treasure was it that these men went to sea after?" aunt emily asked uncle william. "a cargo of mahogany," mr. minturn replied. "you see, that wood is scarce now, a cargo is worth a fortune, and a shipload was being brought from the west indies to new york when a storm blew the vessel out to a very dangerous point. of course, the vessel was wrecked, and so were two others that later attempted to reach the valuable cargo. you see the wind always blows the one way there, and it is impossible to get the mahogany out of its trap. now, george bingham was offered fifty thousand dollars to bring that wood to port, and he decided that he could do it by towing each log around the reef by canoes. the logs are very heavy, each one is worth between eighty and one hundred dollars, but the risk meant such a reward, in case of success, that they went at it. of course the real danger is around the wreck. once free from that point and the remainder of the voyage would be only subject to the usual ocean storms." "and those men were to go through the dangerous waters in little canoes!" exclaimed aunt emily. "but the danger was mostly from winds to the sails of vessels," explained uncle william. "small craft are safest in such waters." "and if they succeeded in bringing the mahogany in?" asked mrs. bobbsey. "nellie would be comparatively rich, for her father went as george bingham's partner," finished mr. minturn. so, the evening went into night, and nellie, the fisherman's daughter, slept on, to dream that the song of the waves came true. chapter xv lost on an island the calm that always follows a storm settled down upon the cliffs the day after the carnival. the talk of the entire summer settlement was nellie and her prize, and naturally, the little girl herself thought of home and the lonely mother, who was going to receive such a surprise--fifty dollars! it was a pleasant morning, and freddie and flossie were out watching downy trying to get through the fence that the boys had built to keep him out of the ocean. freddie had a pretty little boat uncle william had brought down from the city. it had sails, that really caught the wind, and carried the boat along. of course freddie had a long cord tied to it, so it could not get out of his reach, and while flossie tried to steer the vessel with a long whip, freddie made believe he was a canal man, and walked along the tow path with the cord in hand. "i think i would have got a prize in the boat parade if i had this steamer," said freddie, feeling his craft was really as fine as any that had taken part in the carnival. "maybe you would," agreed flossie. "now let me sail it a little." "all right," said freddie, and he offered the cord to his twin sister. "oh," she exclaimed, "i dropped it!" the next minute the little boat made a turn with the breeze, and before flossie could get hold of the string it was all in the water! "oh, my boat!" cried freddie. "get it quick!" "i can't!" declared flossie. "it is out too far! oh, what shall we do!" "now you just get it! you let it go," went on the brother, without realizing that his sister could not reach the boat, nor the string either, for that matter. "oh, it's going far away!" cried flossie; almost in tears. the little boat was certainly making its way out into the lake, and it sailed along so proudly, it must have been very glad to be free. "there's hal bingham's boat," ventured flossie. "maybe i could go out a little ways in that." "of course you can," promptly answered freddie. "i can row." "i don't know, we might upset!" flossie said, hesitating. "but it isn't deep. why, downy walks around out here," went on the brother. this assurance gave the little girl courage, and slipping the rope off the peg that secured the boat to the shore, very carefully she put freddie on one seat, while she sat herself on the other. the oars were so big she did not attempt to handle them, but just depended on the boat to do its own sailing. "isn't this lovely!" declared freddie, as the boat drifted quietly along. "yes, but how can we get back?" asked flossie, beginning to realize their predicament. "oh, easy!" replied freddie, who suddenly seemed to have become a man, he was so brave. "the tide comes down pretty soon, and then our boat will go back to shore." freddie had heard so much about the tide he felt he understood it perfectly. of course, there was no tide on the lake, although the waters ran lazily toward the ocean at times. "but we are not getting near my boat," freddie complained, for indeed the toy sailboat was drifting just opposite their way. "well, i can't help it, i'm sure," cried flossie. "and i just wish i could get back. i'm going to call somebody." "nobody can hear you," said her brother. "they are all down by the ocean, and there's so much noise there you can't even hear thunder." where the deep woods joined the lake there was a little island. this was just around the turn, and entirely out of view of either the minturn or the bingham boat landing. toward this little island the children's boat was now drifting. "oh, we'll be real robinson crusoes!" exclaimed freddie, delighted at the prospect of such an adventure. "i don't want to be no robinson crusoe!" pouted his sister. "i just want to get back home," and she began to cry. "we're going to bunk," announced freddie, as at that minute the boat did really bump into the little island. "come, flossie, let us get ashore," said the brother, in that superior way that had come to him in their distress. flossie willingly obeyed. "be careful!" she cautioned. "don't step out till i get hold of your hand. it is awfully easy to slip getting out of a boat." fortunately for the little ones they had been taught to be careful when around boats, so that they were able to take care of themselves pretty well, even in their present danger. once on land, flossie's fears left her, and she immediately set about picking the pretty little water flowers, that grew plentifully among the ferns and flag lilies. "i'm going to build a hut," said freddie, putting pieces of dry sticks up against a willow tree. soon the children became so interested they did not notice their boat drift away, and really leave them all alone on the island! in the meantime everybody at the house was looking for the twins. their first fear, of course, was the ocean, and down to the beach mrs. bobbsey, aunt sarah, and the boys hurried, while aunt emily and the girls made their way to the gypsy camp, fearing the fortune tellers might have stolen the children in order to get money for bringing them back again. dorothy walked boldly up to the tent. an old woman sat outside and looked very wicked, her face was so dark and her hair so black and tangled. "have you seen a little boy and girl around here?" asked dorothy, looking straight into the tent. "no, nobody round here. tell your fortune, lady?" this to aunt emily, who waited for dorothy. "not to-day," answered aunt emily. "we are looking for two children. are you sure you have not seen them?" "no, lady. gypsy tell lady's fortune, then lady find them," she suggested, with that trick her class always uses, trying to impose on persons in trouble with the suggestion of helping them out of it. "no, we have not time," insisted aunt emily; really quite alarmed now that there was no trace of the little twins. "let me look through your tent?" asked dorothy, bravely. "what for?" demanded the old woman. "to make sure the children are not hiding," and without waiting for a word from the old woman, dorothy walked straight into that gypsy tent! even aunt emily was frightened. suppose somebody inside should keep dorothy? "come out of my house!" muttered the woman, starting after dorothy. "come out, dorothy," called her mother, but the girl was making her way through the old beds and things inside, to make sure there was no freddie or flossie to be found in the tent. it was a small place, of course, and it did not take dorothy very long to search it. presently she appeared again, much to the relief of her mother, nan, and nellie, who waited breathlessly outside. "they are not around here," said dorothy. "now, mother, give the old woman some change to make up for my trespassing." aunt emily took a coin from her chatelaine. "thank the lady! good lady," exclaimed the old gypsy. "lady find her babies; babies play--see!" (and she pretended to look into the future with some dirty cards.) "babies play in woods. natalie sees babies picking flowers." now, how could anybody ever guess that the old gypsy had just come down from picking dandelions by the lake, where she really had seen freddie and flossie on the island? and how could anybody know that she was too wicked to tell aunt emily this, but was waiting until night, to bring the children back home herself, and get a reward for doing so? she had seen the boat drift away and she knew the little ones were helpless to return home unless someone found them. mrs. bobbsey and the boys were now coming up from the beach. what, at first, seemed only a mishap, now looked like a very serious matter. "we must go to the woods," insisted dorothy. "maybe that old woman knew they were in the woods." but as such things always happen, the searchers went to the end of the woods, far away from the island. of course they all called loudly, and the boys gave the familiar yodel, but the noise of the ocean made it impossible for the call to reach freddie and flossie. "oh, i'm so afraid they are drowned!" exclaimed mrs. bobbsey, breaking down and crying. "no, mamma," insisted nan, "i am sure they are not. flossie is so afraid of the water, and freddie always minds flossie. they must be playing somewhere. maybe they are home by this time," and so it was agreed to go back to the house and if the little ones were not there--then---- "but they must be there," insisted nellie, starting on a run over the swampy grounds toward the cliffs. and all this time freddie and flossie were quite unconcerned playing on the island. "oh, there's a man!" shouted freddie, seeing someone in the woods. "maybe it's friday. say there, mister!" he shouted. "say, will you help us get to land?" the man heard the child's voice and hurried to the edge of the lake. "wall, i declare!" he exclaimed, "if them babies ain't lost out there. and here comes their boat. well, i'll just fetch them in before they try to swim out," he told himself, swinging into the drifting boat, and with the stout stick he had in his hand, pushing off for the little island. the island was quite near to shore on that side, and it was only a few minutes' work for the man to reach the children. "what's your name?" he demanded, as soon as he touched land. "freddie bobbsey," spoke up the little fellow, bravely, "and we live at the cliffs." "you do, eh? then it was your brothers who brought my cow home, so i can pay them back by taking you home now. i can't row to the far shore with this stick, so we'll have to tramp it through the woods. come along." and carefully he lifted the little ones into the boat, pushing to the woods, and started off to walk the round-about way, through the woods, to the bridge, then along the road back to the cliffs, where a whole household was in great distress because of the twins' absence. chapter xvi dorothy's doings "here they come!" called nellie, who was searching around the barn, and saw the farmer with the two children crossing the hill. "i'm robinson crusoe!" insisted freddie, "and this is my man, friday," he added, pointing to the farmer. of course it did not take long to clear up the mystery of the little ones' disappearance. but since his return freddie acted like a hero, and certainly felt like one, and flossie brought home with her a dainty bouquet of pink sebatia, that rare little flower so like a tiny wild rose. the farmer refused to take anything for his time and trouble, being glad to do our friends a favor. aunt sarah and harry were to leave for meadow brook that afternoon, but the worry over the children being lost made aunt sarah feel quite unequal to the journey, so aunt emily prevailed upon her to wait another day. "there are so many dangers around here," remarked aunt sarah, when all the "scare" was over. "it is different in the country. we never worry about lost children out in meadow brook." "but i often got lost out there," insisted freddie. "don't you remember?" aunt sarah had some recollection of the little fellow's adventures in that line, and laughed over them, now that they were recalled. late that afternoon dorothy, nan, and nellie had a conference: that is, they talked with their heads so close together not even flossie could get an idea of what they were planning. but it was certainly mischief, for dorothy had most to say, and she would rather have a good joke than a good dinner any day, so susan said. harry, hal, and bert had been chasing through the woods after a queer-looking bird. it was large, and had brilliant feathers, and when it rested for a moment on a tree it would pick at the bark as if it were trying to play a tune with its beak. each time it struck the bark its head bobbed up and down in a queer way for a bird. but the boys could not get it. they set hal's trap, and even used an air rifle in hopes of bringing it down without killing it, but the bird puttered from place to place, not in a very great hurry, but just fast enough to keep the boys busy chasing it. that evening, at dinner, the strange bird was much talked about. "dat's a ban-shee!" declared dinah, jokingly. "dat bird came to bring a message from somebody. you boys will hear dat tonight, see if you doesn't," and she gave a very mysterious wink at dorothy, who just then nearly choked with her dessert. a few hours later the house was all quiet. the happenings of the day brought a welcome night, and tired little heads comfortably hugged their pillows. it must have been about midnight, bert was positive he had just heard the clock strike a lot of rings, surely a dozen or so, when at his window came a queer sound, like something pecking. at first bert got it mixed up with his dreams, but as it continued longer and louder, he called to harry, who slept in the alcove in bert's room, and together the boys listened, attentively. "that's the strange bird," declared harry. "sure enough it is bringing us a message, as dinah said," and while the boys took the girl's words in a joke, they really seemed to be coming true. "don't light the gas," cautioned bert, "or that will surely frighten it off. we can get our air guns, and i'll go crawl out on the veranda roof back of it, so as to get it if possible." all this time the "peck-peck-peck" kept at the window, but just as soon as bert went out in the hall to make his way through the storeroom window to the veranda roof, the pecking ceased. harry hurried after bert to tell him the bird was gone, and then together the boys put their heads out of their own window. but there was not a sound, not even the distant flutter of a bird's wing to tell the boys the messenger had gone. "back to bed for us," said harry, laughing. "i guess that bird is a joker and wants to keep us busy," and both boys being healthy were quite ready to fall off to sleep as soon as they felt it was of no use to stay awake longer looking for their feathered visitor. "there it is again," called bert, when harry had just begun to dream of hazelnuts in meadow brook. "i'll get him this time!" and without waiting to go through the storeroom, bert raised the window and bolted out on the roof. "what's de matter down dere?" called dinah from the window above. "'pears like as if you boys had de nightmare. can't you let nobody get a wink ob sleep? ebbery time i puts my head down, bang! comes a noise and up pops my head. now, what's a-ailin' ob you, bert?" and the colored girl showed by her tone of voice she was not a bit angry, but "chock-full of laugh," as bert whispered to harry. but the boys had not caught the bird, had not even seen it, for that matter. both bert and harry were now on the roof in their pajamas. "what's--the--matter--there?" called dorothy, in a very drowsy voice, from her window at the other end of the roof. "what are you boys after?" called uncle william, from a middle window. "anything the matter?" asked aunt sarah, anxiously, from the spare room. "got a burgulor?" shrieked freddie, from the nursery. "do you want any help?" offered susan, her head out of the top-floor window. all these questions came so thick and fast on the heads of bert and harry that the boys had no idea of answering them. certainly the bird was nowhere to be seen, and they did not feel like advertising their "april-fool game" to the whole house, so they decided to crawl into bed again and let others do the same. the window in the boys' room was a bay, and each time the pecking disturbed them they thought the sound came from a different part of the window. bert said it was the one at the left, so where the "bird" called from was left a mystery. but neither boy had time to close his eyes before the noise started up again! "well, if that isn't a ghost it certainly is a ban-shee, as dinah said," whispered bert. "i'm going out to uncle william's room and tell him. maybe he will have better luck than we had," and so saying, bert crept out into the hall and down two doors to his uncle's room. uncle william had also heard the sound. "don't make a particle of noise," cautioned the uncle, "and we can go up in the cupola and slide down a post so quietly the bird will not hear us," and as he said this, he, in his bath robe, went cautiously up the attic stairs, out of a small window, and slid down the post before bert had time to draw his own breath. but there was no bird to be seen anywhere! "i heard it this very minute!" declared harry, from the window. "it might be bats!" suggested uncle william. "but listen! i thought i heard the girls laughing," and at that moment an audible titter was making its way out of nan's room! "that's dorothy's doings!" declared uncle william, getting ready to laugh himself. "she's always playing tricks," and he began to feel about the outside ledge of the bay window. but there was nothing there to solve the mystery. "a tick-tack!" declared harry, "i'll bet, from the girls' room!" and without waiting for another word he jumped out of his window, ran along the roof to nan's room, and then grabbed something. "here it is!" he called, confiscating the offending property. "you just wait, girls!" he shouted in the window. "if we don't give you a good ducking in the ocean for this to-morrow!" the laugh of the three girls in nan's room made the joke on the boys more complete, and as uncle william went back to his room he declared to mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily that his girl, dorothy, was more fun than a dozen boys, and he would match her against that number for the best piece of good-natured fun ever played. "a bird!" sneered bert, making fun of himself for being so easily fooled. "a girls' game of tick-tack!" laughed harry, making up his mind that if he did not "get back at dorothy," he would certainly have to haul in his colors as captain of the boys' brigade of meadow brook; "for she certainly did fool me," he admitted, turning over to sleep at last. chapter xvii old friends "now, aunt sarah," pleaded nan the next morning, "you might just as well wait and go home on the excursion train. all meadow brook will be down, and it will be so much pleasanter for you. the train will be here by noon and leave at three o'clock." "but think of the hour that would bring us to meadow brook!" objected aunt sarah. "well, you will have lots of company, and if uncle daniel shouldn't meet you, you can ride up with the hopkinses or anybody along your road." mrs. bobbsey and aunt emily added their entreaties to nan's, and aunt sarah finally agreed to wait. "if i keep on," she said, "i'll be here all summer. and think of the fruit that's waiting to be preserved!" "hurrah!" shouted bert, giving his aunt a good hug. "then harry and i can have a fine time with the meadow brook boys," and bert dashed out to take the good news to harry and hal bingham, who were out at the donkey house. "come on, fellows!" he called. "down to the beach! we can have a swim before the crowd gets there." and with renewed interest the trio started off for the breakers. "i would like to live at the beach all summer," remarked harry. "even in winter it must be fine here." "it is," said hal. "but the winds blow everything away regularly, and they all have to be carted back again each spring. this shore, with all its trimmings now, will look like a bald head by the first of december." all three boys were fine swimmers, and they promptly struck off for the water that was "straightened out," as bert said, beyond the tearing of the breakers at the edge. there were few people in the surf and the boys made their way around as if they owned the ocean. suddenly hal thought he heard a call! then a man's arm appeared above the water's surface, a few yards away. "cramps," yelled hal to harry and bert, while all three hurried to where the man's hand had been seen. but it did not come up again. "i'll dive down!" spluttered hal, who had the reputation of being able to stay a long time under water. it seemed quite a while to bert and harry before hal came up again, but when he did he was trying to pull with him a big, fat man, who was all but unconscious. "can't move," gasped hal, as the heavy burden was pulling him down. bit by bit the man with cramps gained a little strength, and with the boys' help he was towed in to shore. there was not a life-guard in sight, and hal had to hurry off to the pier for some restoratives, for the man was very weak. on his way, hal met a guard who, of course, ran to the spot where harry and bert were giving the man artificial respiration. "you boys did well!" declared the guard, promptly, seeing how hard they worked with the sick man. "yes--they saved--my life!" gasped the half-drowned man. "this little fellow"--pointing to hal--"brought--me up--almost--from--the bottom!" and he caught his breath, painfully. the man was assisted to a room at the end of the pier, and after a little while he became much better. of course the boys did not stand around, being satisfied they could be of no more use. "i must get those lads' names," declared the man to the guard. "mine is ----," and he gave the name of the famous millionaire who had a magnificent summer home in another colony, three miles away. "and you swam from the cedars, mr. black," exclaimed the guard. "no wonder you got cramps." an hour later the millionaire was walking the beach looking for the life-savers. he finally spied hal. "here, there, you boy," he called, and hal came in to the edge, but hardly recognized the man in street clothes. "i want your name," demanded the stranger. "do you know there are medals given to young heroes like you?" "oh, that was nothing," stammered hal, quite confused now. "nothing! why, i was about dead, and pulled on you with all my two hundred pounds. you knew, too, you had hardly a chance to bring me up. yes, indeed, i want your name," and as he insisted, hal reluctantly gave it, but felt quite foolish to make such a fuss "over nothing," as he said. it was now about time for the excursion train to come in, so the boys left the water and prepared to meet their old friends. "i hope jack hopkins comes," said bert, for jack was a great friend. "oh, he will be along," harry remarked. "nobody likes a good time better than jack." "here they come!" announced hal, the next minute, as a crowd of children with many lunch boxes came running down to the ocean. "hello there! hello there!" called everybody at once, for, of course, all the children knew harry and many also knew bert. there were tom mason, jack hopkins, august stout, and ned prentice in the first crowd, while a number of girls, friends of nan's, were in another group. nan, nellie, and dorothy had been detained by somebody further up on the road, but were now coming down, slowly. such a delight as the ocean was to the country children! as each roller slipped out on the sands the children unconsciously followed it, and so, many unsuspected pairs of shoes were caught by the next wave that washed in. "well, here comes uncle daniel!" called bert, as, sure enough, down to the edge came uncle daniel with dorothy holding on one arm, nan clinging to the other, while nellie carried his small satchel. santa claus could hardly have been more welcome to the bobbseys at that moment than was uncle daniel. they simply overpowered him, as the surprise of his coming made the treat so much better. the girls had "dragged him" down to the ocean, he said, when he had intended first going to aunt emily's. "i must see the others," he insisted; "freddie and flossie." "oh, they are all coming down," nan assured him. "aunt sarah, too, is coming." "all right, then," agreed uncle daniel. "i'll wait awhile. well, harry, you look like an indian. can you see through that coat of tan?" harry laughed and said he had been an indian in having a good time. presently somebody jumped up on uncle daniel's back. as he was sitting on the sands the shock almost brought him down. of course it was freddie, who was so overjoyed he really treated the good-natured uncle a little roughly. "freddie boy! freddie boy!" exclaimed uncle daniel, giving his nephew a good long hug. "and you have turned indian, too! where's that sea-serpent you were going to catch for me?" "i'll get him yet," declared the little fellow. "it hasn't rained hardly since we came down, and they only come in to land out of the rain." this explanation made uncle daniel laugh heartily. the whole family sat around on the sands, and it was like being in the country and at the seashore at the one time, flossie declared. the boys, of course, were in the water. august stout had not learned much about swimming since he fell off the plank while fishing in meadow brook, so that out in the waves the other boys had great fun with their fat friend. "and there is nettie prentice!" exclaimed nan, suddenly, as she espied her little country friend looking through the crowd, evidently searching for friends. "oh, nan!" called nettie, in delight, "i'm just as glad to see you as i am to see the ocean, and i never saw that before," and the two little girls exchanged greetings of genuine love for each other. "won't we have a perfectly splendid time?" declared nan. "dorothy, my cousin, is so jolly, and here's nellie--you remember her?" of course nettie did remember her, and now all the little girls went around hunting for fun in every possible corner where fun might be hidden. as soon as the boys were satisfied with their bath they went in search of the big sun umbrellas, so that uncle william, aunt emily, mrs. bobbsey, and aunt sarah might sit under the sunshades, while eating lunch. then the boys got long boards and arranged them from bench to bench in picnic style, so that all the meadow brook friends might have a pleasant time eating their box lunches. "let's make lemonade," suggested hal. "i know where i can get a pail of nice clean water." "i'll buy the lemons," offered harry. "i'll look after sugar," put in bert. "and i'll do the mixing," declared august stout, while all set to work to produce the wonderful picnic lemonade. "now, don't go putting in white sand instead of sugar," teased uncle daniel, as the "caterers," with sleeves rolled up, worked hard over the lemonade. "what can we use for cups?" asked nan. "oh, i know," said harry, "over at the indian stand they have a lot of gourds, the kind of mock oranges that mexicans drink out of. i can buy them for five cents each, and after the picnic we can bring them home and hang them up for souvenirs." "just the thing!" declared hal, who had a great regard for things that hang up and look like curios. "i'll go along and help you make the bargain." when the boys came back they had a dozen of the funny drinking cups. the long crooked handles were so queer that each person tried to get the cup to his or her mouth in a different way. "we stopped at the hydrant and washed the gourds thoroughly," declared hal, "so you need not expect to find any mexican diamonds in them." "or tarantulas," put in uncle daniel. "what's them?" asked freddie, with an ear for anything that sounded like a menagerie. "a very bad kind of spider, that sometimes comes in fruit from other countries," explained uncle daniel. then nan filled his gourd from the dipper that stood in the big pail of lemonade, and he smacked his lips in appreciation. there was so much to do and so much to see that the few hours allowed the excursionists slipped by all too quickly. dorothy ran away and soon returned with her donkey cart, to take nettie prentice and a few of nettie's friends for a ride along the beach. nan and nellie did not go, preferring to give the treat to the little country girls. "now don't go far," directed aunt emily, for aunt sarah and uncle daniel were already leaving the beach to make ready for the train. of course harry and aunt sarah were all "packed up" and had very little to do at aunt emily's before starting. hal and bert were sorry, indeed, to have harry go, for harry was such a good leader in outdoor sports, his country training always standing by him in emergencies. finally dorothy came back with the girls from their ride, and the people were beginning to crowd into the long line of cars that waited on a switch near the station. "now, nettie, be sure to write to me," said nan, bidding her little friend good-by. "and come down next year," insisted dorothy. "i had such a lovely time," declared nettie. "i'm sure i will come again if i can." the meadow brook bobbseys had secured good seats in the middle car,--aunt sarah thought that the safest,--and now the locomotive whistle was tooting, calling the few stragglers who insisted on waiting at the beach until the very last minute. freddie wanted to cry when he realized that uncle daniel, aunt sarah, and even harry were going away, but with the promises of meeting again christmas, and possibly thanksgiving, all the good-bys were said, and the excursion train puffed out on its long trip to dear old meadow brook, and beyond. chapter xviii the storm when uncle william minturn came in from the city that evening he had some mysterious news. everybody guessed it was about nellie, but as surprises were always cropping up at ocean cliff, the news was kept secret and the whispering increased. "i had hard work to get her to come," said uncle william to mrs. bobbsey, still guarding the mystery, "but i finally prevailed upon her and she will be down on the morning train." "poor woman, i am sure it will do her good," remarked mrs. bobbsey. "your house has been a regular hotel this summer," she said to mr. minturn. "that's what we are here for," he replied. "we would not have much pleasure, i am sure, if our friends were not around us." "did you hear anything more about the last vessel?" asked aunt emily. "yes, i went down to the general office today, and an incoming steamer was sure it was the west indies vessel that was sighted four days ago." "then they should be near port now?" asked mrs. bobbsey. "they ought to be," replied uncle william, "but the cargo is so heavy, and the schooner such a very slow sailer, that it takes a long time to cover the distance." next morning, bright and early, dorothy had the donkeys in harness. "we are going to the station to meet some friends, nellie," she said. "come along?" "what! more company?" exclaimed nellie. "i really ought to go home. i am well and strong now." "indeed you can't go until we let you," said dorothy, laughing. "i suppose you think all the fun went with harry," she added, teasingly, for dorothy knew nellie had been acting lonely ever since the carnival. she was surely homesick to see her mother and talk about the big prize. the two girls had not long to wait at the station, for the train pulled in just as they reached the platform. dorothy looked about a little uneasily. "we must watch for a lady in a linen suit with black hat," she said to nellie; "she's a stranger." that very minute the linen suit appeared. "oh, oh!" screamed nellie, unable to get her words. "there is my mother!" and the next thing dorothy knew, nellie was trying to "wear the same linen dress" that the stranger appeared in--at least, that was how dorothy afterwards told about nellie's meeting with her mother. "my daughter!" exclaimed the lady, "i have been so lonely i came to bring you home." "and this is dorothy," said nellie, recovering herself. "dorothy is my best friend, next to nan." "you have surely been among good friends," declared the mother, "for you have gotten the roses back in your cheeks again. how well you do look!" "oh, i've had a perfectly fine time," declared nellie. "fine and dandy," repeated dorothy, unable to restrain her fun-making spirit. at a glance dorothy saw why nellie, although poor, was so genteel, for her mother was one of those fine-featured women that seem especially fitted to say gentle things to children. mrs. mclaughlin was not old,--no older than nan's mother,--and she had that wonderful wealth of brown hair, just like nellie's. her eyes were brown, too, while nellie's were blue, but otherwise nellie was much like her mother, so people said. aunt emily and mrs. bobbsey had visited mrs. mclaughlin in the city, so that they were quite well acquainted when the donkey cart drove up, and they all had a laugh over the surprise to nellie. of course that was uncle william's secret, and the mystery of the whispering the evening before. "but we must go back on the afternoon train," insisted mrs. mclaughlin, who had really only come down to the shore to bring nellie home. "indeed, no," objected aunt emily, "that would be too much traveling in one day. you may go early in the morning." "everybody is going home," sighed dorothy. "i suppose you will be the next to go, nan," and she looked quite lonely at the prospect. "we are going to have a big storm," declared susan, who had just come in from the village. "we have had a long dry spell, now we are going to make up for it." "dear me," sighed mrs. mclaughlin, "i wish we had started for home." "oh, there's lots of fun here in a storm," laughed dorothy. "the ocean always tries to lick up the whole place, but it has to be satisfied with pulling down pavilions and piers. last year the water really went higher than the gas lights along the boulevard." "then that must mean an awful storm at sea," reflected nellie's mother. "storms are bad enough on land, but at sea they must be dreadful!" and she looked out toward the wild ocean, that was keeping from her the fate of her husband. long before there were close signs of storm, life-guards, on the beach, were preparing for it. they were making fast everything that could be secured and at the life-saving station all possible preparations were being made to help those who might suffer from the storm. it was nearing september and a tidal wave had swept over the southern ports. coming in all the way from the tropics the storm had made itself felt over a great part of the world, in some places taking the shape of a hurricane. on this particular afternoon, while the sun still shone brightly over sunset beach, the storm was creeping in under the big waves that dashed up on the sands. "it is not safe to let go the ropes," the guards told the people, but the idea of a storm, from such a pretty sky, made some daring enough to disobey these orders. the result was that the guards were kept busy trying to bring girls and women to their feet, who were being dashed around by the excited waves. this work occupied the entire afternoon, and as soon as the crowd left the beach the life-guards brought the boats down to the edge, got their lines ready, and when dark came on, they were prepared for the life-patrol,--the long dreary watch of the night, so near the noisy waves, and so far from the voice of distress that might call over the breakers to the safe shores, where the life-savers waited, watched, and listened. the rain began to fall before it was entirely dark. the lurid sunset, glaring through the dark and rain, gave an awful, yellow look to the land and sea alike. "it is like the end of the world," whispered nellie to nan, as the two girls looked out of the window to see the wild storm approaching. then the lightning came in blazing blades, cutting through the gathering clouds. the thunder was only like muffled rolls, for the fury of the ocean deadened every other sound of heaven or earth. "it will be a dreadful storm," said aunt emily to mrs. bobbsey. "we must all go into the sitting room and pray for the sailors." everyone in the house assembled in the large sitting room, and uncle william led the prayers. poor mrs. mclaughlin did not once raise her head. nellie, too, hid her pale face in her hands. dorothy was frightened, and when all were saying good-night she pressed a kiss on nellie's cheek, and told her that the life-savers on sunset beach would surely be able to save all the sailors that came that way during the big storm. nellie and her mother occupied the same room. of course the mother had been told that the long delayed boat had been sighted, and now, how anxiously she awaited more news of nellie's father. "we must not worry," she told nellie, "for who knows but the storm may really help father's boat to get into port?" so, while the waves lashed furiously upon sunset beach, all the people in the minturn cottage were sleeping, or trying to sleep, for, indeed, it was not easy to rest when there was so much danger at their very door. chapter xix life-savers "mother, mother!" called nellie, "look down at the beach. the life-guards are burning the red signal lights! they have found a wreck!" it was almost morning, but the black storm clouds held the daylight back. mrs. mclaughlin and her little daughter strained their eyes to see, if possible, what might be going on down at the beach. while there was no noise to give the alarm, it seemed, almost everybody in that house felt the presence of the wreck, for in a very few minutes, bert was at his window, dorothy and nan were looking out of theirs, while the older members of the household were dressing hastily, to see if they might be of any help in case of accident at the beach. "can i go with you, uncle?" called bert, who had heard his uncle getting ready to run down to the water's edge. "yes, come along," answered mr. minturn, and as day began to peep through the heavy clouds, the two hurried down to the spot where the life-guards were burning their red light to tell the sailors their signal had been seen. "there's the vessel!" exclaimed bert, as a rocket flew up from the water. "yes, that's the distress signal," replied the uncle. "it is lucky that daylight is almost here." numbers of other cottagers were hurrying to the scene now, mr. bingham and hal being among the first to reach the spot. "it's a schooner," said mr. bingham to mr. minturn, "and she has a very heavy cargo." the sea was so wild it was impossible to send out the life-savers' boats, so the guards were making ready the breeches buoy. "they are going to shoot the line out now," explained hal to bert, as the two-wheel car with the mortar or cannon was dragged down to the ocean's edge. instantly there shot out to sea a ball of thin cord. to this cord was fastened a heavy rope or cable. "they've got it on the schooner." exclaimed a man, for the thin cord was now pulling the cable line out, over the water. "what's that board for?" asked bert, as he saw a board following the cable. "that's the directions," said hal. "they are printed in a number of languages, and they tell the crew to carry the end of the cable high up the mast and fasten it strongly there." "oh, i see," said bert, "the line will stretch then, and the breeches buoy will go out on a pulley." "that's it," replied hal. "see, there goes the buoy," and then the queer-looking life-preserver made of cork, and shaped like breeches, swung out over the waves. it was clear day now, and much of the wicked storm had passed. its effect upon the sea was, however, more furious every hour, for while the storm had left the land, it was raging somewhere else, and the sensitive sea felt every throb of the excited elements. with the daylight came girls and women to the beach. mrs. bobbsey, mrs. minturn, nellie and her mother, besides dorothy and nan, were all there; flossie and freddie being obliged to stay home with dinah and susan. of course the girls asked all sorts of questions and bert and hal tried to answer them as best they could. it seemed a long time before any movement of the cable showed that the buoy was returning. "here she comes! here she comes!" called the crowd presently, as the black speck far out, and the strain on the cord, showed the buoy was coming back. up and down in the waves it bobbed, sometimes seeming to go all the way under. nearer and nearer it came, until now a man's head could be seen. "there's a man in it!" exclaimed the boys, all excitement, while the life-guards pulled the cord steadily, dragging in their human freight. the girls and women were too frightened to talk, and nellie clung close to her mother. a big roller dashing in finished the work for the life-guards, and a man in the cork belt bounded upon shore. he was quite breathless when the guards reached him, but insisted on walking up instead of being carried. soon he recovered himself and the rubber protector was pulled off his face. everybody gathered around, and nellie with a strange face, and a stranger hope, broke through the crowd to see the rescued man. "oh--it is--_my_--_father_!" she screamed, falling right into the arms of the drenched man. "be careful," called mr. minturn, fearing the child might be mistaken, or mrs. mclaughlin might receive too severe a shock from the surprise. but the half-drowned man rubbed his eyes as if he could not believe them, then the next minute he pressed his little daughter to his heart, unable to speak a word. what a wonderful scene it was! the child almost unconscious in her father's arms, he almost dead from exhaustion, and the wife and mother too overcome to trust herself to believe it could be true. even the guards, who were busy again at the ropes, having left the man to willing hands on the beach, could not hide their surprise over the fact that it was mother, father, and daughter there united under such strange conditions. "my darling, my darling!" exclaimed the sailor to nellie, as he raised himself and then he saw his wife. mrs. bobbsey had been holding mrs. mclaughlin back, but now the sailor was quite recovered, so they allowed her to speak to him. mr. bingham and hal had been watching it all, anxiously. "are you mclaughlin?" suddenly asked mr. bingham. "i am," replied the sailor. "and is george bingham out there?" anxiously asked the brother. "safe and well," came the welcome answer. "just waiting for his turn to come in." "oh!" screamed dorothy, "hal's uncle is saved too. i guess our prayers were heard last night." "here comes another man!" exclaimed the people, as this time a big man dashed on the sands. "all right!" exclaimed the man, as he landed, for he had had a good safe swing in, and was in no way exhausted. "hello there!" called mr. bingham: "well, if this isn't luck. george bingham!" sure enough it was hal's uncle george, and hal was hugging the big wet man, while the man was jolly, and laughing as if the whole thing were a good joke instead of the life-and-death matter it had been. "i only came in to tell you," began george bingham, "that we are all right, and the boat is lifting off the sand bar we stuck on. but i'm glad i came in to--the reception," he said, laughing. "so you've found friends, mclaughlin," he added, seeing the little family united. "why, how do you do, mrs. mclaughlin?" he went on, offering her his hand. "and little nellie! well, i declare, we did land on a friendly shore." just as mr. bingham said, the life-saving work turned out to be a social affair, for there was a great time greeting nellie's father and hal's uncle. "wasn't it perfectly splendid that nellie and her mother were here!" declared dorothy. "and hal and his father, too," put in nan. "it is just like a story in a book." "but we don't have to look for the pictures," chimed in bert, who was greatly interested in the sailors, as well as in the work of the life-saving corps. as mr. bingham told the guards it would not be necessary to haul any more men in, and as the sea was calm enough now to launch a life-boat, both nellie's father and hal's uncle insisted on going back to the vessel to the other men. nellie was dreadfully afraid to have her father go out on the ocean again, but he only laughed at her fears, and said he would soon be in to port, to go home with her, and never go on the big, wild ocean again. two boats were launched, a strong guard going in each, with mr. mclaughlin in one and mr. bingham in the other, and now they pulled out steadily over the waves, back to the vessel that was freeing itself from the sand bar. what a morning that was at sunset beach! the happiness of two families seemed to spread all through the little colony, and while the men were thinking of the more serious work of helping the sailors with their vessel, the girls and women were planning a great welcome for the men who had been saved from the waves. "i'm so glad we prayed," said little flossie to freddie, when she heard the good news. "it was uncle william prayed the loudest," insisted freddie, believing, firmly, that to reach heaven a long and loud prayer is always best. "but we all helped," declared his twin sister, while surely the angels had listened to even the sleepy whisper of the little ones, who had asked help for the poor sailors in their night of peril. chapter xx the happy reunion a beautiful day had grown out of the dreadful storm. the sun seemed stronger each time it made its way out from behind a cloud, just as little girls and boys grow strong in body by exercise, and strong in character by efforts to do right. and everybody was so happy. the _neptune_--the vessel that had struck on the sand bar--was now safely anchored near shore, and the sailors came in and out in row-boats, back and forth to land, just as they wished. of course captain bingham, hal's uncle, was at the bingham cottage, and the first mate, nellie's father, was at minturn's. but that evening there was a regular party on minturn's veranda. numbers of cottagers called to see the sailors, and all were invited to remain and hear about the strange voyage of the _neptune_. "there is not much to tell," began the captain. "of course i knew we were going to have trouble getting that mahogany. two vessels had been wrecked trying to get it, so when we got to the west indies i decided to try canoes and not risk sails, where the wind always blew such a gale, it dragged any anchor that could be dropped. well, it was a long, slow job to drag those heavy logs around that point, and just when we were making headway, along comes a storm that drove the schooner and canoes out of business." here mate mclaughlin told about the big storm and how long it took the small crew to repair the damage done to the sails. "then we had to go back to work at the logs," went on the captain, "and then one of our crew took a fever. well, then we were quarantined. couldn't get things to eat without a lot of trouble, and couldn't go on with the carting until the authorities decided the fever was not serious. that was what delayed us so. "finally, we had every log loaded on the schooner and we started off. but i never could believe any material would be as heavy as that mahogany; why, we just had to creep along, and the least contrary wind left us motionless on the sea. "we counted on getting home last week, when this last storm struck us and drove us out of our course. but we are not sorry for our delay now, since we have come back to our own." "about the value?" asked mr. bobbsey, who was down from the city. "the value," repeated the captain aside, so that the strangers might not hear. "well, i'm a rich man now, and so is my mate, mclaughlin, for that wood was contracted for by the largest and richest piano firm in this country, and now it is all but delivered to them and the money in our hands." "then it was well worth all your sacrifice?" said mr. minturn. "yes, indeed. it would have taken us a lifetime to accumulate as much money as we have earned in this year. of course, it was hard for the men who had families, mclaughlin especially; the others were all working sailors, but he was a landsman and my partner in the enterprise; but i will make it up to him, and the mahogany hunt will turn out the best paying piece of work he ever undertook." "oh, isn't it perfectly splendid!" declared nan and dorothy, hugging nellie. "you will never again have to go back to that horrid store that made you so pale, and your mother will have a lovely time and nothing to worry about." "i can hardly believe it all," replied their little friend. "but having father back is the very best of all." "but all the same," sighed dorothy, "i just know you will all be going home before we leave for the city, and i shall just die of loneliness." "but we have to go to school," said nan, "and we have only a few days more." "of course," continued dorothy; "and our school will not open for two weeks yet." "maybe aunt emily will take you down to the city on her shopping tour," suggested nan. "indeed i do not like shopping," answered the cousin. "every time i go in a store that is crowded with stuff on the counters under people's elbows, i feel like knocking the things all over. i did a lot of damage that way once. it was holiday time, and a counter that stuck out in the middle of the store was full of little statues. my sleeve touched one, and the whole lot fell down as if a cannon had struck them. i broke ten and injured more than i wanted to count." "and aunt emily had to pay for them?" said nan. "no, she didn't, either," corrected dorothy. "the manager came up and said the things should not be put out in people's way. he made the clerks remove all the truck from the aisles and i guess everybody was glad the army fell down. i never can forget those pink-and-white soldiers," and dorothy straightened herself up in comical "soldier's arms" fashion, imitating the unfortunate statues. "i hope you can come to lakeport for thanksgiving," said nan. "we have done so much visiting this summer, out to aunt sarah's and down here, mamma feels we ought to have a grand reunion at our house next. if we do, i am going to try to have some of the country girls down and give them all a jolly good time." "oh, i'll come if you make it jolly," answered dorothy. "if there is one thing in this world worth while, it is fun," and she tossed her yellow head about like a buttercup, that has no other way of laughing. that had been an eventful day at ocean cliff, and the happy ending of it, with a boat and its crew saved, was, as some of the children said, just like a story in a book, only the pictures were all alive! the largest hotel at sunset beach was thrown open to the sailors that night, and here captain bingham and mate mclaughlin, together with the rest of the crew, took up comfortable lodgings. it was very late, long after the little party had scattered from minturn's piazza, that the sailors finished dancing their hornpipe for the big company assembled to greet them in the hotel. never had they danced to such fine music before, for the hotel orchestra played the familiar tune and the sailors danced it nimbly, hitching up first one side then the other--crossing first one leg then the other, and wheeling around in that jolly fashion. how rugged and handsome the men looked! the rough ocean winds had tanned them like bronze, and their muscles were as firm and strong almost as the cables that swing out with the buoys. the wonderful fresh air that these men lived in, night and day, had brightened their eyes too, so that even the plainest face, and the most awkward man among them, was as nimble as an athlete, from his perfect exercise. "and last night what an awful experience they had!" remarked one of the spectators. "it is no wonder that they are all so happy to-night." "besides," added someone else, "they are all going to receive extra good pay, for the captain and mate will be very rich when the cargo is landed." so the sailors danced until they were tired, and then after a splendid meal they went to sleep, in as comfortable beds as might be found in any hotel on sunset beach. chapter xxi good-by "i don't know how to say good-by to you," nellie told dorothy and nan next morning. "to think how kind you have been to me, and how splendidly it has all turned out! now father is home again, i can hardly believe it! mother told me last night she was going to put back what money she had to use out of my prize, the fifty dollars you know, and i am to make it a gift to the fresh air fund." "oh, that will be splendid!" declared nan. "perhaps they will buy another tent with it, for they need more room out at meadow brook." "you are quite rich now, aren't you?" remarked dorothy. "i suppose your father will buy a big house, and maybe next time we meet you, you will put on airs and walk like this?" and dorothy went up and down the room like the pictures of cinderella's proud sisters. "no danger," replied nellie, whose possible tears at parting had been quickly chased away by the merry dorothy. "but i hope we will have a nice home, for mother deserves it, besides i am just proud enough to want to entertain a few young ladies, among them miss nan bobbsey and miss dorothy minturn." "and we will be on hand, thank you," replied the joking dorothy. "be sure to have ice cream and chocolates--i want some good fresh chocolates. those we get down here always seem soft and salty, like the spray." "come, nellie," called mrs. mclaughlin, "i am ready. where is your hat?" "oh, yes, mother, i'm coming!" replied nellie. bert had the donkey cart hitched and there was now no time to spare. nellie kissed freddie and flossie affectionately, and promised to bring the little boy all through a big city, real fire-engine house when he came to see her. "and can i ring the bell and make the horses jump?" he asked. "we might be able to manage that, too," nellie told him. "my uncle is a fireman and he can take us through his engine house." nan went to the station with her friends, and when the last good-bys were said and the train steamed out, the twins turned back again to the minturn cottage. "our turn next," remarked bert, as he pulled the donkeys into the drive. "yes, it seems it is nothing but going and coming all the time. i wonder if all the other girls will be home at lakeport in time for the first day of school?" said nan. "most of them, i guess," answered bert. "well, we have had a good vacation, and i am willing to go to work again." "so am i!" declared nan. "vacation was just long enough, i think." mr. bobbsey was down from the city, of course, to take the family home, and now all hands, even freddie and flossie, were busy packing up. there were the shells to be looked after, the fish nets, besides downy, the duck, and snoop, the cat. "and just to add one more animal to your menagerie," said uncle william, "i have brought you a little goldfinch. it will sing beautifully for you, and be easy to carry in its little wooden cage. then, i have ordered, sent directly to your house, a large cage for him to live in, so he will have plenty of freedom, and perhaps christmas you may get some more birds to put in the big house, to keep dick company." of course freddie was delighted with the gift, for it was really a beautiful little bird, with golden wings, and a much prettier pet than a duck or a cat, although he still loved his old friends. the day passed very quickly with all that was crowded into it: the last ocean bath taking up the best part of two hours, while a sail in hal's canoe did away with almost as much, more time. dorothy gave nan a beautiful little gold locket with her picture in it, and flossie received the dearest little real shell pocketbook ever seen. hal bingham gave bert a magnifying glass, to use at school in chemistry or physics, so that every one of the bobbseys received a suitable souvenir of sunset beach. "you-uns must be to bed early and not go sleep in de train," insisted dinah, when freddie and flossie pleaded for a little more time on the veranda that evening. "come along now; dinah hab lots to do too," and with her little charges the good-natured colored girl hobbled off, promising to tell freddie how nellie's father and hal's uncle were to get into port again when they set out to sea, instead of trying to get the big boat into land at sunset beach. and so our little friends had spent all their vacation. the last night at the seashore was passed, and the early morning found them once more traveling away--this time for dear old home, sweet home. "if we only didn't have to leave our friends," complained nan, brushing back a tear, as the very last glint of cousin dorothy's yellow head passed by the train window. "i hope we will meet them all soon again," said nan's mother. "it is not long until thanksgiving. then, perhaps, we can give a real harvest party out at lakeport and try to repay our friends for some of their hospitality to us." "well, i like hal bingham first-rate," declared bert, thinking of the friend from whom he had just parted. "there goes the last of the ocean. look!" called flossie, as the train made a turn, and whistled a good-by to the bobbsey twins at the seashore. proofreading team at http://www.fadedpage.com the motor girls on the coast or the waif from the sea by margaret penrose the goldsmith publishing co. cleveland ohio made in u.s.a. copyright, , by cupples & leon company contents chapter page i. a flash of fire ii. the strange woman iii. a strange story iv. on the road v. a flock of sheep vi. jack is lost vii. worries viii. the girl ix. questions and answers x. reunited xi. the girls retaliate xii. at the cove xiii. the lighthouse maid xiv. settling down xv. launching the "pet" xvi. suspicions strengthened xvii. the light keeper's story xviii. belle swims xix. gathering clouds xx. the storm xxi. the wreck xxii. the rescue xxiii. the floating spars xxiv. safe ashore xxv. a surprise xxvi. the story of nancy ford xxvii. a bold attempt xxviii. a strange message xxix. at the shark's tooth xxx. happy days the motor girls on the coast chapter i a flash of fire filled was the room with boys and girls--yes, literally filled; for they moved about so from chair to chair, from divan to sofa, from one side of the apartment to the other, now and then changing corners after the manner of the old-fashioned game of "puss," that what they lacked in numbers they more than made up in activity. it was a veritable moving picture of healthful, happy young persons. and the talk----! questions and answers flew back and forth like tennis balls in a set of doubles. repartee mingled with delicate sarcasm, and new, and almost indefinable shades of meaning were given to old and trite expressions. "you can depend upon it, sis!" drawled jack kimball as he stretched out his foot to see how far he could reach on the persian rug without falling off his chair; "you can depend upon it that belle will shy at the last moment. she's afraid of water, the plain, common or garden variety of water. and when it comes to ripples, to say nothing of waves, she----" "cora, can't you make him behave?" demanded the plump belle in question. "belle's too--er--too--tired to get up and do it herself," scoffed ed foster. "may i oblige you, belle, and tweak his nose for him?" "come and try it!" challenged jack. "let walter do it," advised bess, who, the very opposite type of her sister belle, tall and willowy--æsthetic in a word--walked to another divan over which she proceeded to "drape herself," as cora expressed it. "well, let's hear what jack has to say," proposed walter pennington, bringing his head of crisp brown hair a little closer to the chestnut one of bess. "he has made a statement, and it is now--will you permit me to say it--it is now strictly up to him to prove it. say on, rash youth, and let us hear why it is that belle will shy at the water." "it's a riddle, perhaps," suggested eline carleton, a visitor from chicago. "i love to guess riddles! say it again, jack, do!" "why is a raindrop----" began norton randolf, a newcomer in chelton. "the answer is----" "that you can bring water to a horse, even if you can't make him stand still without hitching," interrupted walter. "go on, jack!" "i don't see much use in going on, if you fellows--and i beg your collective pardons--the ladies also--are to interrupt me all the while." "that's so--let's play the game fair," suggested eline. "is it a riddle, jack? belle is afraid of the water because--let me see--because it can't spoil her complexion no matter whether it's salt or fresh--is that it?" and she glanced over at the slightly pouting belle, whose rosy complexion was often the envy of less happily endowed girls. "i'm not afraid of the water!" declared belle. "i don't see why he says so, anyhow. it--it isn't--kind." "forgive me, belle!" and jack "slumped" from his chair to his knees before the offended one. "i do beg your pardon, but you know that ever since we proposed this auto trip to sandy point cove you've hung back on some pretext or other. you've even tried to get us to consent to a land trip. but, in the language of the immortal mr. shakespeare, there is nothing doing. we are going to the coast." "of course i'm coming, too," said belle. "stop it, jack!" she commanded, drawing her plump hand away from his brown palm. "behave yourself! only," she went on, as the others ceased laughing, "only sometimes the ocean seems so--so----" "oceany," supplied walter. "now jack--and you other boys also," said cora in firm tones, "really it isn't fair. belle is nervous about water, just as the rest of us are about some other particular bugbear, but she is also reasonable, and she has even promised to learn to swim." cora brushed from the mahogany centre table a few morsels of withered lilac petals, for, in spite of the most careful dusting and setting to rights of the room, those blooms had a persistent way of dropping off. "belle swim!" cried jack, rising to his feet, since his advances had been repulsed, "why she would have to be done up in a barrel of life preservers, and then she'd insist on being anchored to shore by a ship's cable. belle swim!" "indeed!" retorted his sister, "you'll soon find that the more nervous a girl is, the more persistent she is to learn to swim. she realizes the necessity of not losing her head in the water." "if she lost her head she wouldn't swim very far," put in ed with gentle sarcasm. "put him out!" ordered walter. "but say, when are we going to get down to the horrible details, and make some definite plans? this sort of a tea party suits me all right--don't mistake me," he hastened to add, with a glance at cora, "but if we are going, let's--go!" "that's what i say," came from belle. "you won't find me holding back," and she crossed the room to look out of the parlor window across the kimball lawn. "my! that's a stunning dress!" exclaimed jack. "fish-line color, isn't it?" "he's trying to make amends. don't you believe him," echoed walter. "fish-line color!" mocked cora. "oh, jack, you are hopeless! that's the newest shade of pearl." "well, i almost hit it," defended jack. "pearls are related to fishes, and fish lines are----" "oh, get a map!" groaned ed. "do you always have to make diagrams of your jokes that way, old man?" "let's go outside," proposed cora. "i'm sure it's getting stuffy in here----" "well, i like that!" cried belle. "after she asked us to come, she calls us stuffy! cora kimball!" "oh, i didn't mean it that way at all," protested the young hostess. "but it is close and sultry. i shouldn't wonder but what we'd have a thunder-shower." "don't say that!" pleaded jack, in what walter termed his theatrical voice. "a shower means water, and belle and water----" "stop it!" commanded the pestered one. "do come out," and she linked her arm in that of cora. "maybe we can talk sense if we get in the open." the young people drifted from the room, out on the broad porch and thence down under the cedars that lined the path. it was late afternoon, and though the sky was clouding over, there shot through the masses now and then a shaft of sun that fell on the walk between the tree branches, bringing into relief the figures that "crunched" their way along the gravel, talking rapidly the while. "looks like a rare old reunion," spoke jack. "i guess we'll do something worth while after all." "don't distress yourself too much, old man," warned ed. "you might get a sun-stroke, you know." "that's the time you beat him to it," chuckled walter. "do they do this sort of thing out your way?" and he addressed pretty eline. she blushed a charming pink under her coat of tan--a real biscuit brown, it had been voted by her admirers. she reminded them of a little red squirrel, for she had rather that same timid appearance, and she nearly always dressed in tan or brown, to match her complexion. "sometimes," she murmured. "chicago----" began jack in rather judicial tones. "you let chicago alone!" advised walter. "i'm looking after eline. i won't let them hurt you," and he moved closer to her. she seemed to shrink, whereat the others laughed. they walked about for a little while, strolling out to the kimball garage--a rebuilt stable, where three fine machines now stood, two of them having brought the visitors. then when they had acquired the necessary breath of air, they went back into the house. eline matched herself up to a chippendale chair, while belle, always fond of plenty of room, found it on a divan. bess had secured one of those roman chairs curved up at both ends, seemingly intended to prevent anyone from sitting anywhere but in the exact center. she assumed a graceful pose--everything bess did had that attribute. "my! it is certainly getting warmer!" complained walter. "maybe we should have stayed out." "we can talk better in here," was cora's opinion. "we'll need all the breeze that we can get on high gear if this keeps up," said ed, with a sigh. "oh, but the dust!" exclaimed bess. "i know i'll simply choke, and----" "chew gum!" broke in cora. "that absorbs the dust." "couldn't we chew chocolates as well?" asked belle. "i would rather swallow half the dust of the roads from here to sandy point cove and have my throat macadamized, than chew gum." "we'll allow you to make yours chocolate," conceded jack, "though chocolates do not allow space for----" "gab," put in norton randolf, who seldom said anything really nice to the girls. yet he always managed to interest them with his drawl and indifference. "we ought to get out something that would stop the talk when we get to a close turn," he proceeded. "i'm always afraid some one will release the emergency brake on a down grade, with a rude remark." "he's real bright!" chuckled ed. "i don't think!" "now, please, let's get down to business," suggested cora, crisply. "the time passes so quickly, and we have a lot of matters to arrange. bess, i put an extra wrench in your tool-box. i remembered your ability in losing those handy little articles." "thanks," drawled bess. "but why stop at a wrench? why not duplicate all the fixings? what i don't lose belle does. but then," and she turned mocking, pleading eyes on jack, "your brother is such a dear for fixing us up. i guess the _flyaway_ will be there at the finish." "is it very far where you are going--to sandy point cove?" asked eline. "oh, yes," answered walter, "it's miles and miles, and then more miles. but we are all going, little girl, so don't worry," and he struck a stiffly-heroic attitude to show his valor. "it is a good thing you have a livery-stable-sized garage," remarked ed to cora. "it holds all the cars very nicely." "yes, there isn't another in chelton, except the public ones, so well arranged," added walter. "but we might have waited until morning to bring the machines here." "no, i thought it was best to have them here the night before we were to start," explained cora, who was to assume the leadership of the prospective trip. "some of us might have been tempted to go out on a little spin this evening, and an accident might have occurred that would delay us." "did the _petrel_ get off safely?" inquired ed. "yes," replied jack. "it's in a regular motor boat crate that the man said would stand the journey. i saw it put in the freight car myself, and well braced. it will be there waiting for us when we get to the cove." "i hope it runs," murmured walter. "don't be a pessimist--or is it an optimist? i never can tell which from what," spoke belle. "i mean don't be one who's always looking on the dark side. look for the silver lining of the clouds." "say, it's clouding up all right," declared jack, as he glanced from the window. a distant rumble was heard at that moment. "that's thunder!" exclaimed belle, "and we have no umbrellas." she glanced at her sister and eline. "better have it rain to-night than to-morrow, when we want to start," said cora, philosophically. "sit by me, belle," pleaded jack. "i won't let the bad thunder hurt you." "we'll all sit by each other!" proposed walter. this was a signal for a general change of places, each boy pretending to protect a girl. "now don't let's get off the track," went on cora, when quiet had been restored. "are you all sure that you want to go directly to the cove, and don't care for a little side trip before reaching there? of course it's going to be fine at the shore, and there's enough variety so that each one can find something she or he likes--rocks, ocean, sandy beach, a lighthouse----" "where they do light housekeeping?" asked ed, softly. "please don't," cora begged. "any nice girls down there?" asked jack, making eyes at eline. they all started as a particularly loud clap of thunder followed a vivid flash of lightning, and the wind rose suddenly, moaning through the trees. "i don't believe it will amount to much," was walter's opinion. "probably only a wind storm." "but i guess i'd better put down the windows on the west side," remarked cora. "i'll be back in a moment----" as she spoke there came a dash of rain against the side of the house, and another flash of lightning was followed by a vibrating peal. cora screamed. "oh, what is it?" demanded bess, nervously. jack clasped her hand. "look!" cried cora. "the garage--it's on fire. i just saw a flash of flame! our autos will be burned!" "we've got to get 'em out!" declared jack. "come on, fellows!" he made a dash for the door. ed leaped through the low, open window. walter followed jack. the girls stood uncertain what to do. "the lightning struck it!" gasped eline. "we must help to get out the autos!" cried cora. "we must help the boys to fight the fire!" "telephone in an alarm!" suggested bess. "the autos first! the cars first! we must get them out!" cora cried as she hurried out of the door, the three other girls trailing after. "if we get the cars out the barn can go!" chapter ii the strange woman only for an instant had cora kimball hesitated. usually she was even more prompt than her brother jack to get into action, but the flash of fire she had seen in the garage, and the thought of the valuable cars stored there--cars in which they were to make their delightful summer trip--seemed to paralyze her for the time being. then she was galvanized into life and action. "cora, there comes your car out!" cried bess, as the _whirlwind_, the powerful kimball auto, was seen to poke its hood from the now blazing barn. ed had been the first to reach the structure, and, quickly switching on the self-starter, had run the machine out. "i guess they can get out the others!" said belle, as walter and jack dashed inside. cora suddenly turned and ran back toward the house. "where are you going?" asked eline. "oh dear! the whole place will soon be afire!" "that's what i'm afraid of!" cora called back, over her shoulder. "i'm going to get some extinguishers! maybe the boys can't reach the one in the barn. it's our only chance--an extinguisher. water is the worst thing you can put on a gasoline fire. get some pails of sand, girls!" "that's right--sand!" yelled ed, as he leaped from cora's car, having taken it a safe distance down the drive. he went back on the run to help jack and ed. the rain was now pelting down, but unmindful of it, the girls drew nearer the burning barn, while cora sped toward the house. "sand--pails?" asked belle. "yes!" cried bess. "there are some pails over there!" and she pointed toward a pile of gardening tools. "the watering can will be good, too. scoop up the sand--use your hands!" she rushed over and picked up one of the pails, an example followed by her sister and eline. "oh, why don't those boys come out!" cried the latter. "maybe they are--burned!" she faltered. "perhaps they can't get our car started," said bess. "sometimes it just won't respond!" quickly they filled the pails with sand, and while this is being done, and other preparations under way to fight the fire and save the autos i will take just a moment to tell my new readers something about the characters in this story, and how they figured in previous books of the series. the first volume, in which cora kimball and her chums were introduced, was entitled "the motor girls," and in that they succeeded in unraveling a mystery of the road, though it was not as easy as they at first thought it might be. then came "the motor girls on a tour; or, keeping a strange promise," and how strange that promise was, not even cora realized at the time. but in spite of difficulties it was kept and a restoration was made. in the third book, "the motor girls at lookout beach," there came the quest for two runaways. that girls--even young girls--do things on impulse was made clear to cora and her friends when they sought after the rather foolish creatures who ran such a risk. that only good came of it was as much due to cora as to anyone else. "the motor girls through new england" gave cora and her companions a chance to see something of life under strange circumstances. that one of them would be captured by the gypsies never for a moment entered their heads. but it happened, and for a time it looked as though the results might be serious. but once again cora triumphed. the volume immediately preceding the present one is entitled "the motor girls on cedar lake; or, the hermit of fern island." who the hermit was, and the strange secret he kept so long, and how it was finally solved you will find set down in that book. then came the return to normal life, but with the prospect of more adventures, on the verge of which we now find cora and her friends. they were ready for the summer vacation, and had voted to spend it at sandy point cove--a resort on the atlantic coast. it was the evening before the start, and they had gathered at cora's house to arrange final details. they were to motor to the cove, taking their time, for it was no small distance from chelton where our friends lived. the motor boat _petrel_ sometimes just called _pet_ for short, had been shipped on ahead. i think i have already mentioned the names of the young folks. cora generally came first, by reason of her personality. she was a splendid girl, tall and rather dark, and had somewhat of a commanding air, though she was not at all fond of her own way, and always willing to give in to others if it could be made plain that their way was best. her mother was a wealthy widow, and there was jack, cora's brother, taller than she, darker perhaps and was he handsomer? cora had, some time before, been given a fine large touring car, and jack owned a small runabout. walter pennington was jack's chum, both of them attending exmouth college, where, of late, ed foster had taken a post-graduate course. ed was very fond of hunting and fishing, and considered himself quite a sportsman. the robinson twins were daughters of mr. and mrs. perry robinson, the father being a wealthy railroad man. he had given the girls a fine car--the _flyaway_ it had been christened--while jack called his the _get there_. sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't. to go back to the girls. belle, or isabel, as she had been christened, was plump and rosy, and her sister bess, tall, willowy and fair, her rather light hair contrasting with the brown locks of belle. eline carleton, from chicago, a distant cousin of cora had been invited to spend the summer with the kimballs, and was to go to the cove. norton randolf was a newcomer in town, said to be of a wealthy family. he had only lately made the acquaintance of jack and his chums, but was rather well liked. chelton, as my previous readers know, was a most charming semi-country town, nestling in a bend of the chelton river, a stream of picturesque beauty. the location was in new england, not so far from the new york line that the trip to the metropolis was a fatiguing one. the young people had often taken it on pleasure bent. and now, not to keep you any longer from the story, which i am afraid i interrupted at a rather critical point, i will merely remark, in passing, that other characters will be mentioned from time to time, some of whom have appeared in previous books. in the excitement attending the fire, bess was puffing on her way to the garage, carrying a pail of wet sand that she had scooped up from the driveway. she was followed by the other girls. "oh, see the smoke!" cried eline. "that must be gasoline burning!" "it is," assented belle. "oh, do hurry--somebody!" cora came running out of the house, carrying long tin extinguishers, one in each hand, and one under her right arm. she had just bought a new lot, and had intended hanging them in the garage, but had forgotten it. "these will be just the thing!" she cried. "don't be frightened! there's not much gasoline in the barn. if we can get out the cars----" "something must be the matter!" cried bess. "the boys--they are in there yet--they may be overcome!" as if to deny this startling suggestion jack fairly shot out of the smoke in the _flyaway_--the car of the twins. "they have left their own car to the last!" gasped belle. "they had to!" cora panted. "they could only take them as they stood, you know. they were in line. mine was first, then yours. oh jack! is it very bad?" "a mean little blaze, sis! did you 'phone in an alarm?" he wiped his streaming eyes, and, bringing the car up alongside the _whirlwind_, leaped out to go back to his chums. "here! take these extinguishers!" his sister cried. "i'll get the department in a minute!" she tossed the tin tubes to jack, who, catching them, ran back toward the barn. it was raining harder than ever now, but no one seemed to mind it. the girls were totally oblivious of their smart gowns, now badly bedraggled. "take this sand!" wailed belle. "i don't know what to do with it!" "grab this sand from the girls!" yelled jack to ed, walter and norton, who, at that moment came out in jack's car. "throw it on the blazing gasoline! what kept you?" "your car wouldn't crank!" cried walter. "it's all right now, though--just scorched a little in the rear!" the three lads, norton clinging to the run-board, got the car to safety, and then raced back, grabbed the sand from belle, bess and eline, and followed jack into the garage, which was now under a pall of smoke. the tin tops of the extinguishers were yanked off, and the chemical powder sprinkled toward the blaze. sand was also cast on it, but the fire had spread more than the boys had thought. the choking fumes, too, drove the amateur blaze-fighters back. again cora came running from the house through the drenching rain. "i can't get the fire department on the wire!" she cried. "something is wrong with the telephone!" "it's the storm, i guess," answered jack, coming to the door of the old barn that had been converted into a garage. he had to have a breath of air. "oh, can we help?" cried eline. "better stay out," gasped ed, as he too, came for a little relief. "i guess we can keep it from spreading." by this time several men had run in from the street. "where's your water?" asked one. "don't want any!" cried jack. "it's gasoline. get more sand if you want to--dry, if you can find it!" he kicked one of the empty pails toward the men. a flash of lightning blazed over the structure, and the thunder rumbled as the rain came down harder than ever. "this rain'll put it out soon enough!" shouted one of the men helpers. the boys had gone back into the barn, leaving the girls outside. "i can get some sand in that!" cried belle, as she saw a pan in front of the dog's kennel--it was used to contain his dinner. the girl began scooping up in it some of the damp gravel from the drive. "don't! don't!" cried her sister. "drop it. you mustn't hold metal in a thunder storm." "oh, i'm going in!" exclaimed eline. "i can't bear to be in the open when it lightens." she darted toward the garage. instinctively the others followed. there seemed to be less smoke coming out now, and no blaze could be seen. "i guess they can stop it," murmured cora. "oh, i do hope they can!" "let's go in and help!" cried bess. "they may need us!" bravely the motor girls entered the garage. a shift in the wind had blown the smoke away from the door. they could see the boys and men fighting the flames that were in a far corner of the main room. belle suddenly ran forward and dashed on the blaze the pan of sand that she had not relinquished. "bravo!" cried jack. "you're a heroess!" he held his hand to his smarting eyes. "let me take that extinguisher!" begged belle, plucking a half-emptied one from him. "here's one for me!" exclaimed bess, picking it up off the floor. it had not been opened. she knocked off the top and, doing as the others did, she sent the powder in a sweeping motion toward the flames. some of the men ran out for more sand. the blaze was being well fought now. there was really no need for the fire department. above the place where the autos were stored were rooms formerly occupied by the coachman and his family, before mrs. kimball disposed of her horses. the stairs to these rooms were boxed in, a door leading directly to the path that went to the driveway. "i can go up there and get another extinguisher!" cried cora, indicating the stairway. "i know there's one there." "no need to!" exclaimed ed, who again had to get a breath of fresh air. but cora was already in the enclosed stairway. the next moment she shrieked: "oh, what is it? oh dear! who is it? come quick--someone!" everyone was startled--even the danger of the now almost extinguished fire spreading again could not detract from the import of danger they recognized in cora's voice. some one seemed to answer her from the stairway. "don't! please don't! i did not do it! let me go! please do!" "what is it, cora?" called jack, preparing to go to her. his sister had found a woman in the hallway--a strange woman who seemed much excited. her pleading tones as she confronted cora touched the girl's heart. "don't let them know i am here--not yet!" begged the stranger. "i can explain--everything. oh, so much depends on this! please do as i say!" "all right!" said cora, making a sudden resolve. "i'll let you explain." "but keep the others back--they are coming!" "i'll send them back." cora took a few steps toward the door. she could hear some one running across the garage floor. "it's all right!" cried cora. "go back and fight the fire, boys. i'll be there in a minute. i want to get that other extinguisher to make certain. but i thought a rat----" she knew that would be explanation enough for her cries, and from where they were the boys, girls, and men now in the garage could not see her or the strange woman. "a rat!" cried jack, with a laugh, as he heard his sister's word. "the idea of being frightened at a rat in a time of fire!" "i guess the rodents will make short tracks," was ed's opinion. "come on, we've got to give it a little more, jack!" the boys went back to the fire, bess, belle and eline, who had taken shelter in the garage, watching them. it was pouring too hard to stand outside, and, now that the smoke had mostly disappeared, there was not much discomfort. the danger, too, was practically over, as a can of gasoline that had not burned had been set outside. there had been really more smoke than fire from the first. cora went back to the strange woman. "you need not be afraid," spoke the girl, in a tone that gave encouragement. "we will not blame you too much--until we have heard your story. but of course i must know who you are." "yes--yes," answered the woman. she sank down on the stairs. the place was free of smoke, and some distance from the blaze. suddenly the stranger arose, and clutching cora's arm in a grip that hurt, and that showed the nervous tension under which she was laboring, she whispered: "i know i can trust you--i can tell by your face. but the--others!" she gasped. "leave it to me," answered cora. "i may be able to think of a way to help you. go over into the kitchen, and say miss cora sent you. it is so dark now the others will not see you. hurry." with her brain in a whirl--wondering upon what strange mystery she had stumbled, cora thrust the woman forth from the stable. then, seeing that she advanced toward the house, the girl groped her way up the stairs to get the extinguisher. when she came down the fire was sufficiently conquered as not to need more attention. "did a rat get you?" asked jack. "say, you do look pale, sis," for the electric lights, with which the garage was illuminated, had been turned on. truly cora seemed white. "there are some big ones up there," she remarked evasively, wondering if the woman would really go to the house. with unsteady steps the stranger made her way to the kitchen, where two rather frightened maids were watching the progress made in fighting the fire. "miss--miss cora told me to come here--and wait for her," faltered the woman. she made no effort to ascend the steps of the back porch. "come right in," urged nettie. "or perhaps you would rather sit out here and watch. i'll get you a chair." "yes, i would--thank you." she walked up and sat down. "i--i had rather be out in the air," she went on. back in the garage the young people were seeing that no lingering spark remained. "it is all out," remarked bess. "oh, but we're so soiled and--and smoky." "regular bacon," remarked jack with a grin. he looked like a minstrel because of the grime. "oh, wasn't it a narrow escape!" gasped belle. "could the lightning have struck?" "it didn't seem so," remarked cora, not now so nervous. but she was still puzzled over the presence of that strange woman in the garage at the time of the fire. "it was gasoline--whatever else it was," declared jack. "i can tell that by the smell. maybe some of that we used in an open pan to clean my machine exploded," he went on to his chums. "could it go off by spontaneous combustion?" asked ed. "it's possible," admitted walter. "unless some one was smoking in here--some tramp." "oh, no!" protested cora quickly. the woman did not seem a tramp--certainly she did not smoke. "we must get the cars back in here," said jack. "the rain is slackening now." this was so, for the shower, though severe, had not been of long duration. "we want them in shape for to-morrow," he went on. "are we going after all this?" asked belle. "certainly!" exclaimed cora. "this fire didn't amount to much." "i'm much obliged to you," spoke jack to the passing workmen who had come in to help. jack passed them some money. "we'll help you roll the cars in," suggested one. "yes, it will be better to roll them by hand than take chances on starting them up, and making sparks," said jack. "come on, boys!" "come on, girls!" echoed cora. "we'll go to the house." while her brother, his chums and the men were putting the autos back in the garage the girls ran through the slackening rain to the rear porch. there cora found the strange woman sitting, pathetically weary, in the chair nettie had brought out. "oh--some one is here!" gasped belle, who had nearly stumbled over the figure in the darkness. then one of the maids opened the kitchen door, and a flood of light came out on the porch. "wait a minute, girls," said cora, in a low voice. "i think i have a little surprise for you." she motioned to the strange woman. chapter iii a strange story "come inside," cora said, while the others looked on in amazement. who could this strange, elderly woman be? where had she come from? and cora appeared to know her. "one of cora's charity-cronies," ed whispered to norton, who stood inquisitively near. "come on. she knows how to take care of that sort." the boys after putting back the autos had come on to the house. jack and walter were evidently of ed's opinion, for they also passed into the house with not more than a glance at the woman. bess lingered near cora. "we will go in here," cora said kindly, as she opened from the kitchen a door that led into a room used for special occasions, when many dishes were served. "then i can have a chance to talk with you. perhaps you are hungry?" she added. the woman looked about her as if dazed. cora saw that she had a face of rather uncommon type. her deep-set gray eyes were faded to the very tint of her gray hair, and her cheeks, though sunken, outlined features that indicated refinement. her clothes were very much worn, but comparatively clean and of good material. she wore no hat, nor other head covering. "yes, i am hungry, i think," the woman said. "but i need not keep you from your friends. if you will just have a cup of tea sent in here to me." "oh, they don't mind," cora said, with a laugh. "my friends can be with me any time." the other girls had gone to get rid of the grime of the fire, as had the boys. "very well," said the woman. "you are so kind." cora scarcely heard this for she was out in the kitchen giving some orders. she soon returned to the little room, and took a chair opposite her guest. "how did you come to be in the barn?" she asked. "i went in--to rest," answered the woman wearily. "of course," cora said, as if that were an explanation. "but i won't ask you to talk any more until you have had your tea. there," as nettie placed a tray of refreshment beside her, "let me give you your tea first, then you will feel more like talking." the tea was poured when jack entered. he looked at cora questioningly. "this woman was out in the storm," cora truthfully explained without making a clear statement, "and i insisted that she come in." "why, of course," assented the good-natured brother. "but say, cora," and he changed the subject tactfully. "wasn't it a good thing mother was not at home? she would have been scared to death." "oh, i know we always have to get mother off first," she replied. "when we are arranging a trip i count on--happenings." "this is your brother?" asked the woman, who seemed to have revived under the influence of that cup of tea. "yes," cora replied. "have some of the ham. and some bread." a particularly sharp flash of lightning blazed through the room. the storm was not over yet. the three girls from the parlor threw the door of the pantry open, and stood there with very white faces. even belle, the rosy one, had gone pale again. "oh, do come in here," wailed belle. "i am so frightened!" "with all the others near you?" cora asked, smiling. then, seeing the actual terror of her friends she did stand up to comply. "i suppose it was the fire," apologized eline. "we are especially nervous to-night." "yes, do go," begged the woman, "and when i have finished, i will show my gratitude by telling you all a very strange story. one forgets fear, sometimes, when a matter of deeper interest is brought up." "very well," assented cora. "i will be back in a few minutes, and then we will all be primed for the wonderful story." "what is it?" whispered jack in the passage-way, as the girls entered the library. "hush!" cora cautioned. "i found her--in the barn." "the barn! before the fire?" he gasped. "did she----?" "after it was--going," cora managed to say. then she put her finger to her lips. the young folks, at least the girls, insisted upon huddling in the very darkest corner of the room. "don't go near the phonograph," cautioned eline. "musical sounds are very dangerous during a storm, i've heard." then the absurdity of "musical sounds" from a silent phonograph occurred to her, and she laughed as quickly as did the others. "well it's metal at any rate," she amended, "and that is just as bad." "who's your friend, cora?" ed asked, in an off-hand way. "oh, she is going to tell us a wonderful story," put in bess before cora could reply. "wait until she has finished her tea." "she looks like a deserted wife," belle ventured softly, in her usual strain of romance. "what's the indication?" asked walter somewhat facetiously. "now, do i look anything like a deserted lover?" cora got up and went out into the pantry again. she found the woman standing, waiting for her. "i do not know if i was wise or foolish to have made that promise," she said. "but as i have made it i will stand by it. i feel also that to talk will do me good. and, after all, what have i to fear more than i have already suffered?" "we have no idea of insisting on your confidence," cora assured her. "but, of course, i would like to know why you went in _our_ garage." "and i fully intend to tell you," replied the woman. "are you all young folks?" "just now, we are alone," answered cora. "we are going away to-morrow, and were finishing our arrangements when the barn caught fire." "i scarcely look fit to enter your--other room," the woman demurred, with a glance at her worn clothing. "but i assure you i have been no place where there has been illness, or anything of that sort." "you are all right," insisted cora. "come along. i am sure the girls are more frightened than ever now, for the storm is more furious." the thunder and lightning seemed to be having "a second spasm," as jack put it. a hush fell upon the little party as the strange woman entered. even the careless one, norton, looked serious. somehow the presence of a gray-haired, lonely woman, in that unusually merry crowd, seemed almost a painful contrast. "sit here," said cora, pulling a chair out in a convenient position. "and won't you take off your cape?" "no, thank you," replied the stranger. "i must talk while i feel like it, or i might disappoint you." this was said with a smile, and the young folks noted that though the woman showed agitation, her eyes were now bright, and her voice firm. "very well," cora acceded. then the woman told her strange story. "some time ago i was employed in an office. i had charge of the cataloging of confidential papers. i had been with the firm only a short time, when one day," she paused abruptly, "one day i was very busy. "a big piece of business had just been transacted, and there was a lot of ready cash in the office. it was my duty to see that the record of all finished business was entered in the books, and i was intent upon that task." again she paused, and in the interval there came a flame of lightning followed by a roar of thunder. "my, what a storm!" gasped the woman. "i'm glad i am not out in it." the remark seemed pathetic, and served to distract the most nervous of the girls from a fear that they otherwise would have felt. "we are glad you are with us," belle ventured, as cora hastened out into the kitchen, to make sure that all was right there. the maids had been startled. nettie was assuring a new girl that thunder storms were never disastrous in chelton, but the latter had suddenly become prayerful, and would not answer the simplest questions. assuring herself that nettie could take care of the girl and two newly hired men, who had assembled in the kitchen, cora went back to the library. "well, that day," continued the woman, "marked my life-doom. as i worked over my books, and counted the money, i saw two men standing in the door. a young girl clerk--nancy ford--was nearest to them. as she saw them she screamed, and darted past them out--out somewhere in this big world, and i have never been able to find her since." the woman put up both hands to cover her pallid face, and sighed heavily. no one spoke. eline had shifted her chair, unconsciously, very near the stranger, and sat with rapt attention waiting for the continuation of the story. "then," went on the woman, "when nancy ford was gone i saw the men come toward me! i screamed, put my hand upon the cash i was counting--and then--they hit me!" "oh!" gasped cora, involuntarily. "they robbed you!" "yes, they robbed me!" repeated the woman. "not only of my employer's money, but of my reputation, for the story i told afterward was not believed!" "how dreadful!" exclaimed bess, clasping her hands. the boys, less demonstrative, did not interrupt with a single syllable. but they were impressed, nevertheless. "yes, i was discharged! i was shocked into a nervous collapse, and ever since i have been searching for nancy ford. why did she run before any harm was done? why did she flee at the sight of the men, who showed no indication of being robbers? why did nancy ford not return to clear my name? i went to the hospital and was there for months. oh, such terrible months! i was threatened with brain fever, from that mental searching for nancy, but she never returned!" belle was stirred to sympathy by the recital, and, while no one saw her, brushed by the woman's chair and slid into the gaping pocket of her cape her own little silver purse. "my name is margaret raymond--mrs. raymond. i am a widow," went on the woman finally, "and i am not ashamed or afraid now to have the world know who i am. i loved nancy: she was almost like a daughter to me, and i would have trusted her with anything. but now--she has deserted me! and no one else can ever clear my name!" "no one else?" cora repeated. "some of the firm members believed my story, but it was vague and one could scarcely blame them for doubting it," said mrs. raymond. "didn't it look bad for the girl?" jack asked. "she ran away?" "yes, it did, but a girl somehow has a better chance than an old woman," said mrs. raymond sadly, though she was not so very old. "they thought she was scared into flight, and afraid to come back. oh, when sympathy is on one's side it is easy to make excuses! i was on my way to look for work when the storm overtook me. i went in your garage. my hat blew away." "we will do anything we can to assist you," cora declared. "your story seems true, and we have the advantage of some leisure time." "and a good heart, besides brains," the woman said emphatically. "my child, you have a great chance in life. may no misfortunes rob you of it." the storm had moderated somewhat. the strain of the strange story made a deep impression upon the listeners, and the young men, quick to realize this effect upon their girl friends, now proposed that they all go outside and see "what the weather looked like." anxious to know the prospects for the long auto tour they were to take on the following morning, all now hurried to the side porch, leaving the woman alone. "my, isn't it beautiful!" exclaimed eline. "how sweet everything smells!" "and that little breeze," said ed, "will soon dry up the mud. i am glad it did not rain longer." "if it did," added walter, "we would have to load up with planks to bridge over the bad places. can't depend on rail fences over where we're going." for some time they stood admiring the newly-made beauties of the wonderful out-doors, then cora thought perhaps she might arrange for mrs. raymond to stay in the servants' quarters over night. they had left the woman rather abruptly, she feared. cora asked jack what he thought, and he agreed that the woman's story sounded plausible, and that it was their duty to do what they could to assist her, if they could. but he did not seem very keen. with the intention of asking mrs. raymond to remain, cora left the others and went back to the library. no one was in the room! "perhaps she went into the kitchen," cora thought, opening the door through the hallway to that room. "where's mrs. raymond; the strange woman?" she asked nettie. "she did not come out here," replied the maid. "isn't she with you?" "no, we left her in the library," cora replied, and without further inquiry she looked down the driveway and could just see a vanishing shadow turn into the road. but it may not have been mrs. raymond. "i guess she's gone," continued cora to nettie. "and i am sorry, for we wanted to keep her for the night. well, i hope the poor creature was cheered up some. she seemed to need encouragement. we did all we could, perhaps." "is she gone?" asked bess, when they all had come in again, having satisfied themselves that fine weather was promised for the morning. "i hoped she would tell us more about the ford girl--give us a description of her, at least. we might run across her somewhere." "it all seemed rather weird," said cora. "but really we must be on the lookout. who knows but we may help unravel the mystery?" "but why did the woman hurry off so?" asked belle, as if any one present knew. "suppose she thought we might think she caused the fire," ed answered. "it looked strange for her to be in the barn at that time. but anyone could see that it was a small explosion--too much gas somewhere." "well, all we know about nancy is her name," observed cora. "we will have to trust to motor girls' luck for the rest. but i love a mystery." "of course," eline declared, "if we could have the wonderful luck to find that girl we might be able to clear the poor woman's name. it looked to me as if the girl was in league with the robbers when she ran before they entered the room." "no use speculating," cora commented. "better finish our arrangements. it's getting late." chapter iv on the road there was more "finishing" to be done than even cora had thought, and, with her usual habit of looking after matters, she had counted on much. but the thunder-shower, the fire, the finding of the strange woman, and listening to her still more strange story all combined to make the affair of getting ready for the trip in the morning no easy one. but cora was determined to carry out the plans as agreed on, so when her friends showed a disposition to delay, and dwell in conversation on the recent happenings, she "brought them up with a round turn," as jack expressed it. "i just can't get over that queer woman," observed belle, during a lull in the talk, while cora was jotting down in a pretty red leather notebook some matters she did not want to forget. "she had such--such a patient face." "maybe she was tired of waiting for a new one," suggested norton, who was usually flippant. "i've heard that ladies can get new faces at these--er--beauty parlors." "it's a pity there isn't some sort of a parlor where one can get--manners!" murmured eline. she seemed to have taken a distinct dislike to the new young man. belle and bess, who had overheard the remark, looked rather askance at cora's relative, but said nothing. "now then!" exclaimed the young hostess, "since you have all gotten rid of as much of the effects of the fire as possible, we'll go over the main points to be sure nothing will go wrong. oh, that's something i almost forgot. i must send mamma our address." mrs. kimball had gone to europe for a summer tour, leaving her daughter and son at home. when they went to the cove the house would be in charge of a care-taker. cora had not fully determined on her vacation plans when her mother went away, and now there was necessity for forwarding the address. "i'll attend to that the last thing to-night," cora went on. "i'll send mother a long letter, and write again as soon as we get settled at the cove." "if we ever _do_ get settled," murmured walter. "say, boys, am i any less--hammy?" and he sniffed at his coat about which still lingered the smell of gasoline. "you're of the ham--saltiest--or hammiest!" declared ed. "you may break, you may burn the garage if you will the taste of the gasoline stays with it still." it was walter who mis-quoted this couplet. "oh, boys, please do be quiet!" begged cora. "we will never get anything done if you don't!" "it strikes me we got considerable done a short time ago, when we put that fire out," remarked jack. cora looked sharply at him. "i'll be good, sis--don't shoot--i'm coming down," he exclaimed, and he "slumped" at eline's feet and made a fruitless endeavor to hold her slim, pretty hand. "stop!" she commanded with a blush. "that's my privilege!" called ed, as he made a quick move, but the visitor from the windy city escaped by getting behind bess, who was in the roman chair. "if you don't----" began cora determinedly, and then she changed her tone. "please----" she pleaded. "after that--nothing but silence!" came from walter. "go easy, boys!" silence did reign--or, considering the shower, might one not say "rain" for a moment? cora resumed. "we are to start as early in the morning as possible," she said. "i figured--or rather jack and ed did--that the trip to sandy point cove would take about three days--perhaps four if--if anything happened like tire trouble. but we are in no hurry, and we can spend five days on the road if we like. "my cousin, mrs. fordam, will go along with us as a chaperone, so that stopping at hotels will be perfectly--proper." "i thought it was always proper to stop at a hotel--when you had the price!" ventured jack. "you don't understand," declared his sister, giving him a look. "so cousin mary will be on the trip with us. i guess you all know her, except eline and norton. she's jolly and funny." "why can't she go right on to the cove with us, and chaperone there, too?" belle wanted to know. "because mamma's aunt--mrs. susan chester--is to look after us there. you'll like aunt susan, i'm sure." "are we to call her that?" ed asked. "of course--she won't mind," spoke cora. "well, as i said, we'll go to the cove--taking whatever time we please. there are two bungalows there, you know, and we girls are to have the larger one, so----" "well, i like that!" cried jack, sitting up. "as if we fellows could dress in a band-box." "oh, your place is plenty big enough--you know it is!" retorted his sister. "and you know when you and i went down to look at them you said you liked the smaller one best, anyhow." "did i?" inquired jack, slightly bewildered. "you certainly did!" "now will you be good?" laughed walter. "we girls need more room anyhow," was the opinion of bess, calmly given. "nothing more to say," declared ed, sententiously. "i know how many dresses each of you is going to take now. slay on, macbeth!" and he closed his eyes resignedly. "everything will be ready for us at the bungalows," went on cora. "aunt susan has promised to see to that." "how about--er--grub--not to put too fine a point upon it?" asked jack. "the refreshments will be there," cora answered, pointedly. "oh my! listen to that!" mocked ed. "we'll have to put on our glad rags for dinner every night, fellows--notice that--i said dinner! ahem!" "please be quiet!" begged cora. "now we're at the bungalows," and she consulted her list. "come out for a swim" cried walter, imitating a seal, and barking like one. "i mean in imagination," added cora. "there, i think that is all. our trunks and suit cases are nearly packed, cousin mary will be here later to-night, ready to start in the morning with us. our route is all mapped out, and i guess we can count on a good time." "are the bungalows near the beach?" asked eline. "almost on it," answered cora. "at high tide and with the wind on shore the spray comes on the porches!" "oh dear!" exclaimed belle, apprehensively. "i know----" "you're going to learn to swim, you promised!" cried cora. "can anyone think of anything else?" they all could, and promptly proceeded to do so, a perfect babel of talk ensuing. some forgotten points were jotted down and then, as it was getting late, the young people dispersed, promising to meet early in the morning. it had stopped raining when they went out, so there was no need to hunt up umbrellas. "cora," said jack, a bit solemnly, as he was helping her lock up for the night, "was there anything about that strange woman that you didn't tell us?" "not a thing, jack, except that i discovered her in the stairway that time i screamed, and i let you think it was a rat. then i told her to hurry in the house without being seen. i saw she was in no condition to talk then. that was all." "good for you, sis. you managed it all right. but i would like to get at the bottom of her trouble." "so would i. perhaps we may--later. good-night," and they separated. the next day was all that could be wished for. the sun shone with revived and determined energy, as it always seems to after a rain, when it "has been deprived of its proper set the night before," to quote jack. the roads had dried up nicely, and everything pointed to a most delightful trip. an investigation by jack in the daytime proved that the fire had done very little damage to the barn. a close inspection seemed to indicate that spontaneous combustion of some gasoline carelessly left in an open can had caused it. jack's car was not enough scorched to be more than barely noticeable from the rear. cousin mary had arrived on time, and helped cora get ready. jack ran the three cars out of the stable before his friends arrived, and had them ready for the passengers. gasoline and oil tanks had been filled the day before, and the motors gone over to insure as perfect service as possible. tires had also been looked after. jack and ed were to go together in the former's _get there_, cora, in her big maroon _whirlwind_ would have eline as her passenger, the tonneau being taken up with luggage. norton randolf, who owned a small, but powerful car, had invited walter to go with him, norton being included in the invitation to go "bungaloafing by the sea," as jack characterized it. he was really good company after one had become used to some of his mannerisms. the robinson twins, of course, would use their own car. the girls, including cora, were no longer amateur motorists, but could drive their machines with a skill equal to that of the boys. norton arrived soon after walter and ed, coming up in his car, which was kept in a public garage. "where is your cousin going to ride, cora?" asked belle, as they hurried the final preparations. "i don't see how you can get her in your machine, with those trunks and things in the tonneau." "that's so!" exclaimed cora, with a tragic gesture. "i knew i had forgotten something. i had down on my notes 'cousin mary--where?' and i took it to mean where would i put her to sleep. i see now it was where should i put her to ride." "let her come with us!" exclaimed bess. "you can take one of our suit cases in your car, and that will leave plenty of room for your cousin." "i guess that's all we can do now," said cora. "oh, dear, i thought i had fixed everything!" "don't fuss, my dear!" exclaimed mrs. fordam. "it will be all right. your car is so big that i'm really afraid of it." so it was arranged, and when a few other forgotten matters had been settled, cora gave the last instructions to the care-taker of the kimball home, and blew a blast on her auto horn as a signal to start. "at last we are off!" sighed eline, as she sat beside cora. "it seems as if time moves slowest of all at the end." "it really does," agreed cora. "i'm glad we are able to start. when i saw that blaze in the garage--oh, my dear, you've no idea how my heart sank. it almost stopped beating." "i can imagine so. what a pretty suit you have," and she glanced admiringly at cora's smart motoring costume. it was a light biscuit shade, of a material that would stand wear, and not show the stains of travel. "your own is fully as pretty--perhaps a little too nice," returned cora. eline had made rather elaborate preparations for her eastern trip, as regarded dress. but she was within good taste, for she ran much to harmonizing shades--perhaps too much so. "are we going at this snail's pace all day?" cried jack to his sister. "can't you move faster?" "we want the good people of chelton to have a chance to admire us," called belle. "shall we pass her?" asked norton of walter. "my car can easily get ahead of the _whirlwind_." "don't do it," walter advised. "i don't believe cora would like it. and really, she arranged this affair, so she ought to make the pace." "all right," assented the new lad, and he had the good sense to see the wisdom of the advice. they passed the robinson home, the twins waving and being waved at, and then the four autos turned out on the main road that led into a glorious country--a country doubly glorious this morning because of the rain of the night before. they were really on the road at last, and as cora glanced down it, her gloved hands firm on the steering wheel, she could not help wondering if it was this road that the strange and perhaps misunderstood woman had taken when she fled so silently from the kimball house. also cora wondered if she would ever meet her again. the chances were against it and yet---- "really so many strange things have happened to us on some of our auto trips," she explained to eline as they talked it over, "that i would not be surprised if we did see her again--and perhaps----" "even that nancy ford!" supplied eline. "oh, that would be too much to expect, my dear!" said cora, with a laugh. "we turn here!" she added, "just hold out your hand, eline." "hold out my hand?" eline asked, wonderingly, as she stretched it straight out in front of her. "what for?" "no, i mean out at the side of the car," explained cora. "it is a sign to whoever is coming behind that you are going to turn. it prevents accidents." "oh, i see," and this time the chicago girl did it properly. chapter v a flock of sheep "what a delightful road!" "isn't it splendid!" "too perfect!" it was cora who made the first remark, eline who answered and the robinson twins who chorused the third. the highway was so wide, and there was so little traffic thus early in the morning, that the two cars could run side by side. on high gear with the gas throttled down they made scarcely any noise, so that conversation was possible. "i don't know what i have done to enjoy such pleasure," said mrs. fordam. "are you really enjoying it, cousin mary?" inquired cora. "indeed i am, my dear! i wouldn't have missed it for a good deal. i never knew before how delightful it was to be chaperone to such nice girls." "i'm sorry i can't stop steering long enough to pass you a chocolate candy!" exclaimed bess. "belle, you will have to do it for me. such compliments!" "no, i really mean it," declared mrs. fordam, earnestly. "wait until the boys begin to cut up," warned cora. "oh, i know jack of old," returned the chaperone. "he can't do anything very bad." "they seem to be hatching up some sort of a plot back there," remarked eline, as she looked to the rear where jack's gaudy red and yellow car was careening alongside the _beetle_--that owned by norton. it had been so christened because of its low, rakish appearance, and the fact that it was painted a dead black. it was not a pretty car, but it had speed, as norton often boasted. "oh, i've no doubt they will do something," conceded belle. "but we can do things too!" they ran on for some distance, this stretch of the road being particularly fine. they were under a perfect arch of maple trees, which, being planted on either side of the road, mingled their branches over the centre, affording a delightful shade. it was needed, too, in a measure, for the sun, creeping higher and higher in the blue sky, was sending down beams of heat, as well as light. there was gentle wind, which was accentuated by the motion of the machines. "is it hard to learn to drive a car?" asked eline, as bess and belle combined in telling mrs. fordam something of the excitement of the previous night, she not having arrived until it was over. "it is, my dear, at first," cora explained. "then it all seems to come to you at once. why you'd never believe it, but first i used to imagine i was going to hit everything on the road. i gave objects such a wide berth that everyone laughed at me. but i did not want to take chances. now watch!" she speeded up a little, and turning to one side seemed to be headed straight for a tree. "oh!" screamed eline, and bess and belle echoed the cry. "there!" cried cora, as she skillfully passed it, far enough off for safety, as even the most careful motorist would admit, but near enough to make an amateur nervous. "you see what it is to have confidence," she added to eline. "yes," was the somewhat doubtful comment. "cora, dear, i wouldn't take those risks if i were you," rebuked her cousin mary, gently. "oh, it wasn't a risk at all! i had perfect control. i just wanted to show eline what practice will do. i am going to teach her to drive." "i'll never learn!" was the nervous protest. the road narrowed about a mile farther on, but before the cars lengthened out into single file again, belle asked: "where are we to lunch, cora?" "i planned on stopping at mooreville. there is a nice, home-like restaurant there. we'll be in churchton soon, and we can stop there and 'phone in to have a meal ready for a party of nine." "that would be a good idea." churchton was soon reached, and jack found he had a puncture. while he stopped to put a new inner tube into service cora got the restaurant on the wire and made arrangements. "now will you please be good?" jack begged of his car, when the tire had been pumped up again. "this is a bad beginning for you, old _get there_." "if it makes good you can tack on another title when we're in chelton again," suggested ed. "what?" "call it _get there and back_." "i believe i will!" laughed jack. "sorry to delay you," he said to the others, for they waited for him after cora had finished telephoning. "it's all right," spoke walter, good-naturedly. "we have plenty of time." once more they were under way. the road was now not so good, and in places positively bad. but they knew they would soon be on better ground, and on a fine highway leading into mooreville. later they were on a narrow thoroughfare, so narrow, and with such deep ditches on either side, that it would take no small skill to pass another vehicle in certain places. then, as cora made a turn, the road ahead being hidden by a thick growth of trees, she saw straggling along the highway a big flock of sheep, tended by a man and two beautiful collie dogs. the fleecy animals straggled and spread out over the whole road. "oh dear!" cora cried, as she slowed down. "isn't this provoking! we can't get past them." "why not?" asked eline. "because they are so--so straggly. they take up the whole road, and if i tried to pass i'd be sure to run over one of them. oh! what a shame! "we've got to take it slowly!" she called back to the twins, who were just behind her. "i can't take a chance of threading my way through all these animals." "this is tough luck!" complained jack, as he saw what the trouble was. the herder looked up stolidly, puffing on a short pipe, and called to one of the dogs, who leaped off to drive back into the flock a sheep that showed a propensity to lag behind. "can't you try to pass them?" asked eline. "i'm sure you could do it." "i'd rather not," answered cora. "don't you dare!" cautioned bess, who heard what was said. "but we'll be late for lunch--and it has been ordered," wailed belle. "and i'm so hungry!" cora resolved on an appeal. "do you think you could drive your sheep to one side, and keep them there until we passed?" she asked the man. "it will take us only a minute to shoot by." "it would be a risky undertaking miss," the herder answered respectfully enough. "sheep is queer critters. you think you've got 'em just where you want 'em, when, all to once they break out, and if one goes the others follow." "yes, i know!" cora was genuinely distressed. "but we simply must get past!" she exclaimed. "can't you think of a way?" she looked ahead at the sheep. there were a hundred or more--quite a flock. the herder took off his cap and scratched his head reflectively--looking the while meditatively at his pipe. "it might be done--it might," he murmured. cora brought her car to a stop. "oh!" cried bess and belle together, and bess, who was driving, jammed on the foot and emergency brake quicker than she ever had in her life before. as it was her fender struck the rear tires of cora's car. "oh dear!" wailed eline, clutching at cora, while belle, recovering from her momentary fright, had the presence of mind to raise her arm in the air as a signal for the boys to come to a halt. "cora kimball!" cried bess. "what did you stop so suddenly for, and not signal us? we might have broken your car!" "i'm sorry. but i just thought of something, so didn't think of signalling. any damage done?" "no, but there might have been." "all right then. will you please come here?" she called to the man. "i want to speak to you--that is, if the sheep will be all right." "yes, miss, the dogs will look after 'em," and, calling a command to the intelligent collies, he advanced toward cora's car. chapter vi jack is lost "how many sheep have you?" asked cora. "well, there's just a hundred and ten, miss. i had a hundred and 'leven, but one died on me," the man explained. "what is this--a class in arithmetic?" inquired jack, who had left his car and come up to where his sister sat in hers. "now, jack--please----" she said. "and how much farther does this road go before----" "the road doesn't go--it stays right here!" chuckled her brother. "stop it!" she commanded in such a tone that he knew she meant it. "how far before there is a cross-road into which you could turn your sheep?" went on cora, fixing the man with what jack said afterward was "a cold and fishy glance." "a matter of four mile, miss." "i thought so. then we'd have to tag along behind you all that distance, losing time, and----" "to say nothing of swallowing all that dust!" exclaimed belle, pointing to a cloud of it that hung over the flock of sheep, which the dogs were skillfully herding. "oh, it's awful!" "that's why i've thought of a way out," spoke cora. "then _out_ with it, sis!" exclaimed the irrepressible jack. once more his sister turned her attention to him--this time it was only a look, but it sufficed. "do you see that field over there?" asked cora of the sheep man, pointing to one rich and luxuriant in deep, green grass. "yes, miss, i see it," and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to be sure he made no mistake. "yes. well, now, could you take your sheep in there, and keep them--er--quiet--until we passed in our autos. you see it is impossible for us to get by on the road, for even if you did get the animals to one side one might leap out, under the wheels of a car and there would be an accident." "i see, miss. the sheep might be killed." "yes, and we'd be wrecked," growled jack. "what's the game, sis? if we stay here much longer that dinner will be eaten by some one else." "be quiet jack--please! now could you not drive your sheep into the field?" she asked. "then we could get past. of course we might turn around and go back to some other road, but it would delay us. could you?" certainly no mere man could withstand the appealing glance thrown at this humble sheep herder. he capitulated. "i guess i could do it, miss. but what if the man who owns this field was to see me? you see i'm a stranger in these parts--i'm only hired to drive these sheep to the man that bought them." "i see. well, if we gave you a dollar or so, you could give it to the man who owns that pasture in case he made objection. it would be worth two dollars to get past." "more," jack framed with his lips, but he did not speak aloud, being a careful and frugal youth. "the sheep could not eat much grass in the short time you drove them into the field, kept them there until we got past, and then let 'em out again; could they?" she asked, with a winning smile. "no, miss, i guess i can do it. sheep is queer. they is easily frightened, and maybe it would be the best way. why, only last night, when i had turned 'em into a pasture they near ran off on me." "why?" asked jack, rather idly. "well, you see it was this way. i had 'em all settled for the night, a matter of several miles back, when a woman came running along the road. she was takin' on somethin' bad, cryin' like, and mutterin' 'kin i ever find her? kin i ever find her?' you see----" "was that what she said?" cried cora excitedly. "she did, miss!" "what sort of a woman was she?" with her eyes cora signalled to jack to remain quiet. she knew the girls would. "well, i couldn't rightly say, miss, as it was so dark right after the storm. but before i knew what she was doin' she had come into the pasture that i hired for the sheep over night, and run toward a hay stack. she stumbled over a lamb, fell down, the dogs barked, and it took all i could do to quiet them sheep." "what became of the woman?" asked cora, making a motion with her lips to signify that she thought her the same mysterious one who had been in her barn. "well, she was real sorry for having made me so much trouble, and it _was_ trouble. she said she didn't see the sheep in the field, and she was as scar't as they was, i reckon. i asked her what she was doin' out and she said looking for a girl." "a girl?" asked jack, sharply. "yes. i ast her if it was her girl--thinkin' she might be a farmer's wife from around there, but she didn't say any more. only she kept sort of moanin' like, an' sayin' as how her life was spoilt, an' how if she could only find a girl--well, i couldn't make much head or tail of it, an' anyhow i was worried about the sheep, for one got torn on a barbed wire fence. but i was sorry for the woman. i ast her if she intended to spend the night out-doors, and she said yes. "i couldn't hardly stand for that--for by her voice i could tell she wasn't a common kind. so i ast her if she had any money. i was goin' to give her some myself, so she could get a night's lodging anyhow. she put her hand in her pocket--sort of absent-minded like, and then she got a surprise, i guess, for she pulled out a silver purse, that she didn't seem to expect to find there. i could see it plain for i was lightin' my pipe just then to quiet my nerves." "a silver purse?" cried cora. "ahem!" coughed belle, meaningly, and cora, looking at her, understood there was something to be told--later. "yes, a silver purse," went on the man. "she didn't appear to know she had it, and when she opened it and saw some bills and silver, she was more struck than ever. she said something about not knowing it was there, and then she cried out: 'oh, it must have been them dear girls! god bless 'em!' that's the words she used, miss. i remember 'em well." the others had left their cars now, and come up to hear the recital. the boys looked meaningly at one another, and the girls exchanged glances. "what happened next?" asked cora. "why, nothin' much, miss. you see the woman had money though she didn't know it, which i took to be queer. but it wa'n't none of my affair. she gave me good-night and went back to the road, walkin' off in the direction of the town. i guess she got lodging all right--she could go to a hotel with that money. it was more than i carry. but the sheep was all right by then, quieted down, so i left 'em to my dogs and crawled under the hay. i slept good, too. "but now, miss, i want to oblige you an' your friends, so i'll just drive my animals into that field. i don't believe the owner will care." "well, take this in case he does," said cora, passing over a two-dollar bill. "get ready now, people!" she cried gaily. "we're going to move!" with the aid of the beautiful collies, who seemed to be able to do everything but talk, the herder drove his sheep through the lowered bars of the pasture. then, with the bars up again, so they could not come out, the man waved for the auto to proceed, swinging his cap at the boys and girls in token of good will. cora's _whirlwind_ speeded up, followed by the others, and soon they were on the broad, level highway that led to mooreville. "cora, i simply must speak or i'll----" began bess. "don't burst!" cautioned jack, running his car up alongside his sister's. the road was wide enough for three for a short distance. "wasn't that the same woman who was at your house?" went on bess. "i'm sure of it," assented cora. "only i didn't want to speak of it before him, poor creature! what a plight to be in! no place to stay!" "but that silver purse!" cried bess. "and the money----" she stopped suddenly and looked at her sister. "belle robinson, you never gave that to her!" she cried. "yes i did," admitted belle. "i slipped it into the pocket of her cloak. i could see she needed it." "'bread upon the waters,'" quoted cora. "i was wondering where she got it when the man mentioned it. to think of hearing about her again. girls, i'm sure she must be, in some way, tragically mixed up in our lives. we are destined to meet her again, i'm sure." "well, i can't afford another silver purse," said belle, smiling. "it will have to be plain leather next time." "we'll all chip in," declared jack. "well, we must make time now," asserted cora. they found a rather anxious restaurant keeper looking down the road up which they came, but he became all smiles when he saw the merry party, and soon they were sitting down to a plain, but well-cooked and substantial meal. and they all had appetites, too! "we will spend the night at the mansion house, in fairport," spoke cora, consulting a list after dinner. "i will telephone for rooms." "perhaps you had better let me," suggested cousin mary, and she made the arrangements over the wire. once more they were under way again, and all went well until jack shouted that his tire had gone flat and would have to be pumped up. "go ahead--don't wait for us!" he called to his sister. "we can speed up and catch you." "don't take the wrong road," cora cautioned, and then jack and ed got out the repair kit. the work took them longer than they had expected, and it was getting dusk when they were ready to proceed. "we'll never make it before dark, old man," said ed. "oh, i guess we will. i'm going to fracture some speed limits," and jack opened wide the throttle. the _get there_ did make good time, but it was not worthy of its name. for, after going for some time, jack felt that he must be nearing fairport. he got out to look at a sign post, lighting a match to distinguish the directions. then he uttered an expression of dismay. "what is it?" asked ed, anxiously. "something else gone wrong, jack?" "yes--_we've_ gone wrong!" "how so?" "why, we're on the belleville turnpike, and to my certain knowledge we're about fifteen miles off the right road for fairport. i thought that fellow we asked, about sunset, didn't seem very sure of his directions. he told us wrong--maybe not on purpose--but wrong just the same. ed, old man, we are lost in a dismal country with night coming on. please groan and shiver for me, while i think of the proper thing to say. we're lost!" "well, the only thing to do is to go back," remarked ed, philosophically. "come on. luckily the roads are good." "hark! some one is coming!" exclaimed jack, as he heard footfalls on the hard highway. "i'll ask him. maybe there's a short cut to fairport." the figure advanced out of the darkness into the glare of the lights on jack's car. then he exclaimed involuntarily: "it's a girl!" chapter vii worries "where shall we leave our cars?" asked belle. "there's a garage just around the corner from the hotel," answered cora. "we can have the man look the machines over, too, and see that there is plenty of gasoline and oil. then we won't have to worry." the three cars had drawn up in front of the mansion house at fairport, following a pleasant run after the sheep episode. jack and ed, of course, were not present, and of them more presently. they were having, as jack might express it, "their own troubles." "oh, but i'm warm and dusty!" exclaimed eline as she "flopped" from the car to the sidewalk. flopped is the only word that properly expresses it. "then you're not much used to motoring," remarked cora with a smile, as she disengaged herself from the steering wheel. "it is tiring, at first, but one soon becomes used to it. how did you like it, cousin mary?" "it was delightful, my dear, purely delightful; but i will own that i shall be glad to walk again." she alighted from the car of the twins. the two sisters got down, and belle went around to look at one of the rear tires. she had a suspicion, amounting to a conviction, that it had gone flat. it had. "i'll let the garage man attend to it," she said. "i'm too anxious now to get some nice warm water, soap and a large towel." "me for a large, juicy towel!" exclaimed walter, coming up with norton. "will you have yours boiled or stewed?" "silly! i don't call that a joke!" "you don't need to; it comes without calling." "that's worse," declared bess, trying to get some of the road dust off her face with a very small handkerchief. "well, we're here, anyhow!" put in norton, "i don't think much of the hotel, though." "it will do very nicely," answered cora somewhat coldly. she was not quite sure whether she was going to like norton or not. he did not seem to improve upon acquaintance, and she was a little sorry that jack had asked him on the trip. still, she reflected, one can easily be mistaken about boys. perhaps his flippant manner might be due to nervousness, or a diffidence in not knowing how to say the right thing at the right time. "we're here--because we're here!" exclaimed walter. "that's more than can be said for jack and ed." "are they in sight?" asked cora, looking down the long straight road--the main street of fairport--by which they had entered the town. "not yet," answered bess. "oh, do let's get into the hotel!" she exclaimed. "a crowd is collecting, and i do so want a drink of cold water." "hot tea for me," spoke belle. "hot tea with a slice of lemon in it." "since belle went to that russian tea-fest last winter she always takes lemon in her tea," explained her sister. "ugh! i can't bear it!" bess was nothing if not certain in her likes and dislikes. "it's really the only way to drink tea, my dear," said belle, with an affected society drawl. "it's so--so mussy with cream and sugar in it," and she spread out her hands in æsthetic horror--or something to simulate that. "i think i shall be satisfied with just plain tea," voiced cora, as she took another look down the road for her brother. "come on, girls--and boys!" she added. a little throng was beginning to gather in front of the hotel, somewhat blocking the sidewalk, for the sight of the cars drawn up in front of the hostel and perhaps the sight of the four--well, it might as well be said--pretty motor girls, had attracted attention. "shoo--shoo--chickens!" exclaimed mrs. fordam with a laugh as she brought up back of the girls. "let's get in and freshen up for supper." "dinner!" cried walter. "it's not allowed to say supper on this tour. dinner; isn't it, cora?" "as you like," she assented a bit wearily, for now, after the excitement of the day, the work and worry, much of which had necessarily fallen to her, cora was beginning to feel the reaction. the fire, too, and the strange woman, all had added to it. but she knew they could have a good rest that evening. "jack must be having trouble with that tire," she went on, as they entered the hotel. "i think he had better put on an entirely new one." "oh, he'll be here pretty soon," said walter. "really we haven't been here long, and we ought to allow him half an hour anyway. the _get there_ will go----" "once it does go," interrupted norton. "i wonder where we register?" "there's the desk," said walter, pointing to where the hotel clerk stood behind the counter waiting for the party. he smiled a welcome. "i'll register for the girls," said mrs. fordam. "i want to see how the rooms are arranged before we commit ourselves to them." the suite was satisfactory and soon the girls had gone to their apartments, their suit cases having been brought up by the bell boys. walter and norton, after putting their names down on the register, took the three cars to the garage around the corner, leaving them there for the night. "unless we want to take a little spin this evening," suggested norton, as they were on their way back to the hotel. "i guess the girls will be too tired," returned walter. "we might take in a show, however. that would be restful." "not any moving pictures!" exclaimed norton, hastily. "i'm dead sick of them." "so am i. there are a couple of good theatres in town, i think. however, we'll leave it to the girls." "did you see anything of jack?" asked cora, anxiously, as the two young men came in. there was a worried look in her eyes. "no, he hasn't come yet," answered walter. "but it's early yet. dinner won't be served for an hour, the clerk told me. say, you girls look all right!" and there was genuine admiration in his eyes. "why shouldn't we?" asked eline. she had put on a fawn-colored dress that set off her complexion wonderfully well. cora had put on her new brown, while belle in blue and bess in mauve added to the charm. the girls had freshened their complexion with cold cream and a thorough rinsing, and all traces of the rather dusty trip had been removed. "it's up to us for our glad rags," said norton. "come on, walter. there's no use letting them carry off all the honors," and he started for the elevator. "i wish you'd give just a look, and see if jack isn't coming," went on cora. "i'm really a little worried. he may have had an accident." "now don't you go to worrying," counseled walter, in his best brotherly manner. "jack and ed can take care of themselves, all right." "no, don't worry," went on mrs. fordam. "it will spoil your pleasure, cora." "but i just can't help it. come on, girls, we'll get our wraps and go outside. i simply can't sit still." "no, we had plenty of sitting all day," admitted bess. "i believe it would be nice to walk up and down out in front for a change. it's rather stuffy in here," and she glanced about a typical hotel parlor. "all right, go ahead and we'll be with you in a little while," directed walter, he and norton going to their rooms while the girls and mrs. fordam went outside. all the injunctions of her companions not to worry did not drive anxiety from cora. time and again she glanced down the road her brother must come, but the _get there_ was not living up to its name. dusk came, but no jack. the promise of good appetites for the dinner was not carried out, for cora's worry affected all of them more or less. and it began to look as if something really had happened. "i simply must do something!" cora exclaimed after dinner. "i'm going to see if i can't telephone to some one along the road, and ask if there has been an accident." they tried to persuade her not to, but she insisted and started toward the booth. chapter viii the girl jack and ed, standing near the machine, under the sign post, peered at the advancing figure of the girl. she had stopped short--stopped rather timidly, it seemed, and she now stood there silent, apparently waiting for the boys to say something. "it's a girl, sure enough," said ed, in a low voice. "out alone, too." jack, who never hesitated long at doing anything, resolved to at once plunge into the midst of this new problem. "excuse me," he said, taking off his cap, and he knew she could see him, for they were all in the glare of the auto's lamps now, "excuse me, but can you tell us if there is any shorter way to get to fairport than by going back? we are lost, it seems." "so--so am i!" faltered the girl. "what?" exclaimed ed. "that is--well, i'm not exactly lost," and jack could see her smile faintly. yet behind the smile there seemed to be sorrow, and it was evident, even in the difficult light of the gas lamps, that she had been crying. "you're lost--but not exactly lost," remarked ed, with a laugh. "that's--er--rather odd; isn't it?" he was anxious to put the girl at her ease. clearly a strange young girl--and pretty, too, as the boys could see--would need to be put at her ease when alone, after dark, on a country road. "i--i guess it is," she admitted, and jack made a mental note that he liked her voice. quite discriminating in regard to voices jack was getting--at least in his own estimation. "then you can't help us much, i'm afraid," went on ed. "if you're a stranger around here----" "oh, yes, i'm a stranger--quite a stranger. i don't know a soul!" she said it so quickly--bringing out the words so promptly after ed's suggestion, that it almost seemed as though she had caught at a straw thrown in her way by a chance wind. why did she want to make it appear that she was a stranger? and that she did want to give that impression--rightly or wrongly--was very evident to both young men. "then we are both--i mean all three--lost," spoke jack, good-naturedly. "i guess there's no help for it, ed. we'll have to go back the way we came until we strike the road to fairport." "i suppose so. but it will bring us in pretty late." "no help for it. what is to be--has to be. cora will worry--she has that habit lately." "naturally. well, maybe we can get to a telephone somewhere, and let them know." "you could do that!" exclaimed the girl, impulsively. "i know what it is to worry. i saw a telephone not more than a mile back. i mean," she explained with a smile, "i saw a place where there was a telephone pay station sign. it was in a little country store, where i stopped to--to----" she hesitated and her voice faltered. "look here!" exclaimed jack. "perhaps we can help _you_! are you going anywhere that we can give you a lift? we're bound to be late anyhow, and a little more time won't matter. you see my sister and some friends--other girls and boys--are out on a trip. we are going to sandy point cove, and are taking it easy on the way. my machine developed tire trouble a while ago--quite a while it is now," he said ruefully, "and the others went on. i thought i could get up to them, but i took the wrong road and--well, here we are. now if we can give you a ride, why, we'll be glad to. ed can sit on the run-board, and you----" "oh, i couldn't trouble you!" the girl exclaimed. "i--i am going----" she stopped rather abruptly and jack and ed each confessed to the other, later, that they were mortally afraid she was going to cry. "and if she had," said jack, "i'd have been up in the air for fair!" "same here!" admitted ed. but she did not cry. she conquered the inclination, and went on. "i mean that i don't know exactly where i am going," the girl said. "it isn't important, anyhow. it doesn't much matter where i stop." there was a pathetic, hopeless note in her voice now. again jack took a sudden resolve. "look here!" he exclaimed, "i've got a sister, and ed here, and i, have a lot of girl friends. we wouldn't want them to be out alone at night on a country road. so if you'll excuse us, i think it would be better if we could take you to some of your friends. we won't mind in the least, going out of our way to do it, either." "of course not!" put in ed. "but i--i----" she seemed struggling with some emotion. "i love to be in the country!" she said suddenly--as though she had made up her mind to rush through some explanation of her plight "i take long walks often. i think i walked too far to-day. i--i expected to reach hayden before dark, but i stayed too long in a pretty little wood. i--am going to stop at the young women's christian association in hayden. but that's only a mile further, and i can be there before it's very much darker." "if it can get any darker than this, i'd like to see it," remarked ed, staring at the blackness which surrounded them. "if it's only a mile or so farther then we're going to take you there!" exclaimed jack. "we're bound to be late anyhow, and we might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. ed, it's you for the run-board." "with pleasure," and he bowed to the girl. she laughed--just the least bit. "oh, but i couldn't think of troubling you!" the girl exclaimed. "really, i--i----" she did not know what to say. jack saw her clasp her hands convulsively. he had a good look at her face. really she was quite pretty, he decided, an opinion in which ed coincided. "look here!" cried jack, purposely rough. he had found that tone advisable to take with cora sometimes. "look here, we are going on to hayden anyhow, so you might as well ride with us as walk. i know my sister, cora kimball--perhaps you know her----?" "i don't believe i do," she answered. "well, no matter--anyhow, she'd never forgive me--nor ed either, if we left you like this. and i know ed would fuss more about cora not forgiving him than i would. so you've just got to ride," and he smiled frankly. "but i thought you said you were going to fairport," spoke the girl. "we are," answered jack. "but i'm not going to chase back all those fifteen miles we came by mistake. it would take too long, especially after dark. so if we can't take a short cut over from hayden, we'll stay there all night, and go on in the morning. i can telephone my sister. i suppose there are 'phones in hayden." "oh, yes, it--it's quite a town--a small city, i believe," said the girl. "i inquired about it at the last stop i made, and they told me of the association where i could stay." "then come on!" invited jack. "i'll crank up, and you can ride with us." "you're sure it won't be any trouble?" "not a bit--it will be a pleasure to have you. but perhaps we ought to look for a nearer telephone, and send word to your friends," jack suggested. "no--no," she spoke rapidly. "i haven't any--i mean they won't worry about me. i am used to looking after myself." truly she seemed so, and now she appeared even more self-reliant as she stood there in the glare of the lamps of the auto. her face had lost some of the traces of hopeless despair, and she had somehow managed to get rid of the evidences of the tears. the boys wondered how she did it, for it was rather like a magician's trick, "done in full view of the audience." jack and ed paid a mental tribute to her accomplishment in using a handkerchief. "are you sure you are comfortable there?" the girl asked ed, as he crouched partly on the floor of the car, with his feet on the run-board. "quite," he affirmed, not altogether truthfully, but at least gallantly. "it seems so selfish of me, that really----" "say, ed's all right!" cried jack, gaily. "he'd rather ride on the run-board than anywhere else; wouldn't you, old man?" "sure!" "in fact, he often sits there when there's a vacant seat. it's a hobby of his. i've tried to break him of it, but he is hopeless!" "now i know you're poking fun at me!" she exclaimed, and she laughed lightly. "i've almost a notion----" she made a motion as though to alight. "don't you dare!" cried jack. "here we go!" he let in the gear, and the clutch came into place. the car moved forward slowly, and gathered speed. "we'll be there in no time," jack went on. "it's rather unpleasant for you, isn't it, going about by yourself?" he asked the girl. "oh, i'm used to it. i have been working in an office, but i--i decided on a vacation. i took it rather suddenly, and i haven't made any plans since. i decided to go off--and, yes, lose myself for a time. that's why i'm in a part of the country i have never visited before." "i see," remarked jack. "it is sometimes good to do things on an impulse. i know how tiresome the dull routine and grind must be." "he never worked a day in his life!" exclaimed ed. "no knocking, old man!" laughed jack. "i think i'd like to be in an office myself," he added. mentally he decided that one where this girl was employed might not be a half-bad place. "yes, he'd want an office where the hours were from ten to twelve, with an hour for lunch," grunted ed, as the car went over a bump, jolting him. "i really liked the work," said the girl. "of course there were some unpleasant features--in fact, that is why i left so suddenly. now i am--free!" she took a long breath of the night air rushing against her cheeks, as though the idea of being free was most delightful. they talked of various subjects as the car shot along in the darkness. both jack and ed were quite curious to learn more about this stray girl, but they had the good sense not to ask leading questions. nor did she volunteer much information. finally the lights of hayden glimmered into view, and soon the car had stopped in front of the y. w. c. a., which jack had located through a policeman. "now i shall be all right," the girl exclaimed as jack helped her out. "thank you a thousand times. i really--i don't know what i should have done had i not met you. i--i was just beginning to--get afraid." "are you sure you will be all right now?" asked ed. "can't we do anything more for you?" jack wanted to know. "i'm jack kimball, of chelton, and this is ed foster. we are pretty well known in these parts, though we've never been in hayden before. we auto around a good bit. if we can do anything----" "oh, no, thank you ever so much. i shall be all right." she gave jack her hand, in a warm clasp, and then turned to ed. "thank you--so much!" she smiled, showing her white, even teeth, and ran up the steps of the building--a place where a lone girl could always find a safe shelter. she turned on the top step, waved a good-bye to them, and disappeared behind the doors. chapter ix questions and answers "what do you know about that?" "it's rather queer--all the way along." jack asked and ed answered. they stood by the machine and looked up at the building into which the girl had gone. "well, i guess there's nothing for us to do but to see if there isn't some way to get to fairport from here," remarked jack, after a pause. "that's it--and telephone. there's a drug-store across the street. it has a 'phone sign." "come on, then." presently they had been connected with the mansion house, and cora was at the other end of the wire. "oh, jack, what happened?" "we got lost--on the wrong road--that's all." "oh, jack, i've been so worried!" "pshaw! what was the use? didn't i ever get lost before?" "yes, i know----" "you're too fussy, sis. how's everybody?" "all right--but----" "but them as is wrong; eh? well, we'll soon be with you. we had quite an adventure." "you did? were you hurt?" "no, can't a fellow have an adventure without getting hurt? we met a pretty girl, and gave her a ride--that's all." "jack! you never did!" "oh, yes, we did. ed's here, and he'll tell you all about it. it was a great time." "jack kimball, i believe you're just teasing me! you're not in hayden at all!" "where am i, then?" he challenged. "right in town, and just as like as not you're calling up from across the street here." "well, i'm not then. you ask central. we really were lost on the road, and had quite a time. i don't know now whether we can be with you to-night or not." "oh, jack, you must!" "but if we can't--we can't. if we can find a short cut we'll take it. otherwise we'll stay here all night and come on early in the morning." "well, that will have to do then," said cora, with a sigh. "oh, but we have been so worried. who was that girl, jack?" "i don't know." "you don't know?" "no." "does ed?" "not guilty." "the idea! and you gave her a ride?" "why not? we met her on the road--she was all alone--it was dark. what else could we do?" "that's so, i suppose. where is she now?" "in the y. w. c. a." "oh, that's all right then. listen, you will try to come on to-night; won't you?" "sure, sis." "i'm so tired, and it's more of a responsibility than i thought it would be." "well, don't worry, sis. we're going to get something to eat, and then we'll see what we can do." "eat! you don't mean to say, jack kimball, that you're going to stop to _eat_?" "well, i guess we are. haven't had a bite since noon." "why can't you get dinner after you get here?" "it might be more like breakfast than dinner if we waited," and jack laughed. "no, we're going to eat here and then we'll see what we can do. don't worry any more. the _get there_ will go somewhere, anyhow. now take it easy." "all right. i will, only do try to come." "want to talk to ed?" "what for?" "oh, only to say 'how de do,'" and again jack laughed. "certainly i'll speak to him." ed on the wire. "hello, cora. it's all right. i listened to what jack said." "and it's all--i mean did you really help a girl?" "sure." "who was she?" "that's telling. i've got her name, only jack doesn't know." "don't you believe him," interjected jack sideways into the transmitter. "try and make him come on to-night!" said cora. "your rooms are all engaged." "i will. are the girls all right?" "yes." "and your cousin?" "surely." "walter making himself useful as he always does, i suppose?" "of course. don't be silly." "i'm not. i'm only trying to think of something else to say." "you needn't try then!" and cora's voice had a tint of snap in it. "don't get mad," ed advised her. "give my love to the girls, and tell 'em we'll be with 'em soon. do you want to talk to jack again?" "no, only tell him to please come to-night. i want to talk to him." "about that girl, i expect." "i don't believe a word about her." "ha! i'll show you a lock of her hair." "then i'd surely know you were fooling. say, listen, you will make jack come; won't you, ed?" "surest thing you know. shall i say good-bye?" "if you can't think of anything else to say." "all right. see you soon." "you'll have a sweet telephone toll to pay." "i'm going to make jack do it. he's asking the clerk here how to get to fairport the quickest way. the clerk's another girl." "oh, i'm not going to talk another word. good-bye," and a click in his ear told ed that cora had hung up the receiver. he laughed and joined jack, who had gone away from the booth. chapter x reunited "who was she?" it was cora who demanded this when, an hour or so later, jack and ed had been reunited to their party in the mansion house at fairport. "who was she?" and cora looked appealingly at her brother, who smiled in a tantalizing fashion. "we told you everything," remarked ed. "over the wire, you know." "it's very easy to tell things--over the wire," remarked belle, with a laugh. "one doesn't have to--blush, you know." "and if one does, even the central operator can't see it," spoke bess. "oh, you boys have given us a big scare!" "scare? how?" demanded jack, with a look at his sister. "we couldn't help getting on the wrong road." "perhaps not, jack," said mrs. fordam, gently. "but cora was quite worried, and has been telephoning to police stations all along the route to see if she could get any word about you and ed." "did you?" asked ed, quickly. "there was one report of an auto accident," spoke cora, "and i was so frightened, jack, until i heard that it was a big car, and then i knew it couldn't be yours. but did it all happen as you've told?" "exactly," exclaimed jack. "girl and all?" walter wanted to know. "the girl _most_ of all," answered ed. "how about it, jack old man?" "i'm with you. she----" "stop!" commanded cora. "we don't want you to incriminate yourselves any more than you have to. besides it's getting late, and we must get some rest to be ready for an early start to-morrow morning. "but i have been quite worried, jack, and i couldn't get much satisfaction by telephoning. however, you're here now, and we will forgive you. did you have supper?" "we had--dinner," answered ed, with a tantalizing smile. "it was a good one, too. then we got on the right road and made pretty good time over here." the little party of young people was in the hotel parlor. as cora had said, it was getting late, the hands of the clock approaching the midnight hour, and they all had had rather a strenuous time that day. jack and ed had left their car in the garage with the others. "me for the downy feathers!" exclaimed jack, with a yawn. "you look sleepy, too, eline." "i'm not, even a little bit, really," and she smiled brightly. "they keep late hours--in chicago," remarked belle, with a laugh. "i really think we had better retire," said mrs. fordam. "that's what i'm going to do--in the morning," spoke jack. "you're not going to stay up until morning, jack!" cried cora. "no, that was only a joke," he explained. "i mean i'm going to have a new tire put on the _get there_--have it re-tired you see. get the idea? it was a joke." "a tired one," yawned ed. "come on to bed." "say, if we try to get off any more smart sayings we'll all have the nightmare," suggested walter. "and it's no fun to make a tour on one of those creatures instead of in an auto," put in norton. the young travelers were soon on their way to that part of the hotel set aside for them. mrs. fordam had seen to it that the girls got the most comfortable rooms. the boys were not so particular. "we'll try and get started by nine o'clock," suggested cora, as she bade her brother good-night. "that's too early," he protested. "why, we'd have to get up and have breakfast at seven. make it ten, sis, and that will give me time to have that tire looked after. otherwise i may be holding you back all along the route." "all right," cora assented. "we'll make it ten." "say, old man, who was she?" asked walter, as he and jack strolled along the corridor together. "tell a fellow; can't you? i won't give you away if you were stringing the girls." "i wasn't stringing them!" declared jack. "it all happened just as i've said." "but who was she?" "a mystery of the road," put in ed. "pretty?" norton wanted to know, quickly. "pretty--pretty," echoed jack. "really all she told us was that she had been working in an office, had become tired of it and was traveling about as a sort of vacation." "did she look as though that might be the case?" asked walter. "eminently so, my august cross-questioner," answered jack. "and that's all i'm going to say. i'm dead tired. see you later," and he went to his room. "who do you suppose that girl could have been?" asked bess of cora a little later, as they were putting up their hair for the night. "i haven't the least idea." "why, how queer. i thought you did have!" and bess looked at cora in rather a searching manner. "no. why should i?" "oh, i haven't any special reason for saying so, and yet--oh, well, it doesn't make any difference i suppose, but----" "bess robinson, just what do you mean?" and cora's eyes lost their slumberous inclination as she faced her chum. "why, cora dear, nothing at all," and bess spoke very sweetly. "only, from the way you spoke to jack, and the way he answered, i fancied--oh, really it's nothing at all. i shouldn't have said it." "i don't like those half-formed questions, bess. if you think anything----" "no, really i'm too tired to think, cora. i'm going to bed." they had adjoining rooms. "perhaps you have some theory yourself?" suggested cora. "none in the least. i don't even know what a theory is. is it that algebra affair?" "no," answered cora, with a laugh. "you are hopeless, bess. good-night!" jack and the other boys were up early, despite the former's objection to a too-soon breakfast. they ate before the girls had come down, and then went around to the garage to see about the cars, jack to get a new tire for his, while norton wanted the ignition system of his engine gone over. it was when these attentions had been given that norton, with a twinkle in his eyes, exclaimed: "fellows, i've thought of a joke!" "what is it?" demanded jack. "hush! listen, as the telephone girl says. pray thee come hither," and he led the three to a corner of the garage. then ensued some whispering. "how's that?" demanded norton, when he had concluded. "won't it be rich? the girls won't know what is up, for we can get bess and belle into the car, without them seeing the rear of it." "it's a good trick all right," admitted jack rather slowly, "i only hope they won't get angry about it." "angry!" cried norton. "how could they be? according to your story they've done worse than that to you fellows lots of times." "sure they have," declared ed. "go ahead and do it." "i have my doubts," spoke walter, deliberately, "but i'm not going to be the kill-joy. go ahead, i'll do my share," but he was not very enthusiastic. "we can get the cloth and paint here," went on norton. "i'll do the lettering. you can make the pudding, jack." "all right. but who's to get in the car with belle?" "i will," exclaimed norton, quickly. "you fellows can make some excuse. i'll let walter drive my car, and bess can ride with him." "all right," assented jack. "it's a go," and they proceeded to carry out their little joke, over the outcome of which walter and jack, at least, had some anxiety. chapter xi the girls retaliate "but why should we change our plans?" asked cora, when, a little later, the boys had brought their own cars up in front of the hotels and had gone back for those of the girls. "i don't see why bess should ride with walter." "no, but i see it," said walter, quickly. "i want to talk to her, and----" "oh, that's a different story," admitted cora, with a smile. "but what will norton do?" "i'd like to drive the _flyaway_, if i might," put in the latter. "there's a bad stretch of road ahead, and perhaps belle may not be equal to it." "don't you dare intimate there's danger ahead," cried belle. "not exactly danger," returned norton, with a wink at the other boys, "but the road is rough. if cora wants to i guess ed could drive her car for her, too." "thank you, i'll wait until i see what sort of a road we are going to encounter, and if i can't negotiate it, i'll let ed take the wheel," assented cora. "but i've driven over some very hard stretches myself; haven't i, jack?" "indeed you have, sis. but it's all right if belle wants norton to drive for her for a change." "well," began the robinson twin, "it all came so suddenly. i don't know yet whether i want norton to drive for me. of course i'd like to have him in the car, if bess wants to go with walter for a change, and----" "that's it," broke in norton. "just for a change. hurry up now, girls, get in the cars and we'll be off." he ran here and there, helping lift in the luggage, and appeared anxious to make a start. in fact, the boys had seemed in a hurry ever since they brought up the girls' cars, and this very haste might have made the motor maids suspicious, but it did not seem to. then came the proposal for the change in companionship for a time, and this took the attention of cora and her friends. jack had run his car close up to the rear of the _flyaway_, so that the back of the tonneau was not easily seen. "all aboard!" cried ed. "we're off!" quite a little throng had gathered on the sidewalk in front to see the start, and among the persons might have been noticed a certain number of boys, with paper bags concealed in their hands. these same boys might have been observed to be receiving signals--in the way of nods and winks from jack and his chums, from time to time. "i am sure those boys are up to something!" exclaimed cora to eline, as they took their places. "what do you mean?" "i mean some trick." "how can you tell?" "why, jack's so anxious to get us off. he paid the hotel bill for me, bought me a magazine and some candy. he never does things like that unless there is something queer about to happen. does anything seem wrong? do i look all right?" "perfectly charming, cora. that's a stunning sweater you have." "yes, i like it. then it can't be me that he's going to bother. i wish i could tell what it was." she looked back to where jack, with hurried politeness, was helping belle into her car. he did not want her to have a glimpse at the rear of it. "well, we'll see what develops," spoke cora, as she slipped in first speed, and prepared to set the clutch. she gave a last look back. the little cavalcade of autos was all ready to start. that of norton, with walter at the wheel, and bess on the seat beside him, was directly behind cora's big maroon beauty, then came the machine of the twins and lastly that of jack. "let her go!" shouted jack. cora's machine shot forward. norton's jumped as walter let in the clutch. then jack, with a quick motion, pulled from the back of the robinson car, that norton was driving, a strip of white muslin. it left revealed another, containing the words: on their honeymoon "let 'em have it!" cried jack. instantly the urchins with the paper bags opened them and a shower of rice fell over norton and belle, being scattered liberally over mrs. fordam. "mercy!" cried the chaperone. "what is this? stop it at once!" she ordered to the boys, but laughingly they persisted. "good luck!" cried the street lads. "hurray!" "send us a piece of wedding cake!" cora, turning, seeing the showers of rice and hearing the calls, guessed what had happened. "this was jack's trick!" she exclaimed. "he's given the impression that this is a big wedding party. oh, wait until i get a chance to retaliate. hurry up!" she cried back to norton, who was grinning cheerfully, and trying to summon a blush to his cheeks to make him fit the part of the bashful bridegroom. walter shot norton's car ahead, and norton guided that containing the placard out into the middle of the street. there the words were more plainly seen, and good-natured laughter came from the throng, who thought they understood the situation. the rice continued to fall, for the boys had bought liberally of it, and had bribed the street urchins to throw it. "this is terrible!" exclaimed bess, in the car with walter, seeing what had happened. "it's only a joke," he said. "but i was afraid you girls wouldn't like it." "like it? i should say not. i'm going to take that sign off our car at once." she made a motion as though to alight from the moving auto, but walter detained her. "we'll take it off when we get around the corner," he promised. "what does this mean?" demanded belle, rather indignantly, of norton. "i guess they take this for a wedding procession," he replied. "and who are----" she stopped suddenly. "i see!" she exclaimed, as the meaning of the rice came to her. "well, i don't think this a bit nice. i'd rather have my sister back here with me," she went on coldly. "mrs. fordam, is there anything on our car--any of those silly white satin ribbons, or----" "old shoes?" suggested norton, rather abashed at the way his joke had been received. the chaperone looked over the rear of the tonneau. "there's a strip of cloth on here, with some letters on it," she answered, "but i can't read it upside down without my glasses. surely----" she hesitated for a moment, and then cried: "the rice! oh, i see! boys, you shouldn't have done it!" but she laughed nevertheless, and norton felt more relieved. "it was only in fun," he protested. "a boy's idea of fun, and a girl's, often differ exceedingly," spoke mrs. fordam. "i really think it had better be taken off." the crowd had been following along the sidewalk, tossing rice and showering congratulations on those in the "bridal-car." norton saw that mrs. fordam meant what she said. so he stopped the machine and got out to remove the placard, just as cora was about to turn around to learn more of the cause of the merriment. norton ripped off the lettered muslin and tossed it aside. "it may do for someone else to play a joke with," he remarked. "i guess i got myself in bad here. i'll have to make up for it." "there, you needn't get out--norton is fixing it," said bess to walter. "but i think i'll ride in my own car, if you don't mind," and she prepared to get out as he put on the brakes. "not mad; are you?" he asked, and there was a note of anxiety in his voice. "no, not exactly," she replied with a smile. cora, who had made the turn, and had learned what had happened, said nothing. she looked at jack rather reprovingly, however. then, the crowd seeing no more chance for fun, began to drop back. the autos went on, the twins in their own, and walter back with norton, while jack and ed rode together, cora being with eline up ahead--a pacemaker. there was a little coldness among the girls and boys--on the side of the girls--when they stopped for dinner at a country hotel. nothing of moment had occurred on the road, save that cora got a puncture, and jack and the other boys had no little difficulty in getting off an old shoe that had not been removed in some time. a little later something went wrong with the carbureter on the car of the twins. the boys took turns trying to adjust it, as they were far from a garage. it was norton who discovered the trouble--a simple enough matter--and remedied it. "doesn't that entitle me to a rebate of punishment?" he asked of belle. "i'll see," she answered, but her glance was not as stern as it had been, and she ventured to smile a little. with the offending placard removed, the cars proceeded onward again. they had planned to take the trip leisurely, and to stop over night at another hotel. the day following that would bring them to sandy point cove in good time to settle the bungalows before dark. "we're going to the theatre to-night," jack announced, shortly after the arrival in duncan, where they were to spend the night. he had gone out after reaching the hotel, and purchased the seats for a popular comedy then running. "oh, are we?" asked cora with a lifting of her eyebrows, a signal, that had jack but known it, meant more than he suspected. "that's awfully nice of you, really." "it's a fine show," declared norton. "a friend of mine saw it in new york." "what time are we to be ready?" asked belle, with a look at cora. "it begins at eight, if you start now putting on your hats you'll be ready in time, it's only a little after six," remarked ed. "smart!" exclaimed bess. "we can be ready as soon as you!" after supper--or dinner whichever you prefer to call it--the boys went to their rooms to get ready for the little theatre party. the girls, with much whispering and not a little laughter proceeded, apparently, with the same object. but a little later the motor maids, accompanied by their chaperone, mrs. fordam, slipped down a rear stairway, out into the ladies' parlor of the hotel, and thence into two big limousine cars that awaited them. the girls had on semi-evening dress, with some flimsy chiffon veils over their heads in place of hats, which might account for the speed with which they got ready. "isn't it nice we met those boys!" exclaimed eline. "they came just in time to make it possible for us to retaliate," remarked cora. "and our boys need a lesson." in the somewhat luxurious autos that had drawn up in front of the hotel were four young men in evening dress. they greeted the girls enthusiastically. "it's awfully nice of you to come on such short notice," said one to cora. "oh, we were only too glad to" she answered. chapter xii at the cove "well, what do you know about that?" "it--well, so long as there are none of 'em here i'll say it--it's the limit!" "they got back at us all right!" "and to think we never suspected." "what will we do with these theatre tickets?" four young men, in freshened attire after their auto ride, stood disconsolately in the hotel parlor. jack was fingering a note that a bell boy had brought him. walter, ed and norton, with the assistance of jack, had given voice to the expressions with which we have begun this chapter. the note read: "dear jack: "we don't seem to care about the theatre this evening. i met harry dunn, and his two cousins--also another young man--ralph borden--and they asked us to go to a little private dance. mrs. fordam is with us. we met harry at lake como last year, you remember. he is that tall, dark, distinguished-looking fellow. so we thought we'd prefer the dance to the theatre, especially as belle and bess have seen the play. sorry to have to waste so many good tickets, but perhaps you boys will have time to paint another honeymoon sign. "cora." it was this note which had been handed to jack as he and his companions had been waiting in the parlor for the girls, that had caused all the trouble. "so, that's their game!" exclaimed cora's brother, as he crumpled the paper up in his hand. "they've played a trick on us all right!" "to get back at us for that sign on the auto, and the rice," added ed. "i wonder if they really did go off to a dance?" asked walter. "oh, yes, i know this dunn chap--not half-bad," put in jack. "sis and i did meet him last year. his folks have a country place somewhere round here. but how did he meet the girls and get them to come?" "i have it!" cried norton. "pass it over!" commanded walter. "you know that time my car developed a kink," he continued, "and you stopped yours, jack?" "sure," assented cora's brother. "well, the girls went on, you know, and when we caught up to them i saw a couple of autos speeding down the road, as though they had been acting as escorts. i guess those fellows must have met the girls on the road, proposed the dance, and the girls accepted." "that's it!" declared jack. and so it proved, as they found out later. "well, there's no help for it," sighed walter. "we'll have to go to the show alone," added ed. "if we could only find some nice girls," spoke norton. "we don't know a soul in town," declared jack. "if that dunn fellow had been half-way decent he'd have made some arrangement about us after he stole away the girls. well, there's no use wasting all the tickets. come on to the show." so the boys went, but they did not have a very good time by themselves, and there was some amusement among the audience over four good-looking boys occupying eight seats. as for cora and the girls, they had a delightful dance. it had turned out as norton had said. the girls, proceeding on ahead with mrs. fordam, after jack and the boys had stopped to look after norton's car, had met young dunn and his companions out for a spin. cora knew them at once, and the young men, delighted at the prospect of such charming partners at a dance they had almost elected to forgo, invited the motor girls to it. mrs. fordam, who was a distant relative of young dunn's father, had consented to the arrangement. the girls and she slipped away after jack came in with the theatre tickets, proceeded to attire themselves most becomingly, and had been met by their escorts, who lavishly hired big cars to take their friends to the affair. then jack and his chums had been handed the note which cora left for them. it had all been very simple. "wasn't it glorious!" "the floor was just splendid!" "and those boys knew so many nice fellows." "my card was filled almost before i knew it." "the music was lovely!" thus chattered the motor girls as they came back to the hotel rather late--or was it early? with mrs. fordam. they saw jack sitting disconsolately in the parlor, trying hard to keep awake by reading. "well, so you're back!" he exclaimed to cora, rather shortly. "yes, brother mine!" she laughed tantalizingly. "well, it's about time," he growled. "why, how long have you been back?" she asked. "i hear that it was quite a long and--tiresome--show. i'm sorry we had to disappoint you, but really we had no other way of telling you where we were going. it was a lovely dance!" "yes," said jack, coldly. "and we hope you had time to embroider another sign for our car," added bess. really, she said later, she could not help it. "um!" grunted jack. "i sat up for you," he added to his sister. "there was no need, jack. we had mrs. fordam. it was a very pretty dance. i am glad the girls had a chance to go." the girls seemed glad too, and really looked quite effective in their party growns, which were carried in the trunks that were strapped on the autos. "oh, it was lovely!" sighed bess. "and that tall young fellow was such a fine dancer!" echoed eline. "huh!" growled jack. "i'm going to bed." "i guess we're all tired enough to re-tire--joke!" exclaimed cora. "good-night, jack. sorry we couldn't go with you, but we had a--previous engagement!" the boys did not say much next morning, though the girls were enthusiastic about their affair. "if we could only have one two or three times a week," sighed belle, who was a fine dancer. "we may, at sandy point cove," spoke cora. "there is a pavilion there--also moving picture shows, to which the boys can take us," and she glanced at jack. he said nothing. once more they were on their way. the roads were good, and save for the fact that they took a wrong one shortly after lunch, and went a few miles out of their route, nothing of moment happened. "ten miles to sandy point cove!" read jack, as they stopped at a cross-road, to inspect the signboards. "we'll make it in an hour." "and then for a bath in the briny deep!" cried walter. "i hope the fishing is good," remarked ed. "i haven't caught anything in a month." "i hope the _pet_ has arrived," cora exclaimed. "i am just dying for a motor boat ride." "let us hope it has then; we don't want you to expire," came from norton. in less than an hour they had reached the shore road and were spinning down it toward the cove where they were to spend the summer. as they mounted the bluff, around the end of the cove, from which a magnificent view of the ocean could be had, cora uttered a cry: "look, that sailboat has capsized!" she exclaimed. and she pointed to a small sloop that had jibed and gone over in a sudden squall. as the motor girls and boys looked they saw a girlish form clinging to the rounded side of the craft, her bright red bathing suit making her a conspicuous figure against the dark hull. chapter xiii the lighthouse maid jack kimball had always said that his sister cora only needed an opportunity to prove that she could think quickly in emergencies, and could demonstrate that she was courageous. cora had done this on other occasions, and now at the sight of the overturned boat, and the figure of the girl clinging to it, there came the chance for cora, as one of the motor girls, to prove that her ability in this direction had not lessened. without another word cora turned her car down a slight slope that led to the sandy beach. it was a perilous road, rather too steep to negotiate in a heavy car, but cora had seen that it was encumbered with sand that would act as a brake. "where are you going?" gasped eline, gripping the sides of the seat until her hands ached. "down to rescue that girl!" explained cora, pressing her lips tightly together. she was under a nervous tension, and she needed all her wits about her. "but in the car--the water----" faltered eline. "don't worry. i'm not going to run my car into the bay. there's a boat on shore--a rowboat--this was the quickest way to get down to it. can you row?" "yes, cora, but----" "you may have to!" the auto plunged down the steep, sandy slope to the beach. the others in the motoring party had brought their machines to a stop, and were gazing in wonderment at cora. "what are you going to do?" cried jack. "come back! we'll get her, cora!" but cora paid no attention. she had reached the beach, and quickly shut off the power. "come on!" she exclaimed to eline, leaping out. the two raced over the sand to where a light rowing craft was drawn up. there were oars in it, and cora knew she and eline could launch it. the girl on the overturned sailboat was making frantic gestures and calling: "hurry! hurry!" "her boat must be sinking," gasped eline, as she and cora reached the rowboat. "it can't be that," answered the motormaid, with a quick and critical glance at the sailboat. "probably there is some one else with her, who is in danger. she isn't in any particular trouble that i can see. she must swim!" by this time cora and eline had the boat in the water. the stern was still on the pebbly beach. "jump in!" called cora. "i'll shove off!" "but you'll get your feet wet!" "what of it? as if i cared!" vigorously cora pushed off the boat, and managed to get in, though not without getting rather wet. then, seizing one pair of oars, while eline took the others, they rowed hastily out to the capsized craft. other boats were now hastening to the scene of the accident, but cora kimball was the first to reach it. jack and the other boys and girls had left their cars on the main road, and were racing down the beach. "oh, i'm so glad you came!" gasped the girl on the sail boat. "i'm holding him, but i can't seem to pull him up here. he's so heavy!" "who is it?" gasped cora. she was rather out of breath. "my little brother dick. he got in the way of the boom, and the main sheet fouled. that's why i jibed. i'd never have done it by myself. we both went overboard, and i grabbed him. i got up here, but i can't pull him up. oh, please help me!" "of course i will," cried cora. "then pull around on the other side, and you can lift him into your boat. i can swim ashore." directed by the girl on the sail boat, cora and eline sent their craft around so that they were opposite the half-submerged deck, which was now perpendicular in the water. there they saw the girl holding above the surface of the bay the head of a boy about seven years old. he seemed as self-possessed as though he were on shore, and calmly blinked at the rescuing girls. "he's so fat and heavy," cried the girl in the bathing suit. "i'm very fat," confessed the boy in the water, calmly. indeed he did seem so, even though only his head and part of his shoulders showed. the wind was rising a little again, having subsided somewhat after capsizing the boat. the surface of the bay was broken into little waves, and they splashed into the face of the fat boy. but he did not seem to mind. it was easier than cora and eline had thought it would be to get him in the boat, for the buoyancy of the salt water aided them, as did the rather large bulk of the boy himself, it being a well known fact that stout persons float much more easily in the water than do thin ones. "give yourself a boost, dick!" directed the girl in the bathing suit, to her brother. he did so with a grunt that would have been laughable under other circumstances, and soon he was safe in the other boat, very wet, but otherwise not hurt. "did you swallow much water?" asked cora, anxiously. "nope," was the sententious answer. "i guess he'll be all right," remarked his sister. "if you will kindly row him over there, i'll swim in," and she pointed to the lighthouse. "do you live there?" asked cora, gazing at the tall stone tower. with its high lantern, which glistened in the sun, it stood on a point extending out into the bay, just behind some menacing rocks that jutted far out into the water in a dangerous reef that the light warned mariners against. "yes, dick and i live there," answered the girl. "my father, james haley, is keeper of the light. my name is rosalie." "and you look it," said cora, brightly, as she noted the damask cheeks of the bathing girl. "oh, thank you!" came quickly. "won't you get in this boat--i don't know whose it is--i just appropriated it," said cora. "there is no need of your swimming." "oh, i want to. i've gone clear across the bay, though daddy had a boat follow me. i've won prizes swimming. no, i'll just swim over." "will your brother be all right with us?" and cora looked at the small dripping figure in the boat. "oh, yes, dick is as good as gold. he'll do just as you tell him. i guess he was rather scared when he went over. but he can swim, only i was rather afraid to let him try this time." "what about your boat?" asked eline. "she will stay here. the anchor fell out when she went over, so she won't drift. i'll get one of the men to tow her ashore and right her. she's a good little old tub. she's capsized before." with that the lighthouse maid made a graceful dive and was soon swimming alongside cora's boat. the latter and eline now rowed to the lighthouse, the girl in the water following, and the autoists on shore breathing more freely. "wasn't that splendid of cora!" cried belle. "just fine!" declared bess. "sis was right on the mark!" exclaimed jack, with pardonable pride. "i wonder who that girl in the red suit is?" "she's some swimmer; believe me!" declared norton in admiration. "she is that," agreed walter. "say, it's going to be no joke to get cora's car up that hill of sand," declared ed, glancing back to it. "we can pull her up with ropes if we have to," said jack. "i wonder where our bungles are, anyhow? notice that 'bungles'--patent applied for!" "i fancy those over there," remarked mrs. fordam, pointing to two that stood somewhat removed from a group of cottages. "yes," the chaperone went on, "i can see aunt susan in the door of one waving to us." "me for aunt susan, then!" cried jack. "i hope she has something to eat!" "eat!" gasped belle. "do you boys think that aunt susan is going to cook for you?" "yes, wasn't that the arrangement?" inquired jack, blankly. "indeed not!" was the quick answer. "you boys are to do your own providing." "well, we can do it!" spoke walter, quickly. "and, mind, don't ask us for some of our pie and cake." "don't worry," remarked bess, with a shrug of her shoulders. the little accident in the bay had not attracted much attention. several who had run down to the water's edge, now that they saw the two rescued, strolled away again, while the boats that had started toward the capsized one veered off as the occupants saw the one containing cora move away, and noted the girl swimming. of course cora and eline could have reached the lighthouse much quicker than rosalie haley had they desired, but cora was a bit diffident about rowing up to meet a strange man with his rescued son, leaving the daughter swimming out in the bay. "we'll just keep with her," whispered cora to eline, nodding toward the swimmer, "and let her do the explaining." "yes," agreed eline. they rowed on for a time in silence, the recently submerged boy saying nothing. then cora called to rosalie: "won't your father be worried?" "i don't believe so. he knows both of us can swim." she talked easily in the water for she progressed with her head well out, being, in fact, an excellent swimmer. "besides," she went on, as she reached forward in her side stroke, "poor daddy has other things to worry about. his sister has disappeared--our aunt margaret." "disappeared!" echoed cora. "yes, gone completely. and not under the most pleasant circumstances, either; but daddy believes that it's all a mistake and will be cleared up some day. but he is certainly worried about aunt margaret, and he's had the authorities looking all over, but they can't find her. so that's why i know he won't worry over a little thing like this. he's got a bigger one," and she swam on. cora wondered where she had heard that name--margaret--before. she was sure she had, and under peculiar circumstances, but so much had been crowded into the last few minutes that her brain did not act quickly. it was a puzzle that she reserved for future solution. chapter xiv settling down when cora, leading by the hand dripping dick haley, met his father, the keeper of the light, she exclaimed impulsively: "i'm sure i've seen you somewhere before!" it was rather a strange greeting under the circumstances, considering that cora had just helped little dick from the water. but the lighthouse keeper did not seem to mind it. "i'm sure i can't remember it, miss," he made answer, "and i'm counted on as having a pretty good memory. however, the loss is all mine, i do assure you. now what mischief has my fat boy been getting into?" "it was not his fault, i'm sure," spoke eline. "indeed not," echoed cora. "your daughter's boat upset and we went out to help her. there she is!" cora pointed to a dripping figure, in a red bathing suit climbing up on a little pier that led to the beacon. following the disclosure made to cora, as rosalie swam beside the boat, they had reached the shore. mr. haley had been off getting some supplies for the lighthouse and so had not witnessed the accident. the first intimation he had of it was when he saw his dripping son being led up by cora and eline. "upset; eh?" voiced the keeper of the light. "well, it has happened before, and it'll happen again. i'm glad it was no worse, and i'm very much obliged to you, miss. but i don't ever remember seeing you before--either of you," and he glanced at eline. "oh, i'm sure you never saw _me_!" she laughed "i'm from chicago." "chicago!" he cried, quickly. "why, i'm from there originally. i used to be a pilot on the lakes. but that's years ago. me and my sister came from there. but margaret--well, what's the use of talking of it?" and the worried frown on his face deepened, as he went down to meet his daughter, telling dick to go up in the living quarters of the light to get on dry clothes. cora was sure she had seen the light keeper before, but, puzzle her brain over the matter as she might, she could not recall where it was. and the name margaret seemed to be impressed on her memory, too. it was quite annoying not to be able to recall matters when you wanted to, she thought. "but i'll just think no more about it," mused cora. "perhaps it will come to me when i least expect it." the lighthouse maid and her father met, and in a few words she told of the accident. he sent a man to tow in the overturned boat. "but you are wet, too!" he exclaimed to cora, as he noted her damp skirts and soaked shoes. "oh, that's nothing!" said she. "i pushed off the boat. i don't know whose it is, by the way." "it belongs to hank belton," said the keeper. "he won't mind you using it. do you live around here?" cora told how they were coming to the bungalows for the summer. "ah, then i'll see you again, miss," spoke mr. haley. "i can't properly thank you now--i'm that flustered. this has upset me a little, though usually i don't worry about the children and the water, for they look after themselves. but i'm fair bothered about other matters." "i told her, daddy," broke in rosalie. "about aunt margaret, you know." "did you? well, i dare say it was all right. i can't see why she did it? i can't see! going off that way, without notice, and those people to make such unkind insinuations. i can't understand it!" he walked up and down in front of the little dock. rosalie looked as though she would enjoy another plunge in the bay. cora glanced over to where her friends awaited her in a group on the beach. eline was looking at dripping dick going up to get on dry garments. "but there!" exclaimed mr. haley, "i mustn't bother you with my troubles. i dare say you have enough of your own. but do come over and see us; won't you?" "yes, do!" urged rosalie. "we will," said cora. "but now i must get back to my friends." "you had best take the boat and row over," said the light keeper. "it's shorter that way. you can leave her just where you found her. hank won't mind." "i'll row you over," offered rosalie. "no, indeed, thank you, we can do it," spoke cora. "we are anxious to get settled in our bungalows, so i think we had better go now. we will see you again," and with a smile and a nod, she and eline went down to the boat, which had been left at the lighthouse float, and got in. a little later they were with their friends. "well, cora, you certainly did something that time!" remarked jack. "and you didn't lose any time," added ed. "weren't you frightened?" belle wanted to know. "not a bit--not even i," answered eline, "and i don't know much about the water." "who was she? what happened? how did you get the boy out? who keeps the light? tell us all about it!" cora held up her hands to ward off the avalanche of questions, and told as much as was necessary. she did not mention having spoken about thinking she had met the keeper of the light before, nor about the insistence of the name margaret. nor did it enter into eline's brief added description of the events of that strenuously-filled half-hour. "well, here comes aunt susan," remarked mrs. fordam. "i think she couldn't wait any longer to learn all about what happened, and i don't blame her. i'll soon turn you girls over to her charge." "oh, but you'll stay with us to-night!" exclaimed cora. "yes, and i'll go back home in the morning on the train. really i have enjoyed this trip very much, and i would like to stay longer, but i can't. perhaps i may come down during the summer to see you." "please do," invited cora. aunt susan proved worthy of her name, a home-like lady, with an easy manner, that made one feel comfortable at once. she simply "oozed" good things to eat, as jack said, and jack ought to know. some of the young people she knew, having met them at cora's house. the others were presented to her. "well, the bungalows are all ready for you," she went on, after explanations had been made. "i expect you're tired and hungry and----" "wet," interrupted jack, with a look at cora. "but then you can't make rescues from the briny deep without getting at least damp." "i should like to change," spoke cora, glancing at her soaked shoes. "then come on," said aunt susan. "i guess you boys know where your quarters are," she added. "there is plenty to eat----" "hurray!" cried jack, swinging his hat, and clapping walter on the shoulder. "perhaps you'll all have supper together," suggested mrs. chester. "if the girls let us," added ed. "oh, i guess we will," assented cora. "that is, if you get my car up. i didn't think, when i ran it down, that the sand was so deep." "we'll look after it--don't worry, sis," said jack. while the girls and the two ladies went on to the larger bungalow, the boys managed, not without some work, to get cora's auto up to the road again. then it was run along, with the others, to the big bungalow, where there was a shed that would serve as shelter for the machines. the boys carried in the girls' trunks and suit cases, and transported their own to their quarters. then began a general "primping" time, as the supper hour approached. "oh, girls, isn't this just delightful?" exclaimed cora, as she and the others entered what was to be their home for the summer. "that window seat is a dear!" declared belle, as she proceeded to "drape" herself in it. "and see the porch hammocks," called bess, "slumping" into one. "what a fine view of the bay we can get from here," added eline, as she stood in the bow window, a most graceful figure. cora, in spite of her damp shoes, had made a hurried trip through the bungalow to arrange, tentatively at least, as hostess, the different sleeping apartments. "oh, it's just the dearest place!" exclaimed eline. "i know we will simply love it here." "now just put off your things, get comfortable, wash and comb if you like, and then the boys will be over to supper," said mrs. chester, when the girls had made a tour of the place. "gracious! here they come now!" cried belle, as she saw jack and his friends tramping over the space that separated the two bungalows. the girls fled precipitately, for they had begun to lay aside their collars and loosen their hair. then the two ladies took charge of matters, in the kitchen at least. the boys were bidden to remain out on the piazzas until invited in, and they sprawled in various attitudes in chairs or hammocks. then the girls came down; there was noticed throughout the bungalow various savory odors, at which the boys grinned in delight. there was the clatter of plates, and the jingle of silver--more expansive smiles. there were looks of pleased anticipation. then came the clanging of a bell. "supper!" announced mrs. chester, appearing in the door wearing a huge apron. "that's us!" cried jack. "oh, i've just thought of it!" exclaimed cora in a low voice to eline, as she walked beside her to the dining room. "thought of what?" "the name 'margaret!'" chapter xv launching the "pet" "pass the olives again, please!" "aren't the lobsters delicious?" "are you referring to us?" ed bristled up, and looked rather aggressively at belle. "if the net fits----" she murmured. "net being the sea-change from shoe," spoke jack. "please pass the olives," came again from bess, waiting patiently. "i've only had----" "a dozen!" interrupted ed. "i have not!" "children!" rebuked cora. they were all at the supper table--i prefer, since we are now at sea, which makes so many equal--to call the late meal supper, in preference to dinner. no fisherman ever eats a "dinner" except at noon, and it was now well on to six o'clock. and they were making merry, were the motor maids and boys. mrs. chester had made bountiful provision for the party and they were now enjoying it thoroughly. over in the bungalow of the boys were ample supplies for days to come, though such as would not keep had been laid in sparingly. "you girls certainly look nice enough to----" "eat, were you going to say?" asked eline, who was particularly "fetching," to quote norton, whereupon jack wanted to know what it was she was expected to "fetch." "well, at least nibble at," remarked walter. "some of you don't look as though you would stand more than a nibble," and he looked particularly at bess. "oh, but there is so much to do," sighed cora, as she thought of the arrangements for the night. "we really must hurry through supper and straighten things out. then we can rest to-morrow." "it doesn't take you long to straighten out," said ed, with a jovial smile. "one minute you're rescuing fat boys from the salty ocean, and the next you look as charming as--er--as----" "as a mermaid," finished walter. "how do you do it?" norton wanted to know. "this is the first long motor trip i've taken, and i'm wearing the collar of your brother, with the necktie of ed. i can't seem to find a thing of my own." "it is all done by system," said cora. "hear! hear!" cried jack, english fashion. "sis will kindly elucidate the system." "finish your supper!" ordered cora. "we want you boys to help carry around some of our trunks. we're going to place them differently." "more work," groaned ed. but the meal was finally over and the boys put the trunks in the rooms of the various girls. mrs. chester had engaged the wife of one of the cove fishermen to come in to help with the house-work, so the two chaperones could leave the dishes to her while they helped the girls settle their apartments. the bungalow was of ample size, and they were sure to be comfortable. the boys did some "straightening-out," but it was more honored in the breach than in the observance. when they wanted a thing they "pawed" over their suit cases until they found it, letting the other articles settle where they might. they were all out on the porch, talking and laughing over the events of the day, cora being called upon to recount her experiences in making the rescue. "cora," spoke eline softly, when some of the motor boys and girls had voted for a stroll down to the beach, "what was it you meant when you said you recalled the name margaret?" "oh, yes. i'm glad you spoke of that. do you remember the name of the woman i found in the garage the night of the fire?" "mrs.--mrs.----" eline paused. "mrs. margaret raymond," supplied cora. "yes, that was it. what of her?" "well, the light keeper has a sister who is missing. her name is margaret, too. she is the aunt of the girl in the red bathing suit." "does anything follow from that?" "suppose i told you that as soon as i saw mr. haley, the keeper of the light, i was sure i had seen his face before?" "ah!" eline was quick to grasp at a suggestion. "of course i have never seen him before," went on cora. "but his sister must bear some resemblance to him; don't you think, eline?" "i should say so--yes." "then take the name margaret--the fact that his sister is named that--also that the strange woman who ran away from the office, and whom i found in our garage, was named the same--the fact that mr. haley's sister is strangely missing, and under some sort of a cloud--which would also cover mrs. raymond--and you see the coincidences; don't you?" "indeed i do!" declared eline. "oh, cora, if it should turn out that they are the same person!" "it would be remarkable. but even if it were so we could not help him. we could give him no clue as to his sister's whereabouts now." "well, we must find out what his sister's last name is. he has invited us over there, and i think i can speak to him on the subject. it is worth trying, anyhow. suppose we go and join the others." "shall you tell them?" asked eline. "not yet." they found the rest of the party down on the shore of the cove. the moon was up and the picture presented was an attractive one. two points, jutting out into the ocean, came near enough together to make a sort of strait that led into the bay. opening out of the big bay was a smaller cove--called sandy--from the fine extent of bathing beach it afforded. it was just back of this beach that several cottages had been put up, also the two bungalows occupied by our friends. the point on which the lighthouse was built was somewhat in the shape of a shoe, and on the farthermost extremity were black rocks, extending, as i have said, out in a dangerous reef from which the flashing light warned vessels. the point was built up with fishermen's cottages, or modest houses, and around the bay was located the village of sandy point, a small settlement, but one that was gradually growing as the summer colonists found out its beauty. "i hope the _petrel_ is here, all right," remarked jack, when they had talked of many other matters. "we'll have to see the first thing in the morning," declared ed. "yes, i am anxious to get her afloat," spoke cora. "the water is lovely around here." "well, you ought to know," came from walter, "you were out on it to-day." "we'll have some fun bathing," said norton. "you say that lighthouse girl has won swimming prizes, cora?" "yes." "maybe we can get up some races," came from bess. "do you swim, eline?" "some. that's what everyone says, i believe." they talked and strolled, and strolled and talked, until the lateness of the hour sent them to their bungalows. there was some little excitement about getting settled for the night, for it developed that one of the trunks containing some garments of the girls had not arrived. but they "doubled up," and were fairly comfortable. as for the boys, the sounds of merriment came from their quarters even at a late hour. "i'm glad i don't have to chaperone them," remarked aunt susan. morning came, as it generally does. jack and his chums got their own breakfast--in a more or less haphazard fashion--and then set off to the railroad depot to see about the motor boat. it was safe in the freight office, and was eagerly inspected by the boys. for, while cora and her motor girl chums really owned the dainty little craft, the young men felt that they had almost a proprietary interest in it. "how are we going to get it over to the cove?" asked ed. "on a truck, of course," replied jack. "then we'll knock off the cradle----" "rocked in the cradle of the deep!" burst out walter. "where's your permit to sing?" demanded jack. "stop it. your swan song will come in handy when we launch the _pet_." "well, i guess this part of the work is strictly up to us," remarked norton, as he surveyed the boat. "and the sooner we get her into the water the sooner we can have a ride." "right--oh!" exclaimed jack. "i'll ask the freight agent about a truck." that official told the boys where they could hire one, a certain man at the cove making a specialty of moving boats. a little later the boys were perched on a big wagon, containing the boat, and moving toward a boat-repair dock whence most of the launchings were made. the girls had word of the little ceremony that was to occur, and they gathered at the place while the boys, with the help of one or two men, arranged to slide the un-cradled boat into the water. all went well until toward the end. then the boat seemed to stick on the rollers. "shove her hard!" cried jack. "you fellows aren't putting half enough beef into your shoves." "all together now, boys!" cried walter. "here she goes!" just how it happened no one knew, but the _pet_ suddenly shot down the ways, sliding over the rollers. jack, who had hold of her amidships, kept his grip, and, as if not wanting to part company from the youth, or as if objecting to taking the plunge alone, the motor boat shot into deep water, carrying jack with her. he clung to the gunwhale and shouted--not in alarm, for he could swim, but in startled surprise. "hold her, jack, hold her!" shouted walter. "or she'll smash into that other boat," for the _pet_, under the momentum of the slide, was going stern foremost straight toward an anchored sloop. chapter xvi suspicions strengthened the girls screamed. the boys looked on in startled amazement. the men who had been hired to help launch the boat stood with their hands hanging at their sides, as if unable to do anything. finally walter galvanized himself into action long enough to exclaim: "we should have had a rope fast to her." "that you had, my lad!" agreed a grizzled old fisherman. "a rope and a kedge anchor on shore. howsomever----" "can't something be done?" demanded cora, clasping her hands impulsively. "it must be! our boat!" the spectacle of the fine craft, in which so many of the hopes and expectations of the young people centered, about to be damaged, seemed to send a chill of apprehension to the hearts of the girls--more so than in the case of the boys. and it certainly looked as though a collision was unavoidable. "and jack!" cried belle. "he'll be smashed!" "not on that end," remarked ed, grimly. "if he sticks there he won't be hurt. he's as far away from the smashing-point as he can get." this was true, for jack was now clinging to the stem of the boat, having edged his way along from amidships. he did not seem worried, and in fact was preparing to do the only thing possible to prevent a collision. while the boys--ed, walter and norton--were racing about, looking for an available boat to launch, regardless of the fact that it would be too late for all practical purposes, and while the fishermen helpers were disputing as to whose fault it was that a retaining rope had not been provided, jack was carrying out his plan of action. this was nothing more or less than to turn himself into a rudder. as a usual thing the rudder is on the stern of the boat--necessarily so--but in this case the stern of the _pet_ was the bow, as far as motion was concerned, and jack, clinging to the stem, was on the stern, so to speak. so, vigorously churning with his feet, as a swimmer might tread water, he threw himself to one side, as a rudder might have been turned. the effect was immediate. the _pet_ veered to one side, and the startled owner of the sloop, toward which the motor boat was plunging, had small use for the hook he had caught up in his excitement. in another moment the _pet_ shot alongside the other craft, sliding rather violently along the rub-streak, and careening the sloop and herself as well. but no real harm was done save the removal of considerable paint and varnish. jack had succeeded in his design. "well, what were you trying to do?" demanded the owner of the sloop, rather angrily. "trying to save your boat from harm," answered jack quickly. "throw me a line, will you? and i'll come aboard. i don't want to get in the motor boat, all wet as i am." "sure thing!" the man exclaimed. "that was a neat trick you worked. mighty clever!" he flung jack a rope's end, the two boats now having drifted apart. jack pulled himself to the deck of the sloop, letting go his hold on the _pet_, but walter and ed were now coming out to get her in a small boat. soon she was tied safely at the float, and jack returned to shore. "how--how did it all happen?" asked eline. "well," said jack, rather pantingly, for his breath was somewhat spent, "i had an idea that i gave a fairly good imitation, a la the moving picture performance, of how it happened. but if you'd prefer to have me play a return engagement, i might----" "don't you dare!" cried cora, as jack made a motion as though to plunge into the water again. "was that man very mad, jack?" "oh, only so-so. say, i am some wet!" "yes, you'd better go up to the bung, and change," suggested ed--"bung," i may explain, being a short cut for bungalow. "guess i'd better," agreed the damp one. "say, but she's leaking some!" and he looked into the cockpit of the motor craft. "it will stop when the seams swell," was walter's opinion. "come on, fellows, we'll look over the engine." "yes, and please get some gasoline," suggested cora. "we may be able to go for a spin this afternoon. come on, girls. now that the _pet_ is in her element we'll take a stroll around, and look at--well, at whatever there is to look at," she concluded. "let's go over to the lighthouse," suggested belle. "not now!" exclaimed cora, quickly. "we'll go some other time. come on," and leaving the boys to go over the intricacies of the motor boat, the girls strolled along the sand. jack hurried on the bungalow. "why didn't you want to go to the lighthouse?" asked eline of cora, as they walked on, arm in arm. "i think they are so romantic. and perhaps that mermaid's father might show us through it in return for our rescue." "doubtless he would, and probably he will--later," said cora. "but, eline, i want to do some thinking first." "about what?" "about what that mermaid, as you call her, told me of her father's worries. she----" "here she comes now," interrupted belle, catching part of what cora and eline were saying. walking along the strand, with the chubby little boy who had been pulled from the water, was rosalie. "how do you do?" she called pleasantly to cora. "are you all settled? i think it must be lovely to live as you girls do, going about as you please." "and i think it must be so romantic to live in a lighthouse," interposed belle. "do you ever tend the light?" "once in a while, when father is busy--that is, early in the evening. father and the assistant, harry small, stand the night watches." "do you ever have storms here?" asked bess. "oh, often, yes; and bad ones too." "and are ships wrecked?" eline queried. "occasionally." "did your light ever save any?" asked cora. "oh, yes, it must have, for the light can be seen for a long distance. of course, we can't say how many vessels have come in too close to the black rocks, and have veered off. but i know once or twice father has seen the lights too close in, and then, as the sailors saw the lantern flash, they would steer out. so you see they were warned in time." "that's splendid!" cried bess. "think of saving a whole shipload of people!" and her eyes sparkled. "how is your father?" asked cora in a low voice, as she got a chance to walk with rosalie, the other three girls going on ahead. "oh, he is still worried--if that is what you mean," was the answer. "that is what i do mean, my dear," cora went on. "i wonder if you would mind describing your aunt to us." "you mean the one who--disappeared?" "yes." "why?" it was a challenge, and rosalie looked curiously at cora. "well, my dear, i fancy--no, i will say nothing until i learn more. but don't tell me about her unless you choose." "oh, i'm sure i don't mind. perhaps you would like to speak to father?" "possibly--a little later. but was your aunt a delicate woman, with iron gray hair, and rather a nervous manner?" "yes, that's aunt margaret! but why do you ask?" "i will tell you later, my dear. please don't say anything about it until i see your father. do you suppose he would show us through the light?" "of course! i'll ask him; and that will give you the chance you want!" "fine!" exclaimed cora. "i'm afraid you will think this is rather a conspiracy," she went on, "but i have my reasons. it may amount to nothing, but i will not be satisfied until i have proved or disproved something i have suspected since i came here." chapter xvii the light keeper's story "hurray! she's going!" it was jack who cried this. "'she starts, she moves, she seems to feel----'" "as though we'd catch a wiggling eel!" thus ed began the quotation, and thus walter ended it. the boys had been working in the motor boat, and had only now, after several hours, succeeded in getting it to respond to their labors. the motor started with a sound that "meant business," as jack expressed it. "let's go for a run," suggested norton. "better wait for the girls--it's their boat," returned walter. "and we'd better pump some of the water out of her," added jack. "she leaks like a sieve." "pump her out, and by the time the girls are here she'll be ready," spoke walter. "it was that carbureter all the while," declared ed. "i knew it was!" "i was sure it was in the secondary coil," came from jack. "and you couldn't make me believe but what it was one of the spark plugs," was norton's contribution. "but it was the carbureter, all right." "all wrong, you mean," half grumbled walter, whose hands were covered with grease and gasoline. "some one had opened the needle valve too far." "well, let's get busy with the pump," jack said. "it's too nice to be hanging around the float." the _pet_ was soon in as good condition as hasty work could make her, and on the arrival of the girls the whole party went out for a spin, though they were a bit crowded. cora was at the wheel, a position her right to which none disputed. "i don't know these waters around here," she admitted, "but rosalie said there was a good depth nearly all over the cove, even at low tide." "rosalie being the mermaid?" asked norton. "i should like to meet her." "i have asked her over to the bungalow," went on cora. "but i warn you that she is a very _sensible_ girl." "meaning that i am not?" challenged norton. "not a girl--certainly," observed jack. "not sensible!" exclaimed norton. "don't give them an opening, boy," cautioned ed. "you don't know these girls as i do." "don't flatter yourself," was the contribution from bess. "why don't you talk?" asked jack of belle. "she's too interested in how deep the water is, and wondering if she will float as well as dripping dick," mocked eline. "i am not!" promptly answered belle. "and just to show you that i'm not afraid i'm going to try to swim as soon as we go in bathing." "which will be to-morrow," said cora. they motored about the bay, winding in and out among anchored and moving craft. cora was as adept at the wheel of the _pet_ as she was at that of the _whirlwind_, and many admiring comments were made by other steersmen in the cove, though cora knew it not. "she stood her land journey well," remarked bess, as she noted how well the engine was running. "but you should have seen the trouble we had," complained walter. "we thought she'd never go!" the day was lovely, and it was a temptation to stay out, but cora was wise enough not to remain too long on the water. already the effect of the hot sun was evident on the hands and faces of all, and the girls were secretly wishing for some talcum powder. they went back to the float, arrangements having been made to dock the _petrel_ there. then came a hasty meal and another spin. they were getting matters down to a system in the bungalows now--at least the girls were. the boys lived haphazard, as they always did, and perhaps always would. mrs. chester--aunt susan--in the absence of mrs. fordam, who had returned home--assumed charge of cora and her friends to the extent of seeing that meals were ready on time. it was their third day at the coast, the time having been well occupied--every hour of it almost--and the girls were out alone in the _pet_--the boys having gone fishing--when cora observed a figure in a red bathing suit near the lighthouse float waving to them. "rosalie--the mermaid!" exclaimed bess. "what can she want?" "perhaps her little brother is in the water again," said belle. "no, she doesn't seem excited enough for that," spoke eline. "we'll go see," was cora's decision. the _pet_ circled up to the float and came to a stop at its side, not a jar marring the landing. "well done!" said rosalie to cora. "there are not many girls who can run a motor boat like that." "i have had some practice," was the modest reply. "father will be glad to see you," went on the mermaid, with a smile. "he has just been polishing the light, and i know he'll be glad to show you through." she glanced meaningly at cora, who returned the look. "welcome, ladies!" greeted mr. haley. "i'm real glad to see you. visitors are always welcome. are you good climbers?" "why?" asked eline. "because we have no elevator, and it's quite a step to the top of the tower." "oh, we can do it," cora declared. they were shown through the light, and the keeper explained how, by means of clock-work, propelled by heavy weights, the great lens was revolved, making the flashing light. it turned every five seconds, sending out a signal that all the mariners knew, each lighthouse being in a different class, and the signals they gave, either fixed or stationary, being calculated to distinguish different parts of the coast where danger lies. on their return to the neat parlor, on the appearance of which the girls complimented rosalie, who kept house for her father--his wife being dead--cora saw a photograph lying on the centre table. at the sight of it she exclaimed: "that is she!" "who? what do you mean?" cried mr. haley. "that is my sister!" "and it is the woman who was in our barn!" cora said. "i have thought all along it was. now i am sure of it. mr. haley, i am sure i do not want to pry into your family affairs, but your daughter said something about her aunt being missing, and how worried you were. i am sure we have met her since--since her trouble. perhaps we can help you." "oh, if you only could!" exclaimed the light keeper. "my poor sister! where can she be?" "suppose you tell me a little about her, and then i--and my friends--can decide whether the woman we met is the one pictured there," and cora passed the photograph to bess. "there isn't much to tell," said the keeper of the light, slowly. "my sister is a widow. after her husband died she went to westport to work in an office. she had been a clerk before her marriage. everything seemed to go well for a time and she occasionally wrote to me how much she liked it. a friend of hers was in the same building. "then my sister's letters ceased suddenly. i got worried and wrote to her friend. i got an answer, saying there had been a robbery in the office where my sister worked, and that my sister had disappeared. a young girl left at the same time, and there was some doubt about the robbery, though two men were mentioned as being concerned in it. but my poor sister must have felt that they would suspect her--and she never would take a pin belonging to anyone else. but she went away, and i've tried all means to locate her, but i can't. it has me worried to death, nearly." "what was your sister's name?" asked cora. "margaret raymond." "that is the same woman!" spoke cora, firmly. "oh, to think we didn't ask her more about herself!" by degrees she and the other girls told the story of the woman in the burning barn. they did not so much as hint of their first suspicions about the fire. "and what was the name of the girl who worked in the office with her?" asked belle. "nancy ford," answered mr. haley. "there can be no doubt of it," declared cora. "that settles it. what a coincidence! that we should find her brother here!" "oh, can you tell me where my sister is?" asked the light keeper. "i am very sorry, but she went away in a hurry from my house," said cora, "and we have not seen her since. we feel sure she was the woman the sheep herder met that same night," and she told about that incident. "bless that kind man--he helped her some, anyhow, and bless you girls," said mr. haley, fervently. his eyes were moist, and those of the girls were not altogether dry. "how can we trace her?" asked bess. "the only way i see," spoke cora, "is to write to the town toward which she went after the sheep man saw her. the authorities there might give some information." "i'll do it!" cried the light keeper, as he made a note of the place. "i can't thank you enough." "oh, we have done scarcely anything," answered cora. "we wish it were much more." further details and forgotten incidents were mentioned as bearing on the case, and then the girls departed in the boat. it was a little rough going back, and the spray flew over them. "isn't it strange?" observed belle. "very queer how it all turned out," agreed eline. "poor woman," said cora. "i feel so sorry for her!" the boys remained out fishing nearly all day, and when they returned, not having had exceptional luck, cora took jack to one side and asked: "what was the name of the girl you and ed met on the road the time of our break-down?" "she didn't say." "are you sure?" "of course, sis. if i knew i'd have sent her a souvenir postal. what's the answer?" "oh, nothing, i thought perhaps she had mentioned it." "nary a word. did you have a nice ride?" "yes, we went to the lighthouse. and, jack, what do you think? that woman--the one in our garage--is mr. haley's sister!" jack was properly astonished, and he and the other boys listened with interest to the story of the identification. "say," drawled norton, "if we find nancy ford and mrs. raymond we'll be doing a good thing." "if," observed ed, significantly. chapter xviii belle swims the tide was just right. in their newest bathing suits the motor girls had assembled on the beach in the hot sun. their white arms and necks showed the winter of indoors, but their faces had already taken on the tan of the seaside. soon arms and necks would be in accord. the boys were out on the float, splashing about, occasionally "shooting the chutes" and diving from the pier. "is the water cold?" asked cora, going down to where the waves splashed on the pebbles. daintily she dipped in--just a toe. "how is it, jack?" jack was tumbling about near the beach like a porpoise. "sw--swell!" he managed to gasp, the hesitancy being because a wave insisted on looking at his tongue, or trying to scrub his already white teeth--cora could not decide which. "is it really warm?" "of course!" "it feels cold." "i know. that's because you stand there and stick one toe in. get wet all over and--you'll feel----" jack was suddenly plunged under water by walter, who had come swimming up, so the sentence was not finished. but cora could guess it. "i'm going in; come on, girls!" she cried. "oh, wait a little," pleaded belle. "and you said you were going to learn to swim to-day!" challenged eline. she looked particularly well in her dainty bathing costume. "well, i--i didn't know the water would be so deep!" "deep!" echoed cora. "it's getting shallower all the while. the tide is going out. come on." she waded out a short distance, bravely repressing the spasmodic screams that sprang to her lips, and turning to the others said: "it--it's--fi--fine--co--come on--in!" "listen to her!" cried bess. "it must be like a refrigerator to make her stammer like that." "it is not," said cora. "it--it's real--real warm--when you--you--get used to it." "i have heard said," remarked eline with studied calmness, "that one can get used to anything--if one only makes up one's mind to it." "come--come on----" cora did not finish. a wave splashed up on her, taking her breath. then, resolving to get it over with, she strode out, threw herself under water and a moment later was swimming beside jack. "cora's in!" exclaimed bess. "i'm going too." "so am i," added eline. "come on, belle!" belle hesitated. "i can only swim a few strokes," she said. "i learned at lake dunkirk." "it's much easier in salt water than fresh," insisted eline, taking hold of belle's arm. "do try!" hesitatingly belle waded out into the water. she gasped and choked as the chill struck through her, then, resolving to be brave, she plunged herself under. she gasped more than ever, but did not give up. "you are doing fine!" cried eline, as she struck out toward the float. suddenly belle screamed. "are you going down?" asked eline in alarm, yet they were not out beyond their depth. "no, she's going up!" asserted walter, who was swimming near by. "don't make fun of her!" commanded cora. "i'm not. she's making fun of herself." again belle screamed. "oh! oh!" she cried. "something has me! i--i'm sure it's a lobster." "none of us boys missing!" joked ed, as he splashed up. "lobsters are worth forty cents a pound! save that one! save it!" commanded norton, as he came alongside with strong, even strokes. "oh dear!" screamed belle. she really seemed in distress, but something nerved her to strike out as she never had before, and before she knew it she was swimming. a figure in red guided to her side--a veritable mermaid. it was the girl from the lighthouse--rosalie. "take it slowly--you are doing lovely!" she commended. "you are swimming!" "oh--oh--i--i'm so glad!" cried belle. "i've always wanted to, but they said i--i would be afraid!" rosalie was half supporting her, but really belle was doing well, and gaining confidence every minute. as the lighthouse maid swam past cora she managed to whisper: "father wants to see you. come over when you can. i think he has had some word from aunt margaret." chapter ix gathering clouds the word which the lighthouse keeper had received was rather indefinite. it was a letter from his sister, but it only confirmed that which he already knew. "and it doesn't give me any address where i can write to her!" he complained when cora had paid him a visit, in response to the invitation given by rosalie during the swim. "it's postmarked at--maybe you can see it, my eye-sight isn't what it used to be," and he held the envelope out to cora. "edmenton," she read. "that's in this state." "yes, but what good would it do to write to her there?" he asked. "she evidently doesn't want me to know where she is. just read the letter, miss." it was not long and in effect said that mrs. raymond would not come back to her relatives until she had found nancy ford, and cleared her name of the suspicion on it. "don't try to find me," wrote mrs. raymond, "as i am going from place to place, working where i can. i am seeking nancy. i thought she might have gone back where she used to live, but i wrote there and she had not arrived. i must search farther. i am doing fairly well, so don't worry about me. some folks have been very kind--especially some young ladies. i will tell you about them when i see you, brother--if i ever do." "she must mean you--the time of the fire," said the light keeper. "i'm sure i'm much obliged to you for befriending my sister." "oh, it was nothing," protested cora. "i wish we could have done more. i am sure we could have, had she not gone off in such a hurry. but we can't blame her, for she was very nervous and excited." "poor margaret," murmured mr. haley. "she was always that way. she tells me not to worry--but i can't help it." "i suppose not," agreed cora. "you might try writing to edmenton. the postmaster there might give you a clue, or tell you some one who could give information." "i'll do it!" exclaimed the keeper of the light. "it will give me something to do, anyhow," and he set to the task. cora had called at the light alone, not knowing what the nature of the communication might be that the keeper wished to make to her. it was the day after belle had bravely struck out for herself in the water. cora said good-bye to rosalie, who was busy about her household duties, and waved to little dick, who was playing on the beach. then, getting into the _pet_ in which she had come to the lighthouse float, cora turned the bow toward the little dock at the foot of the slope on which the bungalows were perched. "well, you were gone long enough!" complained jack when she got back. "i've been waiting for you." "what for?" she asked. "has anything happened?" "nothing except that we fellows have heard of a motor boat we can hire cheap for the season, and we want to run over and look at it. the fellow who has it is on the other side of the cove. can i take the _pet_?" "certainly, jack. we girls are going to the life-saving station, anyhow. you'll be back before lunch; won't you?" "i should guess yes!" exclaimed walter, who had come up. "we wouldn't miss our rations for anything." jack and his chums were soon speeding across the bay. there was quite a sea on, for the wind was rising, and there seemed to be indications of a storm. but a number of boats were out on the water, and the _pet_ was a staunch craft. also, jack and the other boys were able to manage her, and all were excellent swimmers. cora and the girls went on to the life-saving station not far from their bungalow. they were much interested in the method of launching the boat, and the captain explained how it would right itself if capsized, and also bail out the water that entered in a storm. "what do you do when you can't launch a boat?" asked belle. "use the breeches buoy," answered the grizzled old salt. he showed how by means of a mortar a line was fired aboard the wreck, and how, by a sort of pulley arrangement, the persons in danger could, one at a time, be pulled ashore, sitting in the "breeches buoy." "it's just like some of those apartment house clothes lines on high poles," said bess; "isn't it?" "i never heard it called that afore," remarked the captain of the coast guard, "but i s'pose you could call it that if you was a mind to. if you'll stay around a bit you'll see our drill." the girls were delighted, and eagerly watched while the mortar was fired, the cylindrical shot carrying the line out to an imaginary wreck. then one man played the part of a shipwrecked mariner, and was hauled over the sand, while cora took several photographs of him. "we've got her!" exclaimed jack, as the girls returned to the bungalow. "she isn't much for looks, but she can beat the _pet_!" "who?" asked cora, thinking of something else. "the motor boat we hired. come on out and we'll give you a race." "let's!" exclaimed belle. "my, but you're getting brave!" observed ed. "the time was when a race frightened you even if you read of it in the papers." "i did not!" "she can swim now," commented bess. motor maids and motor boys went out on the bay in the two motor boats. the craft jack and his chums had hired was not very elegant, and she seemed to be rather uncertain about starting, and when she did the engine appeared to be protesting most of the while. but the boat made good time, and though it did not really beat the _pet_ (much to the disappointment of boastful jack) it kept well up with cora's speedy craft. for a week or more the young people enjoyed to the utmost the life on the coast. more people came to the little summer resort, and several social affairs were arranged. there were swimming races, in which the girls and boys participated, even belle entering in the novice class. but she won no prize, nor did she expect to. "i just wanted to show jack kimball that i didn't have to wear a life preserver nor be anchored to the shore!" she declared with spirit. "i humbly beg your pardon!" said jack, with a bow. then there were motor boat races, in which the _pet_ did herself proud, coming in first in her class. the boys had great hopes of the _duck_, as they had re-named the boat they hired, but when they were doing well, and not far from the finish line, with every prospect of winning, something went wrong with the ignition, and they were out of it. there were affairs on shore too, several dances to which the girls and boys went. then there was a moving picture performance semi-occasionally, and some other plays. altogether the summer was a happy one, thus far. nothing was heard of mrs. raymond, though her brother wrote a number of letters, and of course the missing nancy ford was not located. though jack and the boys insisted on staring at all the pretty strangers they met, playfully insisting that nancy might be one of them. "of course she's bound to be good-looking," said ed. "naturally," agreed jack. "how do you make that out?" cora wanted to know. "everybody named nancy is good-looking," asserted norton, with his lazy drawl. the girls laughed at this reasoning. "let's go for a long run to-day, sis!" proposed jack one morning, when he called at the girls' bungalow. "we can take our lunch, run around the lighthouse point, into the cove on the other side, and have a good time. there's said to be good fishing there, too." "i'll go if the others will," she agreed, and when she proposed it to them the girls were enthusiastic about it. soon two merry boatloads of young people were speeding over the sun-lit waters of the cove. "we have to go right out on the ocean; don't we?" asked belle with a little shiver as she looked ahead at the expanse of blue water. "only for a little way," said cora. "just round the lighthouse point. then we're in another bay again." "are you afraid?" asked eline. "n--no," said belle, bravely. as they went on the sky became overcast, and cora looked anxiously at them. "i'm afraid it's going to storm, jack," she said. "not a bit of it!" he cried. "i'll ask this fisherman," and he did, getting an opinion that there would be no storm that day. reassured, they went on. the sea was not a bit rough and even belle's fears were quelled. they went past the light, close enough to see rosalie waving at them. high up in the tower they could note mr. haley and his helper cleaning the great lantern and lens. they reached the other bay in due time, but the gathering clouds grew more menacing, and cora was for putting back. "no," urged jack. "let's stay and eat our lunch. if it gets too rough we can leave our boats here and walk back over the point. it isn't far." so the girls consented. the clouds continued to gather. chapter xx the storm "jack kimball, i knew we stayed too late! now look over there!" and cora pointed to the west, where a bank of dark and angry-looking vapor piled up in contrast to the lighter-hued clouds that had caused apprehension earlier in the day. "that's right--blame it all on me--even if it rains!" protested jack. "you wanted to stay as much as we did, sis." "well, perhaps i did," admitted cora. "but really we should not have stayed so long. i am afraid we will be caught in the storm." "do you really think so, cora?" asked belle, and she could not keep a quaver out of her voice. "if i'm any judge we're in for a regular old----" "you're it, old man!" and walter interrupted ed, who was evidently on the verge of making a dire prophecy concerning the weather. "don't scare 'em any more than you have to," went on walter in a low voice, nodding at the girls in the _pet_. "we may have our hands full as it is." "do you think so?" "look at those clouds!" it was enough. indeed all were now anxiously scanning the heavens that seemed to grow blacker momentarily. the little party, after having had lunch on the beach of the smaller cove, around the lighthouse point, were now on their way back in the two motor boats, and cora, with a look aloft, had made the observation to jack that opened this chapter. "well, turn on all the gas you can, sis, and we'll scud for it," called jack to his sister. "we may beat it out yet. if not, we can go ashore almost any place." "except on the rocks," spoke cora. "the worst part will be round the point, in the open sea." "oh, we'll do it all right," asserted norton, confidently. "the wind isn't rising much." the boats were close enough together so that talking from one to the other was easy. they were headed out toward the open sea, and as cora guided her craft she could not help anticipating apprehensively the heavy rollers that would be encountered once they were out of the land-locked shelter. but the bow of the _pet_ was high. she was a good craft in rough weather, and as for the hired _duck_, she was built for those waters. "let's be jolly!" proposed jack, for a glance at the girls in their boat had showed him that they were on the verge of hysterics. "strike up a song, ed." "give us nancy lee," suggested walter. "nancy!" exclaimed cora. "i wonder where that other nancy is?" "no telling," declared eline. "oh dear! i hope it doesn't rain. this dress spots so!" and she looked down at her rather light gown, which really she ought not to have worn on a water picnic. cora had said as much, but eline--well, it must be confessed that she was rather vain. she had good clothes and she liked to wear them, not always at appropriate times. "it won't rain!" asserted jack. "go ahead, ed--sing!" "'rocked in the cradle of the deep' would be most appropriate," voiced norton. "we are rocking some." it was indeed getting rougher, and the motor boats bobbed up and down on the long swells. but as yet none had broken over the bows. cora dreaded this, not because of any particular danger, but because of the effect it would have on her chums, particularly belle, who, try as she might, could not conquer her nervous dread of the water. the boys started a song, and the girls joined in, but a sudden dash of spray over the _pet's_ stem brought a scream from belle that made a discord, and they all stopped. jack, who was steering the _duck_, stood up and looked ahead. they were approaching the point around which they must go to reach their own cove. "can we do it, old man?" asked walter, in a low voice. "we'll try," answered jack, equally low. "if we give up now the girls will get scared. we'll keep on a bit longer, and see where we come out." "can't you get a bit nearer in shore?" asked norton. "it's risky," said jack. "it's low tide now, and while this old tub doesn't draw much there are a lot of rocks here and there, sticking almost up at low water. if we hit on one of them we'll be in the pot for fair. the only thing to do is to stand out, and trust to luck. once around the point we'll be all right." "they're coming in," said walter, nodding toward cora and the others. "keep out! keep out!" cried jack. "it's dangerous." "but the girls want to land!" cried his sister. "you can't now. the shore is too rocky. you'd pound her hull to pieces. keep on around the point. the storm won't break for half an hour yet." rather reluctantly cora put the wheel over. yet she recognized the truth of what jack had said. it would be dangerous to go ashore there. and to turn back was equally out of the question, since the wind was rising. it was at their backs, and to turn in the heavy sea now running might mean an upset. to face the waves, too, would be dangerous. the only chance lay in keeping on. jack's prophecy about the storm was not borne out. with a sudden burst of wind, that whipped the salty spray of the waves over those in both boats, and a sprinkle of rain that soon became a downpour, the tempest broke. the girls screamed, and tried to get under some bits of canvas that cora had brought along to cover the engine. but the wind was so strong, and the rain so penetrating that it was of little avail. "head her up into the waves!" cried jack. "take 'em bow on, cora!" "of course!" she shouted back, and gripped the wheel with tense fingers. a little later they were out on the heaving ocean. fortunately the point cut off some of the wind, and, having the gale at their backs helped some. but the two motor craft, separated by some distance now, had no easy time of it. "oh--oh!" moaned belle. "be quiet!" commanded her sister. "look at eline!" eline was calm--that is, comparatively so. "but--but she can swim better than i." "swim! no one will have to swim!" said cora, not turning around. "i wonder what's the matter with that man?" and she pointed to one in a dory, who seemed to be signalling for help. then there came a further burst of the storm, and the rain came down harder than ever. chapter xxi the wreck "there must certainly be something the matter with that man!" exclaimed cora. she had fairly to shout to be heard above the noise of the wind and rain. "well, we daren't stop to see what it is," said belle. "oh, do go faster, cora! get in quiet water! i am getting seasick!" "don't you dare!" cried bess. "think of--lemons!" "i'm going to see what is the matter," declared cora. "he's waving to us!" "what about the boys?" asked eline. "they don't seem to see him. besides, they're past him now, and it would be risky to turn back. i can easily pass near him." the man, who was in a power-driven dory, was waving and shouting now, but the wind carried his words away. he seemed to be in some difficulty. "why doesn't he row in out of the storm?" asked bess. "perhaps he has lost his oars," suggested eline. "maybe that is the trouble," remarked cora. "well, we'll soon see." she changed the course of the _pet_, though it was a bit risky for the seas were quartering now, and the spray came aboard in salty sheets. but the girls could not get much wetter. cora slowed down her engine by means of a throttle control that extended up near the wheel. she veered in toward the tossing dory. "what is it?" she cried. "what's the matter?" "out of gasoline! can you lend me a bit so i can run in? i came out to lift my lobster pots, but it's too rough." "gasoline? yes, we have plenty," said cora. "i'll give you some." "don't come too close!" warned the fisherman. "can you put it in a can and toss it to me? that's the best way." "i'll try," promised cora, as she cut off all power. the _pet_ was now drifting, rising and falling on the swells. belle looked very pale, and bess was holding her. "find something, and run some gasoline into it from the carbureter drip," directed cora, as she clung to the wheel. "what shall i find?" asked bess. "would an empty olive bottle do?" asked eline. "the very thing!" cried cora. "has it a cork?" "yes, and one olive in it." "throw out the olive, and poke your handkerchief down in the bottle to dry it out before you put in the gasoline. even a drop of the salt water the olives come in will make trouble in the gasoline. hurry!" "look out!" cried the fisherman. "fend off!" "you'd better do it!" directed cora. "we have no boat hook!" "all right, i'll attend to it." the two boats were drifting dangerously close together. the fisherman caught up an oar he carried for emergencies, and skillfully fended off the _pet_, which was drifting down on him. in the meanwhile bess, with the help of eline, had dried out the olive bottle, and had filled it with gasoline. "what shall i do with it?" she asked cora. "throw it to the man." "i never can throw it." "then give it to me," and, holding to the wheel with one hand, with the other cora tossed over the bottle of gasoline. the lobsterman caught it, called his thanks and gave the _pet_ a final shove that carried her past him. "can you crank her?" asked cora to bess, nodding toward the engine. "i'll try!" it needed three tries, but finally the motor started, and the boat surged forward again. cora, bringing her head up to the seas, noted that jack had started to turn around to come back to her, but, seeing that the _pet_ was under way again, had gone on his own course. the wind continued to blow, the rain never ceased and the storm increased apace. but finally, after a battle with the elements that made the hearts of the girls quail, they passed the lighthouse point, and shot around into the quiet and wind-protected waters of the bay. a little later they were chugging into the even calmer cove. "oh cora! so frightened as i have been!" exclaimed aunt susan, as the dripping girls trooped up the hill to the bungalow. "oh, what a storm!" "but we weathered it!" laughed cora, shaking back her damp hair. "it was a bit scary at first, but we came out all right. it was fun at the finish." "i'm never going out again when it's cloudy!" declared belle. "never!" "oh, you'll get used to it," said eline. dry garments, hot tea, and supper coming in the order named restored in the girls their natural happy dispositions. but the storm continued. it grew worse as darkness advanced, and the wind rose to a gale. the rain came down in torrents, and the boys, in spite of rain coats and umbrellas, were drenched a second time in the short trip from their bungalow to that of the girls, when they came to pay a visit. "it's a wild night," declared jack, as he and his chums got ready to go back, about ten o'clock. "there must be quite a sea on," said ed. "i wouldn't want to be out in it," remarked walter. "and i beg to be excused," came from norton. "think of the poor sailors," said eline, softly. "i tell you what i'd like to do," observed jack. "what?" ed wanted to know. "go over to the lighthouse. it must be great up in the lantern room in a storm like this." "don't you dare to go!" cried cora. "it might blow away." "no danger," said jack with a laugh. "but i'm not going. another thing we might do." "what?" demanded norton. "go out and find a beach patrol. we could walk up and down with him, and maybe sight a wreck." "oh, don't speak of a wreck!" begged bess. "a wreck on such a night would be dreadful." "this is just the kind of a night when they have wrecks," observed ed, as a blast of wind and rain shook the bungalow. as the boys were going out into the storm there came a dull report, reverberating on the night air. "what was that?" gasped cora. "sounded like a gun," said jack. "maybe a ship at sea----" there was a flash in the sky. it was not lightning, for there was no thunder storm. "see!" exclaimed eline. "the lighthouse," ventured norton. "the light is over there," and ed pointed to the flashing beacon in a different direction. "then it's a rocket from some ship in danger," declared walter. "there goes another!" it was unmistakably a rocket that went cleaving through the blackness. it came from off the lighthouse point. "some ship is in danger, or maybe off her course," spoke jack. "well, we can't do anything, and there's no use getting any wetter. come on to bed, fellows." "oh, the poor people--if that is a wreck," murmured bess. "if it was only daylight we might witness some rescues," said cora. "but at least let us hope it is nothing serious." it was rosalie who brought the news next morning. through the driving rain she came to the girls' bungalow, her face peering out from beneath a sou'wester that was tied under her chin, her feet barely visible beneath the yellow oilskin coat. "there's a wreck ashore!" she cried. "i thought maybe you might like to see it! it's out in front of our light, and they're bringing the crew ashore!" "can they save them?" asked cora, clasping her hands. "most of 'em, i guess. want to come?" "of course we'll go!" cried eline. "the boys won't want to miss this!" chapter xxii the rescue green masses of foam-capped water hurling themselves on the sand--thundering and pounding. a spray that whipped into your face with the sting of a lash. the wind howling overhead and picking up handfuls of wet sand, scattering them about to add to the bite of the salt water. the rain pelting down in torrents. a dull boom, repeated again and again. the hissing of the breakers. and, out in the midst, out in a smother of water, gripped on the sharp rocks that now and then could be seen raising their black teeth through the white foam was the ship--a wreck. it was this scene that cora, the other girls, and the boys saw as they hurried out to the lighthouse point. and it was one they never forgot. they had hurried out when rosalie brought the news that in the storm of the night a three-masted auxiliary schooner had come too far inshore despite the warning of the light. "father was up all night tending the lantern, too!" she shouted--she had to shout to be heard above the roar. "i helped him," she added. "but in spite of it the schooner worked in. she couldn't seem to steer properly. we could see her red and green lights once in a while. then the current caught her and nothing could save her. she went right on the rocks. her back's broke, captain meeker of the life guards said." "can they save the people?" cora inquired, as she pulled her raincoat more tightly about her, for the wind seemed fairly to whip open the buttons. "they're going to try," answered the lighthouse maid. "they got some of 'em off in the motor life-boat early this morning, but it's too rough for that now." "what are they going to do, then?" asked bess. "use the breeches buoy. it's the only way now!" cried rosalie. "they're going to fire a line over soon." "we don't want to miss that," declared jack. the wreck had gone on the rocks nearly opposite the lighthouse that guarded them. in this case the guardianship had been in vain, and the sea was hastening to wreak further havoc on the gallant ship. the boys and girls trudged down to the beach through sand that clung to their feet. they could see the life-savers getting their apparatus in order, and near them were huddled some men--evidently sailors. "those are the men who were rescued from the ship," said rosalie. "there are more on board, and some passengers, i heard. some women and children, too!" "how terrible!" gasped belle. "oh, i don't see how any one can take a long voyage. i am so afraid of the water." "i don't blame you--not when it acts this way," spoke eline. "it makes me shudder!" the big green waves seemed to be reaching hungrily out for those on the strand, as though not satisfied with having wrecked the ship. the waters fairly flung themselves at the men whose seemingly puny efforts were being directed to save those yet remaining on board. "is the ship's captain among them?" asked walter, pointing to the group of sailors. "no, indeed!" exclaimed rosalie. "he'll be the last one to leave. they're always like that. my father was a captain once," and she seemed proud of the fact, though now she was glad that her father was safe in the staunch lighthouse. "that's so, i forgot," remarked walter. "the captain is always the last to leave." "but i thought women and children came first in a rescue at sea," suggested ed. "the women and girls--i heard there were some girls," went on rosalie, "wouldn't get in the boat. they were afraid. of course the breeches buoy is safer, but look how they have to wait. she may go to pieces any time now." "it's dreadful," said cora, in a low voice. she and her companions drew closer to where the life-savers were at work. the boys and girls were wet, for the rain penetrated through coats, and umbrellas were impossible. but they did not mind this, and mrs. chester had promised to have hot coffee for them when they got back to the bungalow. she had refused to go out to look at the wreck. "i just couldn't bear it!" she had exclaimed with a shudder. the guards were burying in the sand a heavy anchor to which the main rope of the breeches buoy would be fastened. the other end would be made fast to the highest part of the ship, so that the person being pulled ashore in the carrier would be as far above the waves as possible. the three masts had been broken off, but the jagged stump of one stuck up, and could be seen when there came a momentary lull in the rain. it was not very cold, though much of the heat of summer had been dissipated in the cool rain. "if it was winter, how terrible it would be," said eline. "sometimes i have seen lake steamers just a mass of ice." "yes, there is something to be thankful for," cora agreed. "oh, they are going to fire, i think." she pointed to where some of the men were setting the mortar, or small cannon, which is discharged to send a line to stranded ships. the mortar fires a long, round piece of iron, to which is fastened a light, but strong, line. when this falls aboard the vessel a stronger rope is hauled from shore by means of it. "yes, they're going to shoot!" agreed jack. "they must have trouble keeping their powder dry." bess covered her ears with her hands and cried: "oh, if they're going to fire i'm going to run!" "silly! it won't make much noise!" exclaimed norton. "they don't use a heavy charge." "i don't care. i'm going to----" but bess did not have time to do anything, for at that moment the captain pulled the lanyard that set off the mortar. the report was loud enough, though partly smothered by the storm. "it fell short!" exclaimed rosalie, who was watching intently. "see, it fell into the water!" "does that mean they can't make the rescue?" asked belle, in an awed voice. "oh, no, they'll fire again," answered rosalie. a guard was hauling in on the line, which had the weight attached to it. soon it was in the mortar again, the line coiled beside it in a box in a peculiar manner to prevent tangling. once more the shot was fired. "there it goes! it's going to land this time!" shouted rosalie in her excitement. a shout from the group of rescued seamen, in which the life guards joined, told that the shot had gone true. then began a busy time--not that the men had not worked hard before. but there was need of much haste now, for it was feared the vessel would break up. quickly the heavy line was sent out and made fast. then the breeches buoy was rigged, and in a little while a woman was hauled in from the wreck. "poor thing!" murmured cora. "we must help her. she is drenched." "yes, we must do something!" cried belle. "we'll take her up to our kitchen," proposed rosalie. "there's a good fire there, and i'll make coffee." the woman was helped out of the buoy, and the motor girls went to her assistance. she seemed very grateful. she was the wife of one of the mates, and he was not yet rescued. "i will stay here until harry comes ashore!" she declared, firmly. "and you know he won't come, mrs. madden, until the rest of the women is saved," explained one of the seamen. "go with the young ladies. that is best," and she finally consented. in a short time several other women and two girls came ashore, one much exhausted. but by this time a physician had arrived, and he attended to her in the lighthouse. then the remainder of the sailors were brought from the wreck, the first one to get ashore reporting that no more women or girls remained aboard. "there was one girl," he said, "but she seems to have disappeared." "washed overboard?" asked cora, with a gasp. "i'm afraid so, miss. it's a terrible storm." finally the captain himself was hauled off, and he landed amid cheers from the brave men who had helped save him. he said the vessel was now abandoned, and would not last another hour. in less than that time the wreck was observed to have changed its position. then amid the upheaval of the mighty seas the ship broke in two and was soon pounded into shreds of wood by the terrible power of the storm-swept ocean. the shipwrecked ones were cared for among the different fishermen, some staying in the lighthouse and some in the quarters of the life-savers. the storm kept up harder than ever, and soon cora and her friends decided that it would be unwise to stay out longer in it. so they sought their bungalows. chapter xxiii the floating spars calm followed after the storm. the sea was sullen, and great waves broke on the beach, but the rain had ceased, and the wind had almost died out. but the tide heaved and seemed to moan, as though in sorrow for what it had done. it was the morning after the wreck, and cora and the girls had gone to the lighthouse to look out over the ocean. all vestige of the schooner had disappeared. the sea had eaten her up. "where are the boys?" asked eline, as she walked along beside bess. the girls had on rather make-shift garments, for they had become so drenched in the rain that their clothes needed drying. "i guess they are--pressing their trousers," remarked cora. "jack said he was going to, anyhow." "vain creatures!" mocked bess. "i noticed you doing your hair up more elaborately than usual," remarked belle, with a glance at her sister. "oh, well, no wonder. it looked frightful--all wet as it was." "vain creatures--all of us," murmured cora. "then the boys won't be out for some time," suggested eline. "i think not," answered jack's sister. "i wonder what has become of all the shipwrecked people?" "a good many of them went on to new york last night," said belle. "i met rosalie early this morning and she said only two of the women were over at her place now. how did so many women, and those girls, come to be on the schooner?" "it was a sort of excursion party," explained cora. "the schooner had an auxiliary gasoline engine. the company that owns it does a small freight business, and also takes passengers who like to go for a cruise. it seems that a party was made up, and tickets sold. quite a number of women and girls, as well as some men, went along." "i guess they are sorry they did," said belle. "oh, the dreadful sea. i'm never going in bathing again." "oh, it's safe in sandy point cove," exclaimed eline. "i wonder what happened to the missing girl?" asked bess. "missing girl?" echoed belle. "yes. didn't you hear one of the sailors say a girl was missing--perhaps swept overboard?" "oh yes! poor thing!" and cora sighed. "she may be--out--there!" and she waved her hand to the heaving ocean. the girls were on the beach where the rescue had been made. the waves were still pounding away, but a life-guard who went past on his patrol remarked: "she'll be down a lot by night." "were any of your friends hurt?" asked belle. "working yesterday, you mean, miss?" "yes." "no. bill smith got his hand jammed a bit, but that was all. we get used to rough treatment." "i suppose so. the sea is very rough--it's cruel." "not always, miss. if you could see it--as i often do--all blue under the sun, and shimmering like--like your hair, miss, if i may be so bold, and with the gulls wheeling about, and dipping down into it--why, miss, you'd say the sea was beautiful--that's it--just beautiful." "oh, but it's so often the other way--terrible--hideous!" murmured belle, who seemed strangely affected. "no, miss, begging your pardon. even in a storm i love the sea. it it's just grand, miss!" "well, i'm glad you can think so. i can't. it makes me--shiver!" and a fit of trembling seized her. the girls walked on. some refuse--bits of wood and part of the cargo from the wreck--was coming ashore. the girls continued on down the strand, now and then venturing too close to the water, and being compelled to run back when a higher wave than usual rushed up the shingle. "i wonder if we couldn't go out in the boat?" spoke cora at length. "don't you dare suggest such a thing--to me!" cried belle. "i'll never go out again--after that terrible wreck!" "but i don't mean out on the ocean," said cora. "i mean just around the cove. it isn't at all rough there, and you won't mind it a bit." "do come!" begged eline. "there isn't a bit of danger," urged bess. "why, you've often been out when there was more sea than this." "but not so soon after a wreck." "what has that to do with it?" cora wanted to know. "the wreck is over. it wasn't a bad one, except that the ship was lost. all the people were saved. i think it was wonderful." "all but that poor girl," murmured belle. "well, we can't even be sure there was such a person," remarked eline. "it was only a rumor, and really, rosalie said the captain could account for everyone." "you never can tell when there are a number of people," supplemented cora. "perhaps this girl had her name down on the list, and, after all, did not go. then, when she was looked for, and not found, they jumped to the conclusion that she had gone overboard. i've often read of such cases." "so have i," declared bess. "come on, belle. let's go for a ride. it will do us all good." "oh, well, i don't want to be a spoil-sport i'll go; but, cora, dear, you must take along a couple of life preservers." "a dozen if you like, belle." "and you'll promise not to go outside the bay--you'll stay where it's calm?" "i promise!" exclaimed cora, raising her right hand. rosalie came out of the lighthouse in her bathing suit. "that girl fairly lives in the water," said eline. "if i could swim as she does i would too," spoke bess. "hello!" called rosalie, genially. "isn't it lovely after the storm?" "yes," said cora. "have they heard anything more about the missing girl?" "no. and no one seems to know who she was. are you going for a spin?" "we thought of it. would you like to come?" "i'd just love it! only i haven't time to change, perhaps, and i don't want to----" "come just as you are--in your bathing suit," invited cora, and rosalie did. the boys must have finished pressing their trousers, or attending to whatever part of the personal attire needed attention, for when the girls got back to the float, and were getting the _pet_ in shape for a spin, jack and ed hurried down to look over the _duck_. both boats needed pumping out, for the water had rained in, and walter and norton were good enough to attend to this tiresome work for the girls. soon the two craft were moving over the sparkling waters of the cove, which seemed to be trying to make up for what the sea had done the day before. the boats kept close together, and talk and gay laughter passed back and forth. then jack and his chums, declaring they were going to see how far out toward the sea they could venture with safety, speeded up and left cora and the girls in the _pet_ somewhat behind. but they did not mind--in fact, belle insisted on keeping in safe waters. nor was cora averse to this. the girls had been cruising about for perhaps an hour when eline called: "what is that over there?" she pointed to a dark mass on the surface of the bay. rosalie stood up to look. "it's a lot of spars lashed together," she reported. "a sort of raft. maybe it is from the wrecked vessel." "then if it's a raft there is some one on it!" cried eline. chapter xxiv safe ashore "it's a girl!" it was cora who said this as the motor boat drew close to the floating logs. "a girl!" echoed belle. "yes; can't you see her long hair?" all the girls were standing up--even cora, who had to bend over to maintain her grip on the steering wheel. they all peered anxiously toward the floating object. certainly that was a figure on it--a figure of a girl--sea-drenched and washed over by each succeeding wave. "she's tied fast to that raft!" cried bess. "and her head is up on a sort of box--that keeps her mouth out of the water," added eline. "oh, but she looks----" "don't say it!" commanded cora, sharply, and eline stopped. "oh, if only the boys were here!" breathed bess. "they could help us--help her," and she motioned to the limp figure on the raft. "we don't need the boys!" exclaimed cora, sharply. "we can make the rescue ourselves. that is if----" "don't say it!" commanded eline, thus "getting back" at cora. "oh, do steer over there!" begged bess, as cora did not seem to be bringing the motor boat quickly enough toward the raft of spars. "we must get to her!" "i am going to," answered cora. "oh, do you suppose she can be from the wreck?" asked belle. "i think very likely," spoke cora. "those spars--they are from the ship," declared rosalie. "they are broken pieces of the masts, perhaps. some one must have made a raft before the vessel broke up, and she lashed herself to it. i have often heard my father tell of such things." "oh, do get her, cora!" exclaimed belle, clasping her hands. "don't go too close," warned the lighthouse maid. "some of those spars have jagged ends, and a bump would mean a hole in your boat, miss kimball." "don't, for mercy's sake!" voiced bess, clutching cora's arm. "and don't you do that to my arm or i can't steer," came the retort. "i'll be careful." as the motor boat came nearer the girls could see more plainly the figure on the raft. it was that of a young girl, with light hair, that was now darkened by the sea water. she seemed to have wrapped herself in some blankets, or rugs, tying them about her waist, and then had lashed herself fast to the spars, or some seaman had done it for her. she sat with her head against a box, which seemed to be nailed to the raft, and several turns of rope were passed about this in such a manner as to maintain the girl in a half-reclining position. the waves broke over the lower part of her body, but her head was out of the water, though whether this had been the case when the raft was in the open sea was a question. clearly much water must have washed over the raft, and perhaps the buffeting of the waves had rendered her unconscious. "look out!" warned rosalie, as cora sent the boat in a graceful sweep toward the raft. "don't go any nearer." "but we must save her!" "then let me try. i'll dive overboard and swim to the raft. then i can loosen the ropes and we'll see what can be done toward getting her aboard. but be careful of your boat." it was good advice and cora followed it. rosalie stood on the stern, poised for a moment as cora cut down the speed, and then gracefully dived overboard. up she came, shaking the water from her eyes, and struck out for the raft "she's alive--and--that's all!" called rosalie to the girls in the motor boat, as she bent over the one on the raft. "we must get her to a doctor quick!" "how can we get her into the boat?" asked cora. "i'll loosen the ropes, and then you can come up on this side. the spars are smooth here and your boat won't be damaged!" "poor creature!" murmured belle, as she watched rosalie in her dripping bathing suit bending over the girl on the raft. the ropes were soon loosed, and then, with no small skill, cora brought the _pet_ alongside the raft. it was not an easy matter to get the limp and unconscious figure into the boat, but the girls managed it. "now for shore and the doctor!" cried eline. "here is her valise," called rosalie, casting loose a rope that held a small suit case to the raft. "may as well take that, but i guess the things in it are pretty well soaked. she must have been adrift ever since the wreck went to pieces." she tossed the bag into the boat, and clambered in herself. then cora steered away from the raft, as belle started the motor. they covered the rescued girl with her own wet rugs--it was all they could do. she was breathing--that was all. half an hour later they were safe ashore, and two fishermen on the beach had carried the girl up to the bungalow. a doctor was telephoned for in haste. chapter xxv a surprise "poor, poor girl!" murmured cora. she was bending over the unknown who had been rescued from the raft. the girl lay in a stupor on a couch in the living room, having been made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, the girls having ministered to her with the aid of mrs. chester. "i wonder who she can be?" said belle. "we shall have to interview some of those who were saved from the wreck," spoke bess. "one or two of the women, and two of the men are still here, staying with some of the fishermen, i think." "they might know," remarked eline, "but if we could look at the passenger list that would tell." "where could we get it?" asked cora. "the captain may have saved it, but of course he is gone. perhaps he took it with him." "i'll ask my father," said rosalie. "the captain may have left it, or a copy of it, at the lighthouse. i'll ask daddy." the lighthouse maid had gotten out of her bathing suit on the arrival of the motor boat in the cove, and, in her ordinary attire had come over to the bungalow where the rescued girl was still in a state of unconsciousness. "that will be a good idea," said cora. "i wish you would. but i don't see why that doctor doesn't hurry. perhaps we had better telephone again." "i'll do it," offered belle. "but perhaps we ought to try and revive her ourselves--some ammonia--" and she looked at cora questioningly. "i had rather not," was the answer. "we don't know what injury we might do her. she may have been struck on the head, or something like that. i had rather a doctor would examine her. poor creature. who can she be?" no one could tell. the strange girl was pretty, and her light brown hair, now drying out, clustered around her pale face that looked so much like death that the motor girls were greatly affected by it. "her people must be terribly worried about her," said eline, softly. "just think of it! they will read of the wreck in the newspapers, and see the list of those saved. her name will not be among them, and they will think her drowned." "that is so," agreed cora. "oh, why doesn't that doctor hurry? if we could revive her she would tell her name and we could notify her folks. i've a good notion----" cora started for the telephone just as the bell rang. cora snapped the receiver down from the hook. "yes--yes!" the others heard her say eagerly. "oh, that is too bad! your car has broken down while you were coming here? yes, of course we want you! we have a strange case here. wait! i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll come for you in my own car!" cora turned to her friends. "just think of it!" she cried. "dr. brown's car broke down while he was on his way here. he's over at siconset and i'll go over and get him." "then take our car!" suggested bess. "it's just been filled with oil and gasoline. yours may not have any in." "i will, thank you. you come with me, bess; belle and eline can look after things until we get back. it isn't far." "oh dear!" exclaimed belle. "what--what will i do if she wakes up?" "oh, don't be nervous!" exclaimed cora, vigorously. "if she comes to her senses so much the better. get her something warm to drink. she may be starving." "very likely she is," said mrs. chester. "run along, cora. we'll look after things here. bring the doctor as soon as you can." outside cora found jack and the other boys anxiously waiting news of what was going on. they cried: "who is she?" "has she come to yet?" "how did she happen to be on the raft?" "has she told you her story?" "i can't stop to talk now!" she replied. "i've got to go for the doctor. jack, be a good boy, and run the _flyaway_ out for me. bess and i are going in that for dr. brown. he----" "didn't you telephone for him long ago?" "yes, but his car broke down." "i see. i'll have the flyer here in a minute. don't you want my car? it's lighter." "or mine?" asked norton eagerly, anxious to be of some service. "thank you both--no. bess and i will make out all right. we don't know who the girl is, nor what's the matter. get the car, jack, do." the boys, who had come back from their little trip shortly after the girls had made the strange rescue, talked about the happening, while jack ran the _flyaway_ out from the shed where it was kept with the other cars. soon cora and bess were on their way to pick up the physician. "she must have received a blow on the head. that is the only way i can account for her long stupor. or perhaps she has received some severe mental shock. of course the exposure and the fright of the wreck would add to it." it was dr. brown who spoke this way after examining the girl from the raft. cora and bess had made good time to get the medical man and bring him back to the bungalow. "but she is coming around now," went on the physician. "we will have her opening her eyes in a moment." "perhaps the sight of this may help her when she begins to come to her senses," suggested rosalie, bringing in the suitcase that had been on the raft with the girl. "she seemed to value it very much, to take it with her in the time of the excitement of the wreck," she went on. the bag had been lost sight of in the confusion of bringing the strange girl to the bungalow and in sending for the doctor. in fact, the other girls had almost forgotten that such a thing existed. rosalie now brought it in, sodden and damp from the sea water. she placed it on the floor near the couch on which the girl lay. idly cora glanced at the suitcase. some letters on it caught her eyes. they were partly obliterated, either by abrasion, or the action of the sea water, but cora could see that they formed a name. she leaned forward, and read half aloud: "nancy ford." "girls! girls!" cora exclaimed. "look--we have found her--the missing girl that mrs. raymond wanted so much to find. nancy ford! there she is!" and she pointed to the girl on the couch. "nancy ford!" repeated belle. "who----" "you don't mean to say you don't remember?" cried cora. "the fire in our garage--the strange woman--the story she told--of the robbers--of nancy ford disappearing. there is nancy ford!" "look! her name is on the valise!" cora pointed a slightly-trembling finger at it. "she is our waif from the sea. oh, if she will explain things--if only everything is all right--and we could find mrs. raymond!" "perhaps--perhaps the missing money is in--that bag, girls!" whispered belle. the doctor turned around. "please keep a little quiet," he suggested. "she will revive in a few seconds, and i don't want her to have too much of a shock. she will be all right, i think." "to think that we have found nancy ford!" exclaimed cora in a tense voice, but the room was so silent just then that it sounded louder than it otherwise would have done. "who is calling me?" came suddenly from the girl on the sofa. she sat up, looked around with big, staring eyes, in which the wonder grew as she noted the room and those in it. "who said nancy ford?" she demanded again. "easy, my dear, easy," said dr. brown, softly. "you are with friends and you are all right. drink this," and he held some medicine to her lips. the girl drank unresistingly and then lay back again on the pillows. chapter xxvi the story of nancy ford "when do you think we can talk to her--question her?" asked cora of dr. brown. it was some hours after nancy had regained her senses. she had been fed some nourishing broth, and moved into a spare bedroom, where she was made comfortable. "is it absolutely necessary to question her?" the physician asked in turn. "it seems to be important," returned cora. "if she is really nancy ford a great deal depends on it. she may be able to clear the name of a woman who has suffered much. if we could question her, learn her story, we might be able to help both her and the woman in question, mrs. raymond, who is a sister of mr. haley." "oh, yes, the light keeper. i understood there was some mystery about his sister." "she has disappeared, and is searching for this very girl we rescued from the sea," went on cora. "i do not wish to make her ill, or disturb her, but if we could hear her story we might be able to act." "hum, yes!" mused dr. brown. "well, i think by evening she will be strong enough to talk. i want her to rest now. yes, you may question her then. i shall leave some medicine for her, but principally she needs rest, and light but nourishing food. there is nothing serious the matter with her. she has received no injury that i can find. the shock and the fright caused her to lose her senses--that and being almost starved." "poor girl! out all alone--all night--on the ocean on that raft," remarked cora. "i should have died!" sighed belle. "oh, human nature can stand more than we think," spoke the doctor. "well, i must be going. i don't know how i am to get around without my car." "use mine!" offered jack, quickly. "i shan't need it. the old _get there_ needs running to keep her in good humor." "very well, i will, and thank you." dr. brown looked in on his patient. "she is sleeping," he said. "that is good," murmured cora. "but, oh! i do wish we could hear her story." "the fellows are anxious, too," said jack, he being alone allowed in his sister's bungalow at this time. there was a period of anxious waiting by cora and her friends. rosalie had gone back to the lighthouse to see if there was a duplicate list of the passengers on the wrecked schooner. she had come back to report that her father had none, and did not know where one could be obtained. the few members of the ship's company remaining in the village could throw no light on the waif of the sea who had been so strangely picked up. undoubtedly she was the girl supposed to have been washed overboard. "she is asking for you," reported mrs. chester, coming from the room of the girl that evening after supper. "she wants you, cora." "are you sure she said me, aunt susan?" "yes, she described you. she seems to be worried about something." "i will see her." cora went into the room softly. the girl--nancy ford--to give her the name on her valise, which had not been opened, was propped up amid the pillows. she had some color in her cheeks now, and there was eager excitement in her eyes. "how are you--nancy ford?" greeted cora, pleasantly. "i am not nancy ford--how--how--why do you call me that name?" "it is on your valise." the girl started. "my valise! oh, yes! was that saved? oh, dear, i am so miserable! yes, i am nancy ford. i don't know why i said i was not. but i have been in such trouble--i haven't a friend in the world, and--and----" she burst into tears. instantly cora was beside her, putting her arms around the frail figure in the bed. "i am your friend," said cora, softly. "you may trust me--trust all of us. we are so glad we found you. mrs. raymond will be glad, also." "mrs. raymond!" it was a startled cry. "yes." "why--why, isn't she still in the office? when--when i ran away she was there, and, oh! i didn't dare go back. i--i was so afraid of those men. one of them----" "wait, my dear," said cora, gently. "perhaps it will be too much for you to talk now." "no, that is why i sent for you. i wanted to tell you all. at first i decided that i would say nothing, but you have been so kind that i decided i must. oh, that dreadful wreck! i shall never forget it. poor mrs. raymond! and she is gone?" "yes, and we do not know where. suppose i tell you how i came to meet her, and what happened?" "then i can tell you my story," answered nancy. "please do." "first drink this," and cora gave some of the medicine that had been left by the doctor. as briefly as she could cora related the incident of the fire, and story told by mrs. raymond. "that is just how it happened," said nancy, with a sigh. "oh, i little thought when i ran out of the office that i would cause such suffering to an innocent woman." "then she is innocent?" asked cora, eagerly. "of course she is!" "oh, i am so glad! i thought she was all the while. now, dear, if it won't tire you too much, please tell me as much as you wish to. then i will let the other girls know." "well, i am nancy ford. i am sorry i denied it, but----" "that's all right, my dear. i understand." nancy struggled with her emotion for a moment, and resumed slowly, with frequent pauses to compose herself. "my parents died some time ago, and left considerable property to me," said nancy. "not a big fortune, of course, but enough so that i had to have a guardian appointed by the court. and that made all the trouble. at first mr. rickford cross, my guardian, was very nice. he helped me by advice, and suggested that i go to a boarding school. "i did so, and spent some years there. then, as the securities papa had left me increased in value, i began to think that perhaps i ought to know more about my own affairs, and not leave everything to my guardian. so, without consulting him, i left the boarding school, and went to a business college. he did not find it out for some time, as he was abroad. "perhaps i did wrong, but i wanted to know how to attend to my business when i had to. oh, but mr. cross was very angry when he found it out. he wanted me to go back to boarding school, but i refused. i said i wanted some practical experience in an office, and, after some argument, he consented, and got me in the place where mrs. raymond worked. i liked her very much. "i think my guardian must have had some business dealings with the man who ran the office. they were often together and finally i began to suspect that all was not right. i think mrs. raymond did also. "then my guardian and mr. hopwood, the man i worked for, had a violent quarrel. my guardian threatened to take me out of the place, and send me back to boarding school, for he was angry at me because i would not give him certain papers from my employer's desk. "then my guardian insisted that i come to live with him and his wife. i did not want to, for i did not like either of them. but they made me go, and oh, the life i led!" "it must have been hard," said cora. "it was, dreadfully so. i was virtually a prisoner. finally i decided to run away, and do anything rather than submit to my guardian. i hated and feared him. i got together what money i could, and it was a good sum, for my quarterly allowance had just been paid. usually after i got it my guardian would take it away from me and dole out small sums. but this time he had no chance. "so i ran away! it was hard to do, but it was harder to stay. i left the house one morning, taking my suitcase with me. i stopped in the office, intending to say good-bye to mrs. raymond, and when i had been there a little while my guardian suddenly came in with another man. i did not know him, but i feared my guardian had come to take me back. i screamed and ran out in fright before they could detain me. i have never been back, so of course i don't know what happened to poor mrs. raymond. i did not tell her my story, and she did not know that the man i so feared and ran away from was my guardian. oh, i didn't know what to do!" "of course not," agreed cora, soothingly. "i can piece the story together now. "after you left mrs. raymond either fainted, or was made unconscious by one of the two men--your guardian or the other. she doesn't quite know what happened except that when she came to her senses you were gone, the money was missing and the men had vanished. she told all she knew, but her story was not believed, and her employer suspected her of taking the money. in great distress she hurried away, and, after some happenings she was found in our burning garage. i did not have a chance to ask all the particulars. but she did so want to find you, to know why you ran away, and who the men were you seemed to fear. she may still be searching for you." "but i don't want to meet her!" cried nancy. "why not?" "she may--she may be in league with my guardian." "no, indeed--impossible!" cried cora. "we will see that you are fully protected. i will communicate with my mother's lawyer at once, if you will allow me. there is such a thing as having a guardian removed, you know. the courts will protect you." "and oh, i do seem to need protection!" sighed nancy. "you poor girl!" and again cora's arms went around her. "i will telegraph mother at once. we will have the lawyer come here!" "oh, can you do that?" "certainly i will, my dear. you need a new guardian most of all." "oh, if i may only have one. then i will be happy again. and i can clear the name of mrs. raymond, for i am sure either my guardian, or the other man, took that money." "they must have. but you have not told how you came to be in the wreck." "oh, that was a mere accident. after i ran away i went from place to place, fearing my guardian might trace me, for i am sure his object was to get all my property into his hands. i heard of this sailing voyage, and i put my name down in the passenger list. i thought a sea trip would do me good, for i love the water. then came the terrible storm--and they said the ship was sinking. some of the sailors made a raft, but did not launch it. "i was afraid to go in the boats, and more afraid of being pulled in on the rope. so i got a little food together, took my suitcase, and tied myself to the raft. i knew it would float, and i hoped to be picked up. then the storm grew worse. the vessel was all in confusion, for the rescue was going on. no one noticed me. then the ship went to pieces, and i lost my senses. the raft must have launched itself, and i floated on it. that is all i know until i found myself here. oh, i can never thank you enough for all you did!" "it was nothing," said cora. "if we could only find mrs. raymond now we could complete the story; and she will be so glad to know that you can clear her name." "oh, but i shudder when i think i have to meet my guardian to do it." "you will not have to," promised cora. "i will see to that, nancy dear!" "you are too good!" "nonsense. anyone would be good to you after all you have suffered. now rest, dearie, and i will tell the others all about you." "they won't blame me; will they?" "indeed not! they are all so interested in you, even the boys." "have you boys here?" "yes, my brother and his chums. i will tell you about them later. you will like them, i think." "i am sure i shall. oh, but it is such a relief to tell this to you!" "i am glad it was, my dear. now rest. i am sure you must be tired. the doctor will be here this evening." chapter xxvii a bold attempt "isn't it romantic?" "and to think of all that poor girl suffered!" "i'd like to get hold of that miserable guardian of hers." "she has pluck, all right, to get out and hustle for herself." "isn't she pretty!" "i do hope she gets all over her exposure." "oh, yes, she is coming on finely." rather disjointed talk, i am afraid, but that is exactly the way it went on--the motor girls and the boys discussing the story of nancy ford. it was evening, and the boys had called to see the girls in the bungalow of the latter. nancy had been visited by the doctor, who had reported her much improved. the telling of her story seemed to have taken an anxiety off her mind, and with food and medicine she was rapidly regaining her healthy young strength. there had been rather a dramatic scene when jack and ed were first allowed to see nancy. they both started back, and jack exclaimed: "it's the girl!" "and you are those nice boys--how odd," nancy had said. "please explain," begged cora. "you know," said jack. "the night ed and i got lost. it was nancy we met and gave a ride in my auto." "i suspected it all the while," said cora, with a smile. "but i said nothing." "it was a mere accident," explained nancy. "i was just on one of the little trips i took after i ran away from the office, and i miscalculated my distance. it was awfully nice of your brother to help me." "oh, jack is always nice," said cora, smiling. "that means you buy the candy, old man," spoke ed, with a laugh. "well," drawled jack, as he stretched out lazily on a sofa, later on, "now the only thing left to do is to find that mrs. raymond, and everything will be cleared up." "that, and putting that mean mr. cross in--in jail!" said bess, with a vehement gesture. "would you be so cruel?" asked walter. "what else can you do with him?" demanded belle. "he has certainly been mean enough to warrant being sent to prison." "'in a prison cell i sit!'" chanted ed. "stop!" commanded cora. "nancy may be sleeping, and the doctor said it was very important for her to sleep." "then we'd better clear out of here," was norton's opinion. "she'll never get any rest while this crowd holds forth. come on, eline, i'll take you to a moving picture show." "not after what has happened to-day," declared mrs. chester. "you young people have had your own way all day, and now i want you to quiet down. boys, you will have to go home soon. girls, it's almost time you were in bed." "aunt susan is asserting herself," remarked jack, _sotto voce_. "but don't count on me, aunt susan. i am immune." "you'll go with the rest," she told him. they sat about for some time longer, discussing the strange tale related by nancy. then came good-nights. cora went to see mr. haley, the light keeper, next day. she told him what nancy had related. "lobsters and crawfish!" he exclaimed, clapping together his brown hands. "begging your pardon, of course, for using that sort of language, miss, but my feelings sure did get the best of me. and so this nancy ford can clear my sister's name?" "she can and she will. i have wired for mamma's lawyer to come down, and he will arrange matters. there is only one difficulty." "what is that?" and the keeper of the light looked worried. "you mean that there is a possibility that my sister may even yet be guilty?" "no; but where are we to find her?" "that's so. poor margaret! where can she be keeping herself? if she would only come to me--or write, i could let her know that it was all right. and so those men were the robbers, after all?" "it seems so, from what nancy says." "strange. i knew margaret could not be guilty, but how to prove it was the hard part. when can we arrange it?" "as soon as we can find your sister." "oh, dear! and i haven't the least idea where to look for her." "don't worry," suggested cora, gently. "we found our waif from the sea most unexpectedly, and i am sure we will find your sister the same way." "not in a wreck, i hope," said the light keeper, with a smile. "we don't want any more wrecks on this coast. which reminds me that i must see to the light." "it was no fault of your light that this wreck came," said cora. "everybody says that." "i'm glad of it. if i had thought that my light failed, i--i'd never want to live longer," and his voice trembled. "the steering gear got out of order," said cora. "nancy told me that. they could not control the vessel in the storm." "that's always bad. well, if we can find my sister all will yet be well. i can't thank you enough for bringing me this good news." "i am glad i had it to bring," said cora, brightly. nancy ford continued to gain in strength, and the day came when she could go out. there was a little celebration and the boys wanted to get up an auto or a motor boat party, but cora drew the line. "some other time," she said. her mother's lawyer came to sandy point cove, and looked over some papers that nancy had brought away with her. his opinion was that the dishonest guardian could be removed by the court, and he promised to take charge of matters. nancy was much relieved. "but where can we find mrs. raymond?" she asked. "it will take time," said the lawyer. "i will set some private detectives to work, and advertise, advising her that she can be proven innocent if she will come forward." then came happy summer days. nancy was adopted by the motor girls, and stayed with them in the bungalow. they went on long runs, or in trips in the boats on the beautiful bay. they were always welcome at the lighthouse, and mr. haley liked nothing better than to sit and talk with the boys and girls, telling them sea stories, or listening to their little adventures. but the search for mrs. raymond did not progress very rapidly. nothing was heard from her. in the matter of removing mr. cross as nancy's guardian, the procedure had to be slow, as there were complications. but the lawyer was attending to matters, and promised that soon all would be straightened out. by means of his representatives the lawyer, a mr. beacon, heard indirectly from mr. cross, but could not capture him. the latter was furious at the escapade of his ward, and threatened to have her brought back to him. in the matter of the robbery he insisted that mrs. raymond was guilty. it was one glorious summer day when cora had taken the whole party out for a spin. in her auto were eline and nancy, the others distributing themselves in the various cars as suited their fancy. several times, as they motored along the roads, they were passed, or passed themselves, a low, rakish motor car, of a dull dust color. two men were in it, and once or twice they favored the occupants of cora's car with rather bold stares. "i wonder who they can be?" asked eline. "well, if they keep up this monkey business much longer i'll find out," declared jack. "go easy, please," suggested his sister. the only incident, or, rather, accident that marred the trip, was when cora's car suffered a puncture. it was on the run home. "you go on," she called to the others. "i can fix it." "no, i'll do it," offered jack. perhaps the presence of nancy in the car induced him to linger, together with ed, who rode with him. "all right," assented cora, not sorry to be relieved of the task. as jack was struggling with the tire irons, the rubber shoe being a most obstinate one, the low racing car that had several times passed them, again hove in sight. cora was helping jack, and eline and nancy had strolled down the road to gather a few wild flowers. the racing car stopped, one of the men leaped out, and made a dash toward the two girls. eline, looking around, screamed, and nancy, hearing her, added to the exclamation. "my guardian! my guardian!" she cried. "i won't go--i won't go!" "quick, jack!" cried cora. "they're trying to take nancy away. you must stop them!" jack, holding a heavy tire iron in his hand, leaped forward toward the two girls. the man had almost reached them, when there was heard the loud honk of an auto horn coming around the bend of the road. chapter xxviii a strange message nancy and eline clung to each other. nancy had started to run off into the woods, but found herself unequal to the task. a nervous tremor seized her. "oh, eline, eline!" she begged. "don't let him take me away! don't!" but nancy's guardian was not destined to get her into his control this time. no sooner had the honk-honk of the other car been heard and it had swung into sight around the bend of the road, than the man in the other auto--the man who had accompanied mr. cross--called out: "look out, rickford, this may be a trap!" "you'd better believe it's something to stop you!" cried jack, still swinging forward on the run. cora, too, had started toward eline and nancy. she saw that the big car probably had nothing to do with the attempted abduction of the shipwrecked girl, and that it was only coincidence that brought it there at that moment. but it was a fortunate coincidence, for it frightened away the two men. like a flash mr. cross turned, sped back to his car, and in another instant he and his crony were speeding down the road. "oh, he's gone--he's gone," sobbed nancy on the shoulder of eline. "of course he's gone!" cried jack. "if he hadn't--" and he glanced significantly at the tire iron in his hand. "jack, dear," said cora, gently, with a warning glance at nancy. cora did not want her disturbed any more than was necessary. "well--" blustered jack, and let it go at that. "was that really your guardian, nancy?" asked cora, when her new friend had somewhat composed herself. "yes, it was. oh, has he gone?" "far enough off by this time," declared jack. "i didn't know him at first, for he has grown a beard," said nancy, "but when he came toward me i could tell by the look in his eyes that it was he. oh, what an escape!" "a very fortunate one," said cora. the big car, the appearance of which had been instrumental, perhaps, in preventing the taking away of nancy, drew near to the group of young people and stopped. there were two middle-aged men in it, and they looked at our friends curiously. "has anything happened--can we do anything?" asked the one at the wheel. "nothing but some tire trouble, thank you," said cora, quickly. "and my brother can manage that; can't you, jack?" "sure, sis," and he winked at her to show that he understood nothing was to be said about the affair that had so nearly been a real "happening." "if you want any help, don't hesitate to ask us," put in the other man. "we are in no hurry." "oh, thank you, i can manage," jack answered. "i had the repairs almost made when the girls--thought they saw something, and screamed." he winked at cora again. "oh, i see!" exclaimed the steersman with a laugh. "a snake. we heard your screams, and thought perhaps----" "it was just--nothing," cora said with a smile. eline and nancy had turned and were walking back toward their car, so the tear-stained face of nancy could not be observed. with renewed offers of aid, which were courteously declined, the two men proceeded, and cora and the others were free to discuss the recent happening. "do you really think he meant to take you away--your guardian?" asked cora of nancy. "i really do. oh, he must be desperate! he must be trying to get my property away from me." "we'll soon have him attended to!" said jack, fiercely. "our lawyer says the case will come before the courts soon, and then good-bye to mr. cross!" "i wonder how he knew where you were?" asked eline. "you forget that the rescue of nancy was told of in the papers," spoke cora. "doubtless he read of it, and came on. he, or some of his men, may have been spying around and knew just when we went for a ride." "and they followed us, that's one sure thing," added jack. "their car passed us several times. they were just waiting for a good chance, and they took the first opportunity." "i should have known him at once, when they passed, but for his beard," said nancy. "oh, i feel so nervous and weak!" she was on the verge of tears again. "come, we will go back to the bungalow," suggested cora. "i must tell the lawyer about it. he may wish to take some action." a little later they were back in the summer cottage, where, to the wonderment of the others, the strange story was told with all the details, for when cora's car developed the tire trouble the rest had continued on, jack and ed remaining behind. "oh, i'm glad i was not along!" breathed belle. "and i wish i had been!" exclaimed walter. "jack, you and ed had all the fun." "i didn't do anything," said ed. "jack was the hero." "only a near-hero," said cora's brother. "i didn't get near enough to do any damage." mr. beacon, the lawyer, on hearing the account of what had happened, at once took steps to expedite the matter of the removal of mr. cross as guardian of nancy ford. he declared that the attempted abduction would operate against the unprincipled man. the matter of the loss of the money, for which mrs. raymond was once suspected, had been gone into, and the indications pointed in many ways to mr. cross and his crony. "but it doesn't seem as if mrs. raymond would ever be found," sighed cora. "poor woman!" "yes, my sister must be having a hard time," said the keeper of the light. "i wish she would come to me. i could give her a good home now. the work is almost too much for rosalie." "oh, i don't mind, daddy!" exclaimed the little "mermaid." summer was wearing on. it had been a most glorious one and the bungalow residents had enjoyed it thoroughly. they went off on several motoring trips, but they were careful always to remain in one party, and even then nancy could not forbear a nervous glance about whenever another auto approached. but mr. cross appeared to have taken himself to parts unknown. private detectives who were looking for him, on an order of the court to which mr. beacon had appealed, reported that they could get no trace of him. nor was the whereabouts of the missing mrs. raymond discovered. in their two motor boats the young people paid visits to many near-by resorts, occasionally, when the weather was fine, even venturing out on the ocean. but, save for cora, the girls were always a little timid about this, and so the ocean trips were not numerous. one day mr. haley came hurrying over to the girls' bungalow from the lighthouse. he held a paper in his hand. "where is miss kimball?" he asked of belle, who answered his knock. "i must see her at once." "why, has anything happened?" belle asked in sudden alarm. she looked down on the beach, and was relieved to see nancy safe there. "no, miss, nothing has happened--yet," replied the keeper. "but i received a strange message just now, and i want to tell miss kimball." "cora!" called belle, and cora, who had been in an inner room, came out. "what is it?" she asked, and mr. haley handed her the piece of paper. "i just found that on my doorstep," he explained. "i was home all alone, my helper being in town buying supplies, and rosalie and dick being out in the boat. read it." "but how did it get there?" asked cora, as she stepped over to a window to see more plainly. "i don't know, except some boy must have brought it there, left it and run away. it was weighted with a stone." "then that's probably how it was left," suggested belle. "but what is so mysterious about it what does it say, cora?" cora read: "if you would have news of your sister come alone to shark's tooth at nine to-night." chapter xxix at the shark's tooth "what a strange note!" "isn't it? and the odd way it was delivered!" "what is the shark's tooth, mr. haley?" the boys and girls were all together in the bungalow of the latter--or, rather, were out on the broad porch, for, following the visit of the light keeper, with the strange letter, they had gathered to discuss the matter. "the shark's tooth," said mr. haley, "is a long, low ledge of rock, jutting out in the water about a mile above the light. it looks somewhat like a big tooth--the end of it does, i mean." "will you go there?" asked jack. "i sure will, my boy." "maybe it's a trap," suggested ed. "this fellow cross may be trying to get hold of you, mr. haley." "i'm not afraid of him. i think i'll be his match," and certainly the sturdy keeper looked able to take care of himself. "but he may not be alone," suggested walter. "however, we could go with you," he added hopefully. "the note says to come alone, my lad, and alone i'll go. i'd do more than that to get news of poor margaret. i'm not afraid." "you boys might be within call," suggested cora. "you need not be seen." "well, i'd consent to that," agreed mr. haley. "and it might be a good thing. and yet, somehow, i'm not worried." "this is certainly a trap!" declared norton. "they want you to go there, a lonely spot--after dark. probably they'll take you off in a boat! ha! i have it! wreckers!" and he struck a dramatic posture. "wreckers?" questioned jack. "yes, don't you see. they want to get mr. haley in their control. then they'll carry him off, some of them will put out the light and lure vessels ashore by means of a false beacon. then they'll get the booty!" "say, what sort of a dime novel have you been reading lately?" asked ed, with a laugh. "wreckers!" "sure!" maintained norton, earnestly. "no, lad," said mr. haley, quietly, "it isn't wreckers, for the light would be well defended by my helper, even if they got me. besides it's dead low water at nine to-night, and they couldn't get a boat within a mile of the shark's tooth without staving a hole in her. the only approach is from the beach. i'm not afraid." "besides," added cora, "this note was written by a woman. that's plain." "a trick!" declared norton, who seemed to insist on the melodramatic theory. "is this like your sister's writing?" asked belle. "i really couldn't be sure. margaret was never much of a writer, and i can hardly see to read print, let alone writing, even with my glasses. so i couldn't say as to that. however, i'll be there." "and so will we," added jack, "out if sight, of course." "this is getting more and more complicated," declared bess. "oh, i do hope it won't turn out to be that horrid mr. cross, or any of his men." "hush!" said cora, in a low voice. "don't make nancy nervous. she is alarmed enough now." it seemed as if night would never come, and the boys and girls hardly had the heart for amusements to make the time pass more quickly. they remained near the bungalows, going in bathing when the tide was right. belle was learning to swim with considerable confidence. "you are getting quite brave," cora told her when she had gone out to the float and back all alone. eline, who was rather daring in spite of her timid manner, made a half-suggestion that the girls go out in autos to see what happened at shark's tooth, but mrs. chester, exercising her authority, vetoed the scheme. mr. haley started off alone, and was followed later by the boys, who arranged to conceal themselves where they could have a view of the ledge of rock that was uncovered at low water. there was a half-moon that night and by the light of it jack and his chums could see the long, black ledge extending out into the bay. they had a glimpse of mr. haley walking slowly up and down the beach, now and then looking at his watch to note the time. jack and the others did likewise. "it's nine now," whispered walter, after a long--a seemingly long--wait, though it was really only a few minutes. "and nothing seems to be happening," remarked jack. "look!" suddenly exclaimed ed, pointing to the sandy stretch. a dark figure was seen gliding over it--a figure of a woman--alone! the light keeper heard the approaching footsteps, and turned quickly. he stood for a moment the woman had halted. then mr. haley cried: "margaret!" "jim!" she responded, and they clasped each other close. "i guess it's all right--they don't need us," whispered jack. "it's his sister. she wrote the note. it's all right, we'll go tell the girls the mystery is solved and the missing one found." "that's right," was the answer. "say, this is great, isn't it?" "it sure is." "now that they are together----" "come on, they may hear us." "all right, i'm with you." but, as they started away, mr. haley called to them: "boys, come here. i want----" "no, no, jim dear! don't call anyone!" interrupted mrs. raymond. "i dare not be seen. you don't know the stigma i am under. i even hesitated to come and see you in this secret way, but i am in need of help. it was the only way i could think of. i am so--so afraid of arrest." "well, you needn't be!" cried her brother. "we can prove your innocence!" "prove my innocence! how? only nancy ford can do that, and she can't be found, i have been searching for her so long--so long!" her sobs prevented her from talking. "but nancy ford is found!" cried the keeper of the light, "and the boys i called to--or rather their girl friends--found her. it's all right, margaret. your name will be cleared, and you will be happy with me. it's all right, sister!" "oh, thank the dear lord for that!" she sobbed. chapter xxx happy days the sun was shining on a shimmering sea. little waves were breaking on the white sands. the gulls were wheeling about in big circles. gathered in the old-fashioned living room of the lighthouse were the motor girls, and two other girls, rosalie and nancy ford. also the boys were there, mrs. raymond, her brother, and mr. beacon, the kimballs' lawyer. he had just concluded some remarks. it was the day after the strange night scene at the shark's tooth. "and to think how it all came about," spoke cora. "it is like a play, or a book." "it fits together like one of those chinese puzzles," remarked jack. "at first it seems as if it never will, but one little touch, and--there you are!" "and it was cora who supplied the one little touch," said belle. "oh, i didn't do it all," remonstrated cora. "well, your finding mrs. raymond in the burning garage started the whole affair," insisted ed. "but for that we never would have known of nancy ford, nor how important she was in this puzzle." "i don't want to be important," answered nancy, with a smile. "i just want to go off somewhere quietly." "and you may," spoke mr. beacon, the lawyer, with a smile. "the court proceedings will not take long, now that your guardian is arrested. the judge will require no further proof than his commission of the crime to remove him from having charge of you and your property, and some one else will be named in his place." "i wish the judge would name you!" exclaimed nancy impulsively. "thank you!" laughed mr. beacon. mrs. raymond had told her story. on up to the time she had fled from the office, when the two men came in, and her wanderings until she went into the kimball garage, my readers need no enlightenment. after leaving cora's house so suddenly, for fear she might be suspected of having accidentally set the fire, the poor woman wandered from place to place, vainly seeking nancy ford. it was mrs. raymond whom the sheep herder had met that night when he spoke kindly to her. after that she kept moving about, getting work in various offices, for she was an expert in her line. but she could not find nancy, for reasons very well known to my readers. "and oh, how kind one of you girls was to me!" exclaimed mrs. raymond. "your money saved my life i believe," and she held out the little silver purse. finally, she explained, matters reached a point where she could get no more work, and she had to appeal to her brother. she had refrained from doing that fearing she might be traced through him, for she still feared she would be arrested for the crime she had never committed. but, growing desperate, she made the night appointment with her brother, hiring a boy to leave the note at the lighthouse, intending to explain matters to mr. haley, get some money, and go away again. but it all ended happily. "and so they caught cross?" remarked jack. "yes," said the lawyer, "one of the private detectives got a clue and followed it up. they got his crony, too, the other man who came in the office when you ran out, nancy. and they both confessed, after pressure was brought to bear on them. it is not the first crime cross has been guilty of. he has a bad record, i am told. i learned of his arrest after i started here this morning, following your telegram," he said to cora, for, on learning of the arrival of mrs. raymond, cora had wired to her mother's lawyer to come in haste. "then my name is cleared?" asked mrs. raymond. "absolutely," answered mr. beacon. "you will not even have to appear in court." "i wish _i_ didn't have to," said nancy, nervously. "i can arrange to have a private hearing," went on the lawyer. "it will be no ordeal at all." nor did nancy find it so. a kindly judge in his chambers, several days later, listened to the story, and named mr. beacon as guardian of nancy ford, whose property was, in the main, saved from the clutches of mr. cross. he had embezzled some of it, and that crime, with others, brought him severe punishment. as for mrs. raymond, she went to live with her brother in the lighthouse. "and now for some good times!" exclaimed cora when all the legal matters had been attended to. "we have had enough of mystery and wonderings. you can spend the rest of the summer here with us; can't you, nancy?" "if you want me, and have room." "of course we want you!" cried jack. "remember you promised to ride in my car when we go over to stony beach to-morrow." "i asked her first!" cried norton. "but she promised me," cut in walter. "oh, what boys!" protested the blushing nancy. "don't mind them," suggested cora, putting her arms around her new friend. "you'll soon get used to them." "i think i can get used to almost _anything_--after that shipwreck," said nancy, with a smile. "well, i like _that_!" cried jack. "comparing us to a shipwreck! come on, fellows, let's go fishing. the tide is right for crabbing, too," and they went out, leaving the girls to themselves. "in spite of everything--the fire, the shipwreck and the many wonderings it has been a wonderful summer," said cora softly, as they sat on the broad porch. "and i wonder what the winter will bring forth--and next summer?" remarked belle. but the further adventures of the little band of friends must be reserved for another volume, which will be entitled "the motor girls on crystal bay; or, the secret of the red oar." the summer vacation was almost at an end. there was one last motor boat trip, and then the _duck_ was returned to its owner, and the _pet_ again made ready for the land journey back to chelton. "good-bye, bungalows, good-bye!" recited cora on the day of their departure, as she got into her big maroon car. "good-bye, my lighthouse, good-bye!" sang bess. "and don't forget to write to us, little mermaid," called jack to rosalie. blushingly she promised. "what will nancy say?" asked eline. "oh, nancy is coming to our house to stay--she won't have to write," said the bold jack. there were more good-byes, to the light keeper and his sister, to many fishermen and life-savers, whose friendship the boys and girls had made, and then the autos started off on the long trip to chelton. gaily fluttered in the wind the flags they bore, the sea smiled under the yellow sun at the motor girls, seeming to beckon them to return, but they could not. and so, for a time, we will also say good-bye. the end peggy stewart series by gabrielle e. jackson peggy stewart at home peggy stewart at school peggy, polly, rosalie, marjorie, natalie, isabel, stella and juno--girls all of high spirits make this peggy stewart series one of entrancing interest. their friendship, formed in a fashionable eastern school, they spend happy years crowded with gay social affairs. the background for these delightful stories is furnished by annapolis with its naval academy and an aristocratic southern estate. the goldsmith publishing co. cleveland, o. bosom friends a seaside story [illustration: the namesakes (page ).] by angela brazil bosom friends a seaside story thomas nelson and sons, ltd. london, edinburgh, and new york printed in great britain at the press of the publishers. _contents._ i. fellow-travellers ii. mrs. stewart's letter iii. a meeting on the sands iv. the sea urchins' club v. a hot friendship vi. on the cliffs vii. the "stormy petrel" viii. cross-purposes ix. silversands tower x. wild maidenhair xi. the island xii. a first quarrel xiii. reading the runes xiv. a wet day xv. tea with mr. binks xvi. belle's new friend xvii. the chase xviii. good-bye bosom friends. chapter i. fellow-travellers. "say, is it fate that has flung us together, we who from life's varied pathways thus meet?" it was a broiling day at the end of july, and the railway station at tiverton junction was crowded with passengers. porters wheeling great truckfuls of luggage strove to force a way along the thronged platform, anxious mothers held restless children firmly by the hand, harassed fathers sought to pack their families into already overflowing compartments, excited cyclists were endeavouring to disentangle their machines from among the piles of boxes and portmanteaus, a circus and a theatrical company were loud in their lamentations for certain reserved corridor carriages which had not arrived, while a patient band of sunday-school teachers was struggling to keep together a large party of slum children bound for a sea-side camp. the noise was almost unbearable. the ceaseless whistling of the engines, the shouts of the porters, the banging of carriage doors, the eager inquiries of countless perplexed passengers, made a combination calculated to give a headache to the owner of the stoutest nerves, and to drive timid travellers to distraction. all the world seemed off for its holiday, and the bustle and confusion of its departure was nearly enough to make some sober-minded parents wish they had stayed at home. leaning up against the bookstall in a corner out of reach of the stream of traffic, clutching a basket in one hand and a hold-all full of wraps and umbrellas in the other, stood a small girl of about ten or eleven years of age, her gaze fixed anxiously upon the great clock on the platform opposite. she was a pretty child, with a sweet, thoughtful little face, clear gray eyes, and straight fair hair, which fell over her shoulders without the least attempt at wave or curl. she was very simply and plainly dressed--her sailor suit had been many times to the laundry, the straw hat was decidedly sunburnt, and her boots had evidently seen good service; but there was about her an indescribable air of refinement and good breeding--that intangible something which stamps those trained from their babyhood in gentle ways--which set her apart at once from the crowds of cheap trippers that thronged the station. from the eager glances she cast up and down the platform she appeared to be waiting for somebody, and she tried to beguile the time by watching the surging mass of tourists who hurried past her in a ceaseless stream. she had listened while the circus manager button-holed the superintendent and excitedly proclaimed his woes; she had held her breath with interest when the slum babies, with their buns and brown-paper parcels, were successfully bundled into the compartments reserved for them, and had craned her neck to catch a last glimpse as they steamed slowly out of the station, their small faces filling the windows like groups of cherubs, and their shrill little voices over-topping all the other noise and din as they joined lustily in the chorus of a hymn. she had witnessed the struggles of several family parties to secure seats, the altercation between the young man with the st. bernard dog and the guard who refused to allow it in the carriage, the wrath of the gentleman whose fishing-rod was broken, the grief of the lady whose golf-clubs were missing, and the despair of the young couple whose baby had gone on in the train; then, growing rather weary of the ever-moving throng, she turned her eyes to the bookstall, and tried to amuse herself with admiring the large coloured supplements which adorned the back, or reading the names of the rows of attractive books and periodicals which were spread forth in tempting array. she was fumbling in her pocket, and wondering whether she would spend a certain cherished penny on an illustrated paper, or keep it for a more urgent occasion, when her attention was aroused by a pair of fellow-travellers who strolled in a leisurely fashion up to the bookstall, and, standing close beside her, began to turn over some of the various magazines and journals. they were a tall, fashionably-dressed lady, carrying a tiny white lap-dog under her arm, and a little girl of about her own age, a child who appeared so charmingly pretty to isobel's eyes that she could not help gazing at her in scarcely-concealed admiration. an older and more practised observer would have noticed that the newcomer's face lacked character, and that her claims to beauty lay mostly in her dainty pink-and-white colouring and her curling flaxen hair, and would have decided, moreover, that the elaborately-made white japanese silk dress, the pale-blue drawn chiffon hat with its garland of flowers, the tall white french kid boots, the tiny gold bangles and the jewelled locket seemed more suitable for a garden party or a walk on the promenade than for the dust and dirt of a crowded railway journey. to isobel, however, she appeared like an enchanted princess in a fairy story, and she looked on with thrilling interest while the attractive stranger made her choice among the supply of literature provided for the wants of the travelling public. she seemed somewhat difficult to satisfy, for she threw down one magazine after another in a rather disdainful fashion, declaring that none of them looked worth reading, and, calling to the assistant, bade him show her some story-books. a goodly pile of these was handed down for her inspection, and isobel, who stood almost at her elbow, could see over her shoulder as she turned the pages. so endless was the variety of delightful tales and illustrations, from legends of king arthur or the red cross knight to middle age mysteries or modern adventures and school scrapes, that it should not have been hard to find something to suit any taste, and the little girl in the sailor hat looked on so fascinated with the snatches she was able to read that she did not notice when a sweet-faced lady in black came hurrying up, until the latter touched her on the arm. "why, mother dear--at last!" "did you think i was lost, darling? i had such terrible difficulty to get a porter, and the brown box had been put in the wrong van, and has gone on to whitecastle. i was obliged to telegraph about it, but i hope we may get it this evening. come along! that's our train over there. we've only just nice time, for it will start in a few minutes now. give me the wraps." she took the hold-all from the child's hand, and the two hurried across the bridge on to the opposite platform. "here's our porter!" cried mrs. stewart.--"have you put all in the van? yes, these things in the carriage, please. third class. it seems almost impossible to find a seat. is there room here? how fortunate!--come, isobel; get in quickly." "plenty o' room here, marm," shouted a stout, gray-haired, farmer-like old man, as he reached out a strong hand to help her into the carriage, and found a place for her wraps upon the already crowded rack. the compartment was more than half full. a party of cheap trippers with a wailing baby, and a "pierrot" with a banjo, which he occupied himself with tuning incessantly, did not offer much prospect of a peaceful journey; but mrs. stewart knew it was impossible to choose one's company at a holiday season, and wisely made the best of things, while travelling was still such a novelty to isobel that she would have enjoyed any experience. "it's no easy job catchin' trains to-day, marm," said the old farmer, with the air of one who enjoys hearing himself talk. "how them porters gets all the folks sorted out fairly beats me. it's main hot, too. i've come all the way fra' birmingham. bin travellin' since eight o'clock this mornin', and i shall be reet glad to find myself back at silversands again. little missy 'ud like to sit by the window here, i take it?" good-naturedly making room for her.--"nay, no need o' thanks! you're welcome, honey. i've a grandchild over at skegness way as might be your livin' image. bless you! i've reared seven, and i know what bairns like. sit you here against me, and when the train gets out of the station you'll see the sea and all the ships sailin' on it." isobel settled herself in the corner with much content. she had never expected such luck as to secure a window-seat, and she surveyed the ruddy cheeks and bushy eyebrows of her kindly fellow-traveller with a broad smile of gratitude. "goin' to silversands, missy?" he inquired. "ay, it's a grand place, and i should ought to know, for i've lived there, man and boy, for a matter of sixty year. where might you be a-stayin', if i may make so bold? mrs. jackson! why, she's an old friend o' mine, and will make you comfortable, if any one can. you ask her if she knows mr. binks of the white coppice. i reckon she won't deny the acquaintance." "tickets ready!" cried the inspector, breaking in upon the conversation. "take your seats, please! all stations to groby, heatherton, silversands, and ferndale." there was a last stampede for places among excited passengers, a last rush of porters with rugs and hat boxes; the guard had already unfurled his green flag, and was in the act of putting the whistle to his lips, when two late-comers appeared, racing in frantic haste down the platform. "o mother!" cried isobel, "that lady and the little girl are going to be left behind! it's the little girl in the blue hat, too! they were buying papers at the bookstall. just look how they're running! oh, the guard's stopping the train for them! i think they'll catch it, after all. why, they're coming in here!" "put us in anywhere--anywhere!" cried the lady in desperate tones, as the inspector flung open the carriage door. "here you are, m'm!" cried the porter, seizing the little girl with scant ceremony, and jumping her into the compartment.--"luggage in the front van, and the light hampers in no. . thank you, m'm.--stand back there!" he pocketed his tip, banged the door violently, nearly catching isobel's fingers thereby, the whistle sounded, and the train started off with a jerk that almost threw the newcomers on to the lap of old mr. binks, who had watched their sudden arrival with open-mouthed interest. the lady apologized prettily, and finding room between the pierrot and a market-woman with several large baskets, she sank down on the seat with a sigh of relief, and taking a smelling-bottle and a large black fan from her dressing-bag, leaned back with an air of utter exhaustion. "mother! mother!" cried the little girl. "do you see they've put us into a third-class carriage?" "never mind, dear," replied the lady. "i was only too thankful to catch the train at all. we can change at the next station if we wish, but it seems scarcely worth while for so short a journey. the carriages are so crowded that the firsts are as bad as the thirds." "that porter's dirty hands have made black marks on my dress," said the little girl disconsolately. "why couldn't the train wait for us? they needn't have been in such a hurry when they saw we were coming." "trains don't wait for any one, dear. it was your own fault, for you wouldn't come away from the bookstall. i told you to be quick about choosing." "i didn't see anything i wanted. books are all just the same. i don't think i shall like this one, now i have it. give me micky, please," taking the pet dog on to her knee. "shall we have to stay very long in this carriage? i'm so terribly hot." "get the scent out of my bag, dearest, and the vinaigrette. you'll soon feel better, now this nice breeze is coming in through the window. if the train's fairly punctual, we shall be there in half an hour." "it's past three o'clock already!" consulting a pretty enamelled watch which was pinned on to her dress. "oh dear! i'm so tired! i hate travelling. why can't we have a carriage to ourselves? this basket's knocking my hat off. _do_ let us change at the next station. how the baby cries! it's making my head ache." "young lady don't fancy her company," said the market-woman, moving her basket as she spoke. "i've paid for my ticket same as other folks 'as, and my money's as good as any one else's, so far as i can see." "some people had better order a train to themselves if they're too fine to travel with the likes of us," observed one of the trippers with sarcasm. "i'm sure i'm sorry as he cries so," apologized the weary mother of the wailing baby. "the heat's turned the milk sour, and i durstn't give him his bottle. he won't go to sleep without it, neither, so i can't do nothing with him. husht! husht! lovey, wilt 'a?" "bairns will be bairns," remarked old mr. binks sententiously. "i ought to know, for i've reared seven. live and let live's my motto, and a good un to get along the world with. i'll wager as young missy there meant no offence." "indeed she did not wish to hurt anybody's feelings," said the lady hastily, adding in a low tone to the little girl, "be quiet, dear. take off your hat, and perhaps you'll be cooler." wedged between fat old mr. binks and the window, isobel had sat watching the whole scene. she was terribly hot, but the crowded carriage and its miscellaneous occupants only amused her, and she divided her attention between the quickly passing landscape and her various travelling companions, stealing frequent glances at the pretty stranger opposite, who had closed her eyes in languid resignation, having drawn her white silk skirts as far as possible away from the market-woman, and placed her pale-blue hat in safety upon her mother's knee. the baby was asleep at last, worn out with crying, and the trippers were handing round refreshments--large wedges of pork pie, sticky buns, and cold tea, which they drank in turns out of a bottle. they pressed these dainties cordially upon everybody in the carriage, but the only one who consented to share their hospitality was the market-woman, who remarked audibly that "_she_ was not proud, however much some folks might stick theirselves up." in return she produced a couple of apples from her basket, which she presented to the two little tripper boys, who promptly quarrelled which should have the bigger, and kicked each other lustily on the shins, till their father boxed their ears and threatened to send them home by the next returning train. the pierrot created a diversion at this point by playing a few selections upon the banjo and singing a comic song, handing round his tall white hat afterwards for pennies, and informing the company that they could have the pleasure of hearing him again any day upon the pier at ferndale at . and o'clock prompt. "i'm glad we're not staying at ferndale," thought isobel, "if all these people are going there! i'm sure silversands will be ever so much nicer." and she turned with relief to look out through the open window. after running for a long distance between high embankments, the train had at last reached the coast, and isobel watched with rapture the sparkling blue sea, the long line of yellow heather-topped cliffs, and the red sails of the fishing-boats which could be seen on the distant horizon. on the shore she could catch glimpses of delightful little pools among the rocks left by the retreating tide, and mr. binks, who seemed to enjoy acting as guide, drew her notice continually to rows of bathing-vans, children riding donkeys or digging sand-castles on the beach, or fishwives gathering cockles at the water's edge, pointing out the various objects of interest with a fat brown finger. the few stations which they passed were crowded with tourists, one or two of whom opened the door of the compartment in the hope of finding room, but slammed it again quickly when they saw the number of its occupants. "they did ought to put on more carriages, so nigh to august bank holiday," said mr. binks. "we're close on silversands now--you can see it there, over at t'other side of the bay--so you won't be long waitin' of your tea. you'll be rare and glad to get some, i take it, if you feel like me." isobel thought it was the longest and hottest journey she ever remembered; but, like most things, it at length came to a close, and after several halts and tiresome waitings on the line the heavy train crawled into silversands. it was a little wayside station, with a gay garden running alongside the platform, and the name "silversands" elaborately done out in white stones upon a green bank. a group of scotch firs gave a pleasant shade and a suggestion of country woods; the sea and the sands were just visible over a tall hedge of flowering tamarisk, the meadows were full of buttercups, while cornfields, beginning already to yellow with ripening crops, and gay with scarlet poppies, made a refreshing sight to dusty travellers. "here we are, mother!" cried isobel, with delight. "this is really silversands at last! oh, look at the poppies among the corn! aren't they lovely!" "ay, it's silversands, sure enough," said mr. binks, opening the carriage door and descending with the caution his bulk demanded. "main glad i am to see it again, too. take care, honey! let me help you down, and your ma too. you're welcome, marm, i'm sure, to anything as i may have done for you; and if you and missy here is takin' a walk some day towards 'the balk,' just ask for binks of the white coppice, and my missus 'ull make you a cup of tea any time as you likes to call. good-day to you!" and he moved away down the platform with the satisfied air of one who again finds his foot on his native heath. silversands seemed also to be the destination of the two travellers in whom isobel had taken such an interest, as they got out of the train with much apparent relief, and were greeted by quite a number of enthusiastic and smartly-dressed friends who had come to the station to meet them. "we've had the most _terrible_ journey!" isobel overheard the little girl saying. "we were obliged to go in a third-class carriage with the rudest and dirtiest people! i'm sure i'm black all over. oh, i'm _so_ glad to have got here at last!" she retailed her experiences to a sympathetic audience, while her mother, who, it appeared, had lost a handbag, insisted upon calling the station-master and giving a full description of both its labels and contents; and until their numerous boxes and portmanteaus had been collected and disposed on a carriage, and they and their friends had finally passed through the gate at the bottom of the platform, it was quite impossible for mrs. stewart to secure the services of the solitary porter. she managed at last, however, to gather together her modest luggage, and leaving it to follow upon a hand-cart, set out with isobel to walk to the lodgings which she had engaged. chapter ii. mrs. stewart's letter. "'tis half against my judgment. kindly fortune, send fair prosperity upon this venture!" "it will be quite easy to find our rooms, mother," said isobel. "we know they're close to the beach, and there only seems to be one row of lodging-houses down on the shore. i suppose that must be marine terrace, for there isn't any other. what jolly sands! can't you taste the salt on your lips? i feel as if i shall just want to be by the sea all the time." "i hope it will do you good, dear," said her mother. "i declare you look better already. i shall expect you to grow quite rosy before we go home again, and to have ever such a big appetite." "i'm hungry now," replied isobel. "i hope mrs. jackson will bring in tea directly we arrive. i mean to ask her first thing if she knows mr. binks. wasn't it nice of him to let me sit by the window? do you think we shall be taking a walk to the 'balk'? i don't know in the least what a 'balk' is, but i suppose we shall find out. i should like immensely to go to his farm." "i dare say we might call there some afternoon. he seemed a kind old man, and i believe he really meant what he said, and would be pleased to see you." "weren't the people in the carriage funny, mother? how tiresome that pierrot was with his banjo, and the poor baby that wouldn't stop crying! i was so glad the little girl in the blue hat didn't miss the train. isn't she lovely?" "she's rather pretty," said mrs. stewart; "but i couldn't see her very well--she was sitting on my side, you remember." "i think she's perfectly beautiful!" declared isobel, with enthusiasm--"just like one of those expensive french dolls at the stores. did you see them drive away in the landau? i wonder where they're staying, and if we shall ever meet them again?" "perhaps you may see her walking on the beach, or in church," suggested mrs. stewart. "i hope i shall. i wonder what her name is. do you think she'd mind if i were to ask her?" "perhaps her mother might not like it," replied mrs. stewart. "i'm afraid it would hardly be polite." "but i do so want to get to know her. i haven't any friends here, you see, and i think she looks so nice." "i'm sorry, dear, but i shouldn't care for you to try to scrape an acquaintance with these people. we shall manage to have a very happy time together, hunting for shells and sea-weeds. you must take me for a friend instead." "you're better than any friend!" said isobel, squeezing her mother's hand. "of course i like being with you best, sweetest; only sometimes, when you're reading or lying down, it _is_ nice to have somebody to talk to. i won't ask her her name if you say i'd better not; but i hope i shall see her again, if it's only just to look at her. why, this is the house--there's no. over the doorway; and that must be mrs. jackson standing in the front garden looking out for us. i think she ought to be mr. binks's cousin; she's as fat and red in the face as he is." "the place is very full, mum," said mrs. jackson, showing them to the little back sitting-room, which, at august prices, was all mrs. stewart had been able to afford. "i had three parties in yesterday askin' for rooms, and could have let this small parlour twice over for double the money but what i'd promised it to you. not as i wanted to take 'em, though, for they was all noisy lots as would have needed a deal of waitin' on. i'd rather have quiet visitors like you and the young lady here, as isn't always a-ringin' their bells and playin' on the pianer till midnight, though i may be the loser by it. i'm short-handed now my daughter emma jane's married, and not so quick at gettin' up and down stairs as i used to be." "i don't think you'll find we shall give more trouble than we can help," said mrs. stewart gently. "we seldom require much waiting on, and we hope to be out most of the day." "i'm only too glad to do all i can, mum, to make folks feel home-like," declared mrs. jackson, showing the capacities of the cupboard, and calling attention to the superior comfort of the armchairs. "and if there's anything else you'd like, i hope as you'll mention it. i'm a little short in my breath, and a bit lame in my right leg, bein' troubled with rheumatics in the winter, but i do my best to please, and so does polly (she's my niece), though she's a girl with no head, and can't remember a thing for two minutes on end." "i'm sure you'll make us comfortable," said mrs. stewart, "and we hope to have a very happy time indeed at silversands. we should be glad if you could bring in tea now; we're both very hot and thirsty after our long journey." "that you will be, i'm sure, mum," returned mrs. jackson. "we've not had a hotter day this summer. little missy looks fair tired out. but there's nought like a cup of tea to refresh one, and i'll have it up in a few minutes; the kettle's ready and boilin'." "the room feels rather stuffy," said mrs. stewart, throwing open the window when her landlady had departed to the kitchen regions. "i'm sorry we have no view of the sea; but we can't help that, and we must be out of doors the whole day long. luckily the weather is gloriously fine, and seems likely to keep so." "what queer ornaments, mother!" said isobel, going slowly round the room and examining with much curiosity two stuffed cocks, a glass bottle containing a model of a ship with full sail and rigging, a case of somewhat moth-eaten and dilapidated butterflies, a representation of windsor castle cut out in cork, some sickly portraits of the royal family in cheap german gilt frames, and a large berlin wool-work sampler, which, in addition to the alphabet and a verse of a hymn, depicted birds of paradise at the top and weeping willows at the bottom, and set forth that it was the work of eliza jane horrocks, aged ten years. "i think we shan't need quite so many crochet antimacassars," laughed mrs. stewart. "there seems to be one on every chair, and there are actually five on the sofa. we must ask mrs. jackson to take some of them away. we would rather be without all these shell baskets and photo frames on the little table, too. if we moved it into the window it would be very nice for painting or writing if it should happen to be a wet day." "i hope it won't be wet," said isobel. "at any rate, there are some books to read if it is," turning over a row of volumes which reposed on the top of the chiffonnier. "i've never seen such peculiar pictures. the little girls have white trousers right down to their ankles, and the boys have deep frilled collars and quite long hair." "they are very old-fashioned books," said mrs. stewart, examining with a smile "the youth's moral miscellany," "the maiden's garland," "a looking-glass for the mind," and "instructive stories for young people," which, with a well-thumbed edition of "sandford and merton," a battered copy of "the history of the fairchild family," and a few bound volumes of _chambers's journal_, made up the extent of the library. "i should think they must have belonged to mrs. jackson's mother or grandmother for this one has the date written inside it." "of course they don't look so nice as my books at home," said isobel; "but they'd be something new." "you're such a greedy reader that no doubt you will get through them, however dry they may prove," laughed her mother. "here comes our tea. we shall enjoy new-laid eggs and fresh country butter, shan't we?" "i wonder if they're from mr. binks's farm," said isobel, seating herself at the table.--"do you know mr. binks, mrs. jackson? he said i was to ask you, and he was sure you wouldn't deny the acquaintance." "know peter binks, miss!" exclaimed mrs. jackson. "why, there isn't a soul in silversands as doesn't know him. binks has lived at the white coppice ever since i was a girl, and afore then, and him church-warden too, and owner of the _britannia_, as good a schooner as any about. his wife's second cousin is married to my daughter, and livin' at ferndale. know him! i should just say i do!" "i thought you would!" said isobel delightedly. "we met him in the train as we were coming. he gave me his seat by the window, and asked us to go to his farm some day. you'll be able to tell us the way, won't you?" "another time, dear child," said mrs. stewart "mrs. jackson's busy now, and our tea is waiting.--thank you; yes, i think we have everything we need at present. polly might bring a little boiling water in a few minutes, and we will ring the bell if we require anything more.--come, isobel, you said you were hungry!" "a nice-spoken lady," said mrs. jackson afterwards to her husband in the privacy of the kitchen. "any one could see with half an eye as they was gentlefolk, though they've only taken the back room. i wonder, now, if they can be any relation to old mr. stewart at the chase. they did say as the son--him as was killed in the war--had married somewhere in furrin parts, and his father was terrible set against it, havin' a wife of his own choosin' ready for him at home. a regular family quarrel it was, and both too proud to make it up; but they said the old man was nigh heartbroken when his son was taken, and he'd never sent him a kind word. i had it all from peter binks's nephew, who was under-gardener there at the time." "it might be," said mr. jackson oracularly, taking a pinch of snuff as he spoke, "and, on the other hand, it might not be. stewart's by no means an uncommon kind of a name. there was a stewart second mate on the _arizona_ when we took kippers over to belfast, and there was a chap called stewart as used to keep a snug little public down by the quay in whitecastle, but i never heard tell as either of 'em was any connection of old mr. stewart up at the chase." "it weren't likely they should be," replied mrs. jackson, with scorn. "but that don't make it any less likely in this case. i remember mr. godfrey quite well when we lived at linkhead, and i'd used to walk over with emma jane to heatherton church of a sunday afternoon. a fine handsome young fellow he was, too, sittin' with his father in the family pew, takin' a yawn behind his hand durin' the sermon, and small blame to him too--old canon martindale used to preach that long! i can see him now, if i close my eyes, with his light hair shinin' against the red curtain of the big square pew. little missy has quite a look of him, to my mind." "you're always imaginin' romances, eliza," said mr. jackson. "it comes of too much readin'. you and polly sit over them stories in _the family herald_ till you make up goodness knows what tales about every new party as comes to the house. there was the young man with the long hair as played the fiddle, whom you was sure was a furrin count, and who only turned out to be one of the band at ferndale, and went off without payin' his bill; and there was a couple in the drawing-room as talked that grand about their motor car and their shootin' box and important business till you thought it was a member of parliament and his lady, takin' a rest and travellin' incog., till you found out they was only wine merchants from whitecastle after all. don't you go a-meddlin'. let them manage their own affairs, and we'll manage ours." "how you talk!" declared mrs. jackson indignantly. "who wants to meddle? as if one couldn't take a bit of interest in one's own visitors! there's the drawin'-room a-ringin', and the dinin'-room will be wantin' its tea. stir the fire, joe, and hold the toast whilst i answer the bell. where's that polly a-gone to, i wonder?" in spite of her husband's disdainful comments, mrs. jackson's surmises were not altogether groundless; and if she had peeped into her back sitting-room that evening, when isobel was in bed, she might have seen her visitor slowly and with much care and thought composing a letter. sheet after sheet of notepaper was covered, and then torn up, for the writer's efforts did not seem to satisfy her, and she leaned her head on her hand every now and then with a weary air, as if she had undertaken a distasteful task. "i do not ask anything for myself," wrote mrs. stewart at last. "that you should care to meet me, or ever become reconciled to me, is, i know, beyond all question. my one request is that you will see your grandchild. she is now nearly eleven years of age, a thorough stewart, tall and fair, and with so strong a resemblance to her father that you cannot fail to see the likeness. i have done my utmost for her, but i am not able to give her the advantages i should wish her to have, and which, as her father's child, i feel it is hard for her to lack. she is named isobel, after your only daughter, the little sister whose loss my husband always spoke of with so much regret, and whom he hoped she might resemble. you would find her truthful, straightforward, obedient, and well-behaved, and in every respect worthy of the name of stewart. it is with the greatest difficulty that i bring myself to ask of you any favour, but for the sake of the one, dear to us both, who is gone, i beg that you will at least see my isobel, and judge her for yourself." she addressed the letter to colonel stewart, the chase, sealed it, stamped it, and took it herself to the post. for a moment she stood and hesitated--a moment in which she seemed almost inclined to draw back after all; she turned the letter over doubtfully in her hand, went a step away, then suddenly straightening herself with an air of firm determination, she dropped it into the pillar-box and returned to her lodgings. going upstairs to the bedroom, she tenderly lifted the soft golden hair, and looked at the quiet, sleeping face of her little girl. "he cannot fail to like her," she said to herself. "it was the only right thing to do, and what _he_ would have wished. i'm glad i have had the courage to make the attempt. he will surely acknowledge her now, and my one prayer is that he will not take her away from me." chapter iii. a meeting on the sands. "what's in a name? that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." the little town of silversands was built on the cliffs by the sea, so close over the greeny-blue water that the dash of the waves was always in your ears and the taste of the salt spray on your lips. the picturesque thatched fishermen's cottages lay scattered one above another down the steep hillside at such strange and irregular angles that the narrow streets which led from the quay wound in and out like a maze, and you found your way to the shore down flights of wide steps under low archways, or by a pathway cut through your neighbour's cabbage patch. it was not difficult to guess the occupation of most of the inhabitants, for fishing-nets of all descriptions might be seen hanging out to dry over every available railing; great flat skates and conger eels were nailed to the doorways to be cured in the sun; rosy-faced women appeared to be eternally washing blue jerseys, which fluttered like flags from the various little gardens; and the bare-headed, brown-legged children who gathered cockles on the sands, or angled for crabs from the jetty, seemed as much at home in the water as on dry land. the harbour was decidedly fishy; bronzed burly seamen were perpetually unloading cargoes of herrings which they stowed away into barrels, or lobsters that were carefully packed in baskets to be dispatched to the neighbouring towns. there was a kind of open-air market, fitted up with rickety stalls where you might buy fresh cod and mackerel still alive and shining with all the lovely fleeting colours which fade so quickly when they are taken from the water. you could afford to be extravagant in the way of shell-fish, if you liked such delicacies, since a large red cotton pocket-handkerchief full of cockles and mussels only cost a penny, and whelks and periwinkles sold at a halfpenny the pint. at high water the quay was always agog with excitement, the coming in of the boats being accompanied with that hauling of ropes, creaking of windlasses, shouting of hoarse voices and general confusion both among toiling workers and idle loungers that seem inseparable from the business of a port, while the occasional advent of an excursion steamer was an event which attracted every looker-on in the harbour. all the talk at silversands was of tides and storms, of good or bad catches, the luck of one vessel or the ill-fortune of another, and to the fisher-folk the affairs of the empire were of small importance compared with the arrival and departure of the herring-fleet. the schools gave a thin veneer of education, but it seemed to vanish away directly with the contact of the waves, so that the customs and modes of thought of most of the people differed little from those of their forefathers who slept, some in the churchyard on the edge of the cliff, with quaint epitaphs to record their virtues, and some in those deeper graves over which no stones could be reared. standing apart from the old town was a modern portion which was just beginning to dignify itself with the name of a seaside resort. to be sure, it was yet guiltless of pier, promenade, band, or niggers; but, as the owner of the new grocery stores remarked, "you never knew what might follow, and many a fashionable watering-place had risen from quite as modest a commencement." there was already a row of shops with plate-glass windows and a handsome display of spades, buckets, shell-purses, baskets, china ornaments, photographic views, and other articles calculated to tempt the shillings from the pockets of summer visitors; there were several streets of lodging-houses near the railway station, as well as the long terrace facing the sea, dignified rather prematurely by the name of "the parade," and an enterprising tradesman from ferndale had opened a tea-room and a circulating library. the proprietor of the bathing machines was doing a good business, and had set up a stand with six donkeys; a photographer had ventured to erect a wooden studio upon the beach, where he would take your likeness for eighteenpence; and the common was occasionally the camp of some travelling circus, which, though _en route_ for a larger sphere of action, did not disdain to give a performance in passing. like a link between the old and the new, the ancient gray stone church stood on the verge of the cliff above the harbour, looking out to sea as if it were always watching over those of its children who had their business in great waters, and sending up silent prayers on their behalf. in the square tower the bells had rung for seven hundred years, and the flat roof with its turreted battlements told tales of wild times of border forays, when the people had fled with their goods to the one spot of safety, and watched the smoke of their burning farms, as the victorious scots drove away their cattle over the blue line of hills towards the north. but i think the great attraction of silversands was its delightful beach. the sands were hard and firm, and covered in places with patches of sea holly or horned poppies and the beautiful pink bindweed growing here and there with its roots deep down among the clumps of stones. above rose the cliffs in bold craggy outlines, their tops crowned by a heather-clad common which stretched far inland, while the low tide disclosed attractive rocky pools where anemones, hermit crabs, sea urchins, jelly fish, mermaids' purses, starfishes, and all kinds of fascinating objects might be captured by those who cared to look for them. the afternoon of the day following her arrival found isobel wandering along this shore alone. mrs. stewart had been unfortunate enough to meet with an accident that morning: slipping on the rocks she had twisted her ankle severely, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she had managed to limp back to the lodgings. "it's a bad sprain, too," said mrs. jackson, shaking her head as she helped to soak cold water bandages. "you won't be able to put that foot to the ground for a matter of ten days or more. it's a good thing now as i didn't sell the sofa, which i nearly let it go in the spring, as it do fill up the room so; but you can rest there nicely, and keep puttin' on fresh cloths all the time, though it do seem a pity, with your holiday only just begun." "i must try to be patient, and get it well as fast as possible," replied mrs. stewart.--"i'm afraid it will be very dull for you, isobel, my poor child, while i'm lying here. you will have to amuse yourself on the beach as best you can. i certainly can't have you staying indoors on my account." "it will be much duller for you, mother dear," said isobel. "i shall be all right--i like being on the shore--but you won't have anything to do except read. what a good thing we brought plenty of books with us! i'm so sorry our sitting-room hasn't any view. i shall try to find all the shells and sea-weeds and things that i can, and keep bringing them in to show you." it was on a quest, therefore, for any treasures which she thought might interest her mother that isobel strolled slowly along, looking with delight at the gleaming sea, the red sails of the herring-fleet, and the little white yacht which came slowly round the point of the cliff, waiting for a puff of wind to take her to the harbour. the tide was coming in fast, and the churning of the waves, as they ground the small pebbles along the beach, had the most inspiriting and refreshing sound. she stooped every now and then to pick up a shell, or to clutch at a great piece of ribbon sea-weed which was dashed to her feet by an advancing wave; she had an exciting chase after a scuttling crab, and missed him in the end, and nearly got drenched with spray trying to rescue a walking-stick which she could see floating at the edge of the water. she had filled her pockets with a moist collection of specimens, and was half thinking of turning back to retrace her footsteps to marine terrace, when from behind a crag of rock which jutted out sharply on to the sands she heard a sound of children's voices and laughter. moved with curiosity she peeped round the corner, and found herself at the edge of a small patch of green common that ran along the shore between the cliffs and the sea. it was covered with soft fine grass and little low-growing flowers; the broken masts washed up from a wreck made capital seats; and, altogether, it appeared as pleasant a playground as could well be imagined. so, at any rate, seemed to think the group of boys and girls who were assembled there, since they had set up some wickets, and were enthusiastically engaged in a game of cricket, for which the short fine grass made an excellent pitch. it looked so interesting that isobel strolled rather nearer to the players, and finding an upturned boat upon the beach, she curled herself under its shadow, and settled down, apparently unnoticed, to watch the progress of the game. she could hear as well as see, and her ears were keenly alert to the scraps of lively conversation which floated towards her. "have you found the ball?" "yes; under a heap of nettles, and stung my fingers horribly. just look at the blisters." "don't be a baby. go on; it's your play." "i can't hold the bat while my hands hurt so." "then miss your turn.--come along, bertie, and have your innings; ruth doesn't want hers." "yes, i do! i'm older than bertie, so i must go in first. if you'd only wait a minute, till i can find a dock leaf." "we can't wait. how tiresome you are! here, bertie, take the bat." "it's not fair! we were to go in ages, and i'm six months older than he is." "you can have your turn after joyce." "joyce! she's only nine, and i'm eleven." "then miss it altogether, and don't make yourself a nuisance!--now then, bertie, look out for a screw." "it's a shame! i always seem to get left out of things!" grumbled the little girl, with a very aggrieved countenance, sitting down upon a rusty anchor, and nursing her nettled hand tenderly. "it's your own fault this time, at any rate," said a companion, with scant sympathy. "there are plenty of dock leaves growing under the cliff if you want them." "bravo, bertie! well hit!" "quick with that ball, arthur!" "play up, bertie!" "well run! well run!" "oh, he's out! hard luck!" "whose turn is it now?" "belle's." "where is she?" "here i am, ready and waiting. now give me a good ball. it's hugh's turn to bowl, and if he sends me one of his nasty screws or sneaks i shan't be friends with him any more." isobel gazed at the last speaker, entranced. there was no mistaking the apple-blossom cheeks and the silky flaxen curls of her fellow-traveller in the crowded carriage, though to-day the white silk dress and the blue hat were replaced by a delicate pale pink muslin and a broad-brimmed straw trimmed with a gauze scarf. she looked even more charming than ever, like some fairy in a story-book or one of the very prettiest pictures you get upon chocolate boxes; she seemed to put all other children round her in the shade, and as she stood there, a graceful little figure at the wicket, isobel's eyes followed her every movement with an absolute fascination. the first ball was a slow one, and she hit it fairly well, but did not make a run; the next she merely slogged; the third was high, and as she wisely let it alone, it cleared the wicket; the fourth was a full pitch: she tried to play it down, but unfortunately it hit the top of her bat, and went right into the long-stop's hands. "caught!" "she's out!" "what an easy catch!" "come along, aggie, your innings." the vanquished player put down her bat somewhat reluctantly, and walked slowly away in the direction of the old boat. she sat down on the sand close by isobel, and taking off her hat, began to fan her hot face with it after stealing several glances at her companion, she at length volunteered a remark. "it was too bad, wasn't it," she said, "to be caught out first thing like that?" "much too bad!" replied isobel. "but i think they were horrid balls." "so they were. hugh always sends the most mean ones. weren't you in the train with us yesterday?" "yes. i saw you first at the bookstall at tiverton." "didn't you think the people in the carriage detestable? i nearly died with the heat and stuffiness." "it was dreadfully hot and noisy." "noisy! i don't know which was worse--the baby or the banjo! you were better off sitting by the window, though that fat old man would keep talking to you." "he was rather kind," said isobel; "i didn't mind him." "i suppose you're staying at silversands, aren't you?" "yes, at marine terrace." "we're in marine terrace too, at no. . we have the upstairs suite. they're not bad rooms for a little place like this, but they don't know how to wait. mother says she wishes they'd build a hotel here. what's it like at no. ?" "it's quite comfortable," replied isobel. "we have a nice landlady." "are there only just you and your mother?" "that's all." "have you no father?" "he's dead. he was killed in the boer war." "was he a soldier, then?" "yes; he was a captain in the fifth dragoon guards." "my father is dead too. have you any brothers and sisters?" "no. i never had any." "neither have i. i only wish i had. it's so lonely without, isn't it?" "it is, rather; but i'm a great deal with mother." "so am i; still, when she's at home she's out so much, and then i never know what to do." "don't you read?" said isobel. "i'm not fond of reading. i only like books when there's really nothing else to amuse myself with." "you were buying a book at tiverton. which one did you get? is it nice?" "it's just a school story. i forget its name now. i haven't looked at it again." "then you didn't choose 'the red cross knight' after all?" "oh, that's too like lessons! i've had all that with my governess, and about king arthur too. i'm quite tired of them. have you a governess?" "no," replied isobel; "i do lessons with mother." "how jolly for you! i wish i did. i'm to be sent to school in another year, and i don't think i shall like that at all. when are you going?" "not till i'm thirteen, i expect." "how old are you now?" "almost eleven." "why, so am i! when's your birthday?" "on the thirteenth of september." "and mine is on the tenth of october, so you're nearly a month older than i am. you haven't told me your name yet?" "my name's isobel stewart." "what!" cried the other, opening her blue eyes wide in the greatest astonishment. "that's _my_ name!" "_your_ name!" exclaimed isobel, in equal amazement. "of course it is. _my_ name's isabelle stuart." "how do you spell it?" "i-s-a-b-e-l-l-e s-t-u-a-r-t." "and mine's spelt i-s-o-b-e-l s-t-e-w-a-r-t, so that makes a little difference." "so it does. i'm called 'belle,' too, for short. are you?" "no; never anything but isobel." "it's funny. we're the same name and the same age, and we're staying in the same terrace. i think it is what you'd call a 'coincidence.' we came to silversands on the same day, too, and in the same railway carriage. we ought to be twin sisters. you're really rather like me, you know, only you're pale, and your hair doesn't curl." isobel shook her head. she had a very modest opinion of her own attractions, and would not have dreamt of comparing her appearance with that of her pretty companion, so very far did she think she ranked below the other's style of beauty. "i should like to be friends, at any rate," she said shyly. "perhaps i shall see you again upon the shore. i'm afraid that's your mother calling you. i think i ought to go home now too; i didn't mean to be out so long." isabelle stuart sprang to her feet. "yes, it's mother calling," she said. "she's walked up with mrs. rokeby. i must fly. but i hope we shall meet again. i shall look out for you on the sands. good-bye!" "good-bye!" isobel stood watching her as she ran lightly away; then turning, she hurried home as fast as possible along the beach, for she was very excited at this strange meeting, and was anxious to give her mother a full and detailed account of it. "i didn't ask her _her_ name, mother," she explained. "it was she who asked me mine. you told me i'd better not speak to her; but she spoke to me first, and asked me ever so many questions. isn't it queer that our names should be just the same, and our ages too? you'll let us be friends now, won't you? i think she's the nicest girl i've ever met in my life, and i can't tell you how much i want to know her." chapter iv. the sea urchins' club. "'twas here where the urchins would gather to play, in the shadows of twilight or sunny midday." isobel found her namesake waiting for her on the beach next morning. "i thought you'd be coming out soon," announced belle, "so i just stopped about till i saw you. we're all starting off to play cricket again on the common down under the cliffs, and i want you to go with us. i've taken _such_ a fancy to you! i told mother i had, and she laughed and said it wouldn't last long; but i _know_ it will. i feel as if you were going to be my bosom friend. you'll come, won't you?" "of course i will," replied isobel, accepting the offered friendship with rapture. "mother told me to do what i liked this morning." "let us be quick, then. the others have run on in front, but we'll soon catch them up." "are you going to the same place where you were playing yesterday?" asked isobel. "yes; we call it our club ground. we mean to have matches there almost every day. it'll be ever such fun. you see there are several families of us staying at silversands that all know one another, so we've joined ourselves together in a club. we call it 'the united sea urchins' recreation society,' and it's not to be only for cricket, because we mean to play rounders and hockey as well, and to go out boating, and have shrimping parties on the sands. we arranged it last night after tea. there are just twenty of us, if you count the wrights' baby, so that makes quite enough to get up all sorts of games. hugh rokeby's the president, and charlie chester's secretary, and charlotte wright's treasurer. we each pay twopence a week subscription, and at the end of the holiday we're going to have what the boys call a 'regular blow-out' with the funds--ginger beer, you know, and cakes, and ices if we can afford it. i wanted to make the subscription sixpence, but letty rokeby said the little ones couldn't give so much. i'll ask them to elect you a member. you'd like to join, wouldn't you?" "immensely. but i haven't any money with me now." "oh, never mind! you can give it to charlotte afterwards. here we are. i expect they're all waiting. i see they've put the stumps up. you don't know anybody except me, do you? i'll soon tell you their names." the party of children who were assembled upon the green patch of common certainly appeared to be a very jolly one. first there were the rokebys, a large and tempestuous family of seven, who were staying at a farm on the cliffs by the wood. "a thoroughly healthy place," as mrs. rokeby often remarked, "with a good water supply, and no danger of catching anything infectious. we've really been so unfortunate. hugh and letty took scarlet fever at the lodgings in llandudno last year, and i had the most dreadful time nursing them; winnie and arnold had mumps at scarborough the year before; and the three youngest were laid up with german measles at easter in the isle of man; so it has made me quite nervous." just at present the rokebys did not seem in danger of contracting anything more serious than colds or sprained ankles, for a more reckless crew in the way of falling into wet pools, climbing slippery rocks, or generally endangering their lives and limbs could not be imagined. it was in vain that poor mrs. rokeby dried their boots and brushed their clothes, and implored them to keep away from perilous spots; they were full of repentance, and would vow amendment with the most warm-hearted of hugs, but in half an hour they had forgotten all their promises, and would be racing over the rocks again as wet and jolly as ever. "i really do my best to keep them tidy," sighed mrs. rokeby pathetically to mrs. barrington. "their father grumbles horribly at the bills, but they seem to wear their clothes out as fast as i buy them. bertie's new norfolk suit is shabby already, and winnie's sunday frock isn't fit to be seen. as to their boots, i sometimes think i shall have to let them go bare-foot. other people's children don't seem to give half the trouble that mine do. look at them now--dragging lulu down the sands, when i told them she mustn't get overheated on any account! the doctor said we were to be so careful of her, and keep her quiet; but it seems no use--she _will_ run after the others. oh dear! i can't allow them to turn her head over heels like that!" and mrs. rokeby flew to the rescue of her delicate youngest, administering a vigorous scolding to the elder ones, which apparently made as little impression upon them as water on a duck's back. the untidy appearance and unruly behaviour of her undisciplined flock were really a trial to mrs. rokeby, since they generally managed to compare unfavourably with the wrights, a stolid and matter-of-fact family who were staying in rooms near the station. "you never see charlotte wright with her dress torn to ribbons, or her hair in her eyes," she would remonstrate with letty and winnie. "both she and aggie can wear their sailor blouses for three days, while yours aren't fit to be seen at the end of a morning." "the wrights are so stupid," replied winnie, "you can hardly get them to have any fun at all. they spend nearly the whole time with that mademoiselle they've brought with them. they're so proud of her, they do nothing but let off french remarks just to try to impress us. she's only a holiday governess too--they don't have her when they're at home--so there's no need for them to give themselves such airs about it. i believe their french isn't anything much either, they put in so many english words." "arthur wright actually brings his books down on to the shore," said letty, "and does greek and euclid half the morning. he says he's working for a scholarship. you wouldn't catch hugh or cecil at that." "i'm afraid i shouldn't," sighed mrs. rokeby. "to judge from their bad reports at school, it seems difficult enough to get them to learn anything in term time. as for mademoiselle, you might take the opportunity to talk to her a little, and improve your own french." "no, thank you!" said winnie, pulling a wry face. "no holiday lessons for me. i loathe french, and i never can understand a single word that mademoiselle says, so it's no use. if the wrights like to sit on the sand and 'parlez-vous,' they may. they're so fat, they can't rush about like we do. that's why they keep so tidy. charlotte's waist is exactly twice as big as mine--we measured them yesterday with a piece of string--and aggie's cheeks are as round as puddings. you should see how they all pant when they play cricket. they scarcely get any runs." "and they really eat far more even than we do, mother," said letty. "aggie had five buns on the shore yesterday, and eric took sixteen biscuits. i know he did, for we counted them, and he nearly emptied the box." "the chesters are five times as jolly," declared winnie. "both charlie and hilda went out shrimping with us this morning, and got sopping wet, but they didn't mind in the least, and mrs. chester only laughed when they went back. she said sea water didn't hurt. she's far nicer than mrs. barrington. i wouldn't be ruth barrington for all the world. she and edna never have any breakfast, and they're made to do the queerest things." the unlucky little barringtons were possessed of parents who clung to theories which they themselves described as "wholesome ideas," and their friends denounced as "absurd cranks." many and various were the experiments which they tried upon their children's health and education, sometimes with rather disastrous results. being at present enthusiastic members of a "no breakfast league," which held that two meals a day were amply sufficient for the requirements of any rational human being, they had limited their family repasts to luncheon and supper, at which only vegetarian dishes were permitted to appear; and the poor children, hungry with sea air and with running about on the sands, who would have enjoyed an unstinted supply of butcher's meat and bread and butter, were carefully dieted on plasmon, prepared nuts, and many patent foods, which their mother measured out in exact portions, keeping a careful record in her diary of the amount they were allowed to consume, and taking the pair to be weighed every week upon the automatic machine at the railway station. their costumes consisted of plain blue over-all pinafores and sandals, and they wore neither hats nor stockings. "it's all right for the seaside," grumbled ruth to her intimate friends, "because we can go into the water without minding getting into a mess; but we have to wear exactly the same in town, and it's horrible. you can't think how every one stares at as, just as if we were a show. sometimes ladies stop us, and ask our governess if we've lost our hats, and hadn't she better tie our handkerchiefs over our heads? we shouldn't dare to go out alone even if we were allowed, we look so queer. we went once to the post by ourselves, and some rude boys chased us all the way, calling out 'bare-legs!' it's dreadfully cold in winter, too, without stockings, and when it rains our heads get wet through, and we have to be dried with towels when we come in again. i wonder why we can't be dressed like other people. i wish i had belle stuart's clothes; they're perfectly lovely!" ruth's rather pathetic little face always bore the injured expression of one who cherishes a grievance. she was a thin, pale child, who did not look as though she flourished upon her peculiar system of bringing up, which seemed to have the unfortunate effect of completely spoiling her temper, and making her see life through an extremely blue pair of spectacles. this summer she certainly thought she had a just cause of complaint, since her two schoolboy brothers, instead of spending their holidays as usual at the seaside, had been dispatched on a walking-tour to switzerland with a certain german professor, who, in accordance with the latest educational fad, was conducting a select little party of boys on an open-air pilgrimage, the main features of which seemed to be to walk bare-foot by day and to sleep in a kind of wigwam at night, which they erected out of alpenstocks and mackintoshes. "it's too disgusting!" said ruth dolefully. "just when edna and i had been looking forward all the term to the boys coming home, and making so many plans of what we would do and the fun we would have, some wretched person sent father a copy of _the educational times_, with a long account of this horrid walking-tour, and he said it was the exact thing for clifford and keith, and insisted upon arranging it at once. i think mother was really dreadfully disappointed. i believe she wanted to have them home as much as we did, because she said they ought to go to the dentist's, and she must look over their clothes, and she should like to give them some phosphates tonic; but father said they could have their teeth attended to at geneva, and she could send the tonic to the professor, and ask him to see that they took it. i know the boys will be furious; they hate taking medicine: they generally keep it in their mouths, and spit it out afterwards. they'll have to talk german all day long too, and they can't bear that. you've no idea how they detest languages. i had a picture post-card from clifford yesterday, and he said his feet were horribly sore with walking bare-foot, and his tent blew away one night, and he was obliged to sleep in the open air." no greater contrast could be found to the barringtons than the chester children. charlie, the elder, a lively young pickle of twelve, was on terms of great intimacy with all the fishermen and sailor boys whose acquaintance he could cultivate, talking in a learned manner of main-sheets, fore-stays, jibs, gaffs, booms and bowsprits, and using every nautical term he could manage to pick up. he had a very good idea of rowing, and would often persuade the men to let him go out with them in their boats, taking his turn at an oar, much to their amusement, and setting log lines with the serious air of a practised hand. his jolly, friendly ways won him general favour, and he was allowed to make himself at home on many of the little fishing smacks, learning to hoist sails, to steer, and to cast nets, though sometimes a too inquiring mind led him to interfere on his own account in the navigation, with the result that he would be unceremoniously bundled back to shore again, with a warning to "keep out of this" in the future. he was the envy of his eight-year-old sister hilda, who would have liked to follow him through thick and thin, but the sailors drew the line at little girls, and would politely request "missy" to "return home to her ma," as there was no place for her "on this 'ere craft," much to her indignation. she consoled herself, however, by organizing the games of the younger wrights and rokebys, making wonderful sand harbours with their aid, and sailing a fleet of toy boats with as keen an enthusiasm as if they were real ones. at the end of a morning on the common isobel found herself on quite an intimate footing with the wrights, the rokebys, the barringtons, and the chesters, besides being a duly elected member of "the united sea urchins' recreation society." "i've never had such fun in my life," she confided to her mother at dinner-time. "we played cricket, and then we went along the shore, because the tide was so low. i picked up the most beautiful screw shells, and razor shells, and fan shells you ever saw. i had to put them in my pocket handkerchief because i hadn't a basket with me. bertie rokeby got into a quicksand up to his knees, and lulu sat down in the water in her clothes. you must come and see our club ground, mother, when you can walk so far. we have it quite to ourselves, for it's right behind the cliff, and none of the other visitors seem to have found it out yet; and if anybody else tries to take it, the boys say they mean to turn them off, because we got it first. they're all going to carry their tea there this afternoon, and light a fire of drift-wood to boil the kettle. so may i go too, and then we shall play cricket again in the evening?" chapter v a hot friendship. "i was a child, and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea." by the time isobel had been a week at silversands she had begun to feel as much at home there as the oldest inhabitant. she had won golden opinions from mrs. jackson at the lodgings, and had been invited by that worthy woman into the upper drawing-room during the temporary absence of its occupiers, and shown a most fascinating cabinet full of foreign shells, stuffed birds, corals, ivory bangles, sandal-wood boxes, and other curiosities brought home by a sailor son who made many voyages to the east. "don't you wish you could have gone with him and got all these things for yourself?" said isobel ecstatically, when she had examined and admired every article separately, and heard its history. "nay," replied mrs. jackson, "i've never had no mind for shipboard, though my second cousin was stewardess on a channel steamer for a matter of fifteen year, and made a tidy sum out of it too. she could have got me taken on by the anchor line as runs to america if i'd have signed for two years. that was when my first husband died, and afore i married jackson; but i felt i'd rather starve on dry land than take it, though it was good wages they offered, to say nothing of tips." "why, it would be glorious to go to america," said isobel, sighing to think what her companion had missed. "you might have seen red indians, and wigwams, and medicine men, and 'robes of fur and belts of wampum,' like it talks of in 'hiawatha.' do you know 'hiawatha'?" "there were an old steamer of that name used to trade from liverpool in hides and tallow when i were a girl, if that's the one you mean. i wonder she hasn't foundered afore now." "oh no!" cried isobel hastily. "it isn't a steamer; it's a piece of poetry. i've just been reading it with mother, and it's most delightful. i could lend it to you if you like. we brought the book with us." mrs. jackson's acquaintance with the muse, however, seemed to be limited to the hymns in church, and a hazy remembrance of certain pieces in her spelling book when a child, and being apparently unwilling to further cultivate her mind in that direction, she declined the offer on the score of lack of time. "not but what jackson's fond of a bit of poetry now and again," she admitted. "he sings a good song or two when he's in the mood, and he do like readin' over the verses on the funeral cards. he pins them all up on the kitchen wall where he can get at them handy. what suits me more is something in the way of a romance--'lady gwendolen's lovers,' or 'the black duke's secret'--when i've time to take up a book, which isn't often, with three sets of lodgers in the house, and a girl as can't even remember how to make a bed properly, to say nothing of laying a table, and 'ull take the dining-room dinner up to the drawing-room." the much-enduring polly, though certainly not an accomplished waitress, was the most good-tempered of girls, and an invaluable ally in saving the treasured specimens of flowers or sea-weeds which mrs. jackson, in her praiseworthy efforts at tidiness, was continually clearing out, under the plea that she "hadn't imagined they could be wanted." "she even threw away my mermaids' purses and the whelks' eggs that we found on the sand-bank," said isobel to her mother. "but polly climbed into the ashpit and grubbed them up again. she washed them in a bucket of water, and they're quite nice now; so i shall put them in a box, to make sure they'll be safe. polly's father is part owner of a schooner, and sometimes they fish up the most enormous fan shells. she says she'll ask him to give me a few when she's time to go home, but she hasn't had a night out for nearly three weeks, the season's been so busy." "perhaps old biddy could get you some large fan shells," suggested mrs. stewart. "i believe they find them sometimes very far out on the beach when they're shrimping." biddy was a well-known character in silversands. she was a lively old irishwoman, with the strongest of brogues and the most beguiling of tongues. in a blue check apron, and with a red shawl tied over her head, she might be seen every morning wheeling her barrow down the parade, where her amusing powers of blarney, added to the freshness of her fish, secured her a large circle of customers among what she called "the quality." she had a wonderful memory for faces, and always recognized families who paid a second visit to the town. "why, it's niver masther charlie, sure?" she exclaimed with delight, on meeting the chesters one day. "it's meself that knew the bright face of yez the moment i saw ut, though ye're growed such a foine young gintleman an' all. ye was staying at no. two years back with yer mamma--an illigant lady she was, too--and your sister, miss hilda, the swate little colleen. holy saints! this must be herself and none other, for it's not twice ye'd see such a pair of eyes and forgit them." what became of biddy during the winter, when there were no visitors to buy her fish, was an unsolved mystery. "sure, i makes what i can by the koindness of sthrangers during the summer toime!" she had replied when isobel once sounded her on the subject. "there's many a one as gives me an extra penny or two, or says, 'kape the change, biddy mulligan!' the blessed virgin reward them! thank you kindly, marm," as mrs. stewart took the hint. "may your bed in heaven be aisy, and may ye niver lack a copper to give to them as needs it." besides biddy, isobel had a number of other acquaintances in silversands. there was the coastguard at the cottage on the top of the cliffs, who sometimes allowed her to look through his telescope, and who had an interesting barometer in the shape of a shell-covered cottage with two doors, from one of which a little soldier appeared when it was going to be fine, while a nautical-looking gentleman in a blue jacket came out to give warning of wet weather. then there was the owner of the pleasure boats, who had promised to take her for a row entirely free of charge on the day before she was going home; and the bathing woman, who always tried to keep for her the van with the blue stripes and the brass hooks inside because she knew she liked it. the donkey boy had christened the special favourite with the new harness "_her_ donkey," and made it go with unwonted speed even on the outward journey (as a rule it galloped of its own accord when its nose was turned towards home); and the blind harpist by the railway station had waxed quite confidential on the subject of scottish ballads, and had allowed her to try his instrument. as for the members of the sea urchins' club, she felt as if she had known them all her life, and the sayings and doings of the chesters, the rokebys, the wrights, and the barringtons occupied a large part of her conversation. jolly as they were, none of them in isobel's estimation could compare with belle stuart, who from the first had claimed her as her particular chum. the two managed to spend nearly the whole of every day together, sometimes in company with the other children, or sometimes alone on the beach, hunting for shells and sea anemones, picking flowers, or just sitting talking in delicious idleness under the shade of a rock, listening to the dash of the waves and the screams of the sea gulls which were following the tide. "i'm not generally allowed to make friends with any one whom we don't know at home," belle had confided frankly. "but mother said you looked such a very nice lady-like little girl, she thought it wouldn't matter just for this once. i told her your father had been an officer, and she said of course that made a difference, but i really was to be careful, and not pick up odd acquaintances upon the beach, for she doesn't want me to talk to all sorts of people who aren't in our set of society, and might be very awkward to get rid of afterwards." isobel did not reply. she would never have dreamt of explaining that it was only due to her most urgent entreaties that she, on her part, had been allowed to pursue the friendship. mrs. stewart, from somewhat different motives, was quite as particular as belle's mother about chance acquaintances, and had been a little doubtful as to whether she was acting wisely in allowing isobel to spend so much of her time with companions of whom she knew nothing, and whether this new influence was such as she would altogether wish for her. "but i can't keep her wrapped up in cotton wool," she thought. "she has been such a lonely child that it's only right and natural she should like to make friends of her own age, especially when i'm not able to go about with her. she'll have to face life some time, and the sooner she begins to be able to distinguish the wheat from the chaff so much the better. thus far i've perhaps guarded her too carefully, and this is an excellent opportunity of throwing her on her own resources. i think i can trust her to stick to what she knows is right, and not be led astray by any silly notions. she'll soon discover that money and fine clothes don't represent the highest in life, and i believe it's best to let her find it out gradually for herself. she's like a little bird learning to fly; i've kept her long enough in the nest, and now i must stand aside and leave her to try her wings." for the present, at any rate, isobel could see no fault in her new friend. belle had completely won her heart. her charming looks; her fair, fluffy curls; her little, spoilt, coaxing ways; the clinging manner in which she seemed to depend upon others; her very helplessness and heedlessness; even the artless openness with which she sought for admiration--all appealed with an irresistible force to isobel's stronger nature. if it ever struck her that her companion was lacking in some of those qualities which she had been taught to consider necessary, she thrust the thought away as a kind of disloyalty; and if it were she who generally carried the heavy basket, searched for the lost ball, fetched forgotten articles, or did any of the countless small services which belle exacted almost as a matter of course from those around her, it certainly was without any idea of complaint. there are in this world always those who love and those who are loved, and isobel was ready with spendthrift generosity to offer her utmost in the way of friendship, finding belle's pretty thanks and kisses a sufficient reward for any trouble she might take on her account, and perhaps unconsciously realizing that even in our affections it is the givers more than the receivers who are the truly blessed. belle, who usually found a brief and fleeting attraction in any new friend, was pleased with isobel's devotion, and ready to be admired, petted, and waited on to any extent. i think, too, that, to do her justice, she was really an affectionate child, and at the time she was as fond of her friend as it was possible for her light little character to be. she would not have troubled to put herself out of the way for isobel, and it would not have broken her heart to part with her, but she enjoyed her company, and easily gave her the first place among the dozen bosom friends each of whom she had taken up in turn and thrown aside. one particular afternoon found the namesakes strolling arm in arm along the narrow sandy lane which led inland from the beach towards the woods and the hills behind. it was the most delightful lane, with high grassy banks covered with pink bindweed and tiny blue sheep's scabious, and bright masses of yellow bedstraw, and great clumps of mallows, with seed-vessels on them just like little cheeses, which you could gather and thread on pieces of cotton to make necklaces. there was a hedge at the top of the bank, too, where grew the beautiful twining briony, with its dark leaves and glossy berries; and long trails of bramble, where a few early blackberries could be discovered if you cared to reach for them; and down among the sand at the bottom of the ditch you might find an occasional horned poppy, or the curious flowers and glaucous prickly leaves of the sea holly. isobel, on the strength of a new bright-green tin vasculum, purchased only that very morning at the toy-shop near the station, and slung over her shoulder in the style of a student in a german picture-book, felt herself to be a full-fledged botanist, and rushed about in a very enthusiastic manner, scrambling up the banks after pink centaury, diving into the hedge bottom for campions, or getting her hair caught, like absalom, in a prickly rose-bush in a valiant endeavour to secure a particularly fine clump of harebells which were nodding in the breeze on the stones of the old wall. "they're perfectly lovely, aren't they?" she cried. "i've got fourteen different sorts of flowers already, and i'm sure some of them must be rare--anyway, i've never seen them before. i'm going to press them directly i get home. do you think this stump will bear me if i climb up for that piece of briony?" "i'm afraid it won't," said belle, fastening some of the harebells in her dress (they matched her blue sash and hat ribbons). "it looks fearfully rotten. there! i told you it wouldn't hold," as isobel descended with a crash. "and you're covered with sand and prickly burrs--such a mess!" "never mind," said isobel, the state of whose clothing rarely distressed her. "they'll brush off. but i must have the briony. i'll climb up by the wall if you'll hold these hips for a moment." "oh, do come along--that's a darling!" entreated belle. "i don't want to wait. they're only wild things, after all. i wish you could see our garden at home, full of lovely geraniums and fuchsias and lobelias, and the orchids and gloxinias in the conservatory. they're really worth looking at. carter, our gardener, takes tremendous pains with them, and he gets heaps of prizes at shows." "but i like wild flowers best," said isobel. "you can find them yourself in the hedges, and there are so many kinds. it's most exciting to hunt out their names in the botany book." "do you care for botany?" said belle. "i have it with miss fairfax, and i think it's hateful--all about corollas, and stigmas, and panicles, and umbels, and stupid long words i can't either remember or understand." "i haven't learnt any proper botany yet," said isobel, "only just some of the easy part; but when we come into the country mother and i always hunt for wild flowers, and then we press them and paste them into a book, and write the names underneath. we have eighty-seven different sorts at home, and i've found sixteen new ones since i came here, so i think that's rather good, considering we've only been at silversands a week. how hot it is in this lane! suppose we go round by the station and up the cliffs." the little lane with its high banks was certainly the most baking spot they could have chosen for a walk on a blazing august afternoon. the sun poured down with a steady glare, till the air seemed to quiver with the heat, and the only things which really enjoyed themselves were the grasshoppers, whose cheery chirpings kept up a perpetual concert. in the fields on either side the reapers had been busy, and tired-looking harvesters were hard at work binding the yellow corn and the scarlet poppies into sheaves. little groups of mothers and children and babies had come to help or look on, as the case might be, and brought with them cans of tea and checked handkerchiefs full of bread and butter. "don't they look jolly?" said isobel, peeping over the hedge to watch a family who were picnicking among the stooks, the father in a broad-brimmed rush hat, his corduroy trousers tied up with wisps of straw, wiping his hot forehead on his shirt sleeves; the mother putting the baby to roll on the corn, while she poured the tea into blue mugs; and the children, as brown as gypsies, sitting round in a circle eating slices of bread, and evidently enjoying the fun of the thing. "ye-e-s," said belle, somewhat doubtfully, "i suppose they do. are you fond of poor people?" "i like going with mother when she's district-visiting, because the women often let me nurse the babies. some of them are so sweet they'll come to me and not be shy at all." "aren't they rather dirty?" "no, not most of them. a few are beautifully clean. mother says she expects they know which day we're coming, and wash them on purpose." "babies are all very well when they're nicely dressed in white frocks and lace and corals," remarked belle, "so long as they don't pull your hair and scratch your face." "one day," continued isobel, "we went to the _crèche_--that's a place where poor people's children are taken care of during the day while their mothers are out working. there were forty little babies in cots round a large room--_such_ pets; and so happy, not one of them was crying. the nurse said they generally howl for a day or two after they're first brought in, and then they get used to it and don't bother any more. you see it wouldn't do to take up every single baby each time it began to cry." "i wish you'd tell that to the wrights; they give that 'popsie' of theirs whatever she shrieks for. she's a nasty, spoilt little thing. yesterday she caught hold of my pearl locket, and tugged it so hard she nearly strangled me, and broke the chain; and the locket fell into a pool, and i couldn't find it, though i hunted for half an hour. the nurse only babbled on, 'poor pet! didn't she get the pretty locket, then?' i felt so cross i wanted to smack both her and the baby." "and haven't you found the locket yet?" "no, and i never shall now; it's been high tide since then." "what a shame! i should have felt dreadfully angry. i don't like the wrights' nurse either. she borrowed my new white basket, and then let the children have it; and they picked blackberries into it, and stained it horribly. why, there's aggie wright now, with the rokebys. what _are_ they doing? they're hanging over that gate in the most peculiar manner. let us go and see." chapter vi. on the cliffs. "we saw the great ocean ablaze in the sun, and heard the deep roar of the waves." the gate in question proved to be the level crossing, which had just been closed by the man from the signal-box to allow a train to pass through. charlotte and aggie wright and five of the rokebys were all standing upon the bars, hanging over the top rail and gazing at the metals with such deep and intense interest that you would have thought they expected a railway accident at the very least, and were looking out for the smash. "what _is_ the matter?" cried belle and isobel, racing up to share in whatever excitement might be on hand. "do you see anything? is it a cow on the line?" "no," said bertie rokeby, balancing himself rather insecurely upon the gate post; "we're only waiting for the train to pass. we've put pennies on the rail, and the wheels going over them will flatten them out till they're nearly twice as big. you'd hardly believe what a difference it makes. would you like to try one? i'd just have time to climb down and put it on before the train comes up. i will in a minute, if you say the word." "i haven't a penny with me, i'm afraid," answered isobel, rummaging in her pockets, and turning out several interesting pebbles, a few shells, a mermaid's purse, and the remains of a spider crab. "stop a moment! no, it's only a button after all, and a horn one, too, that would be smashed to smithereens. if it had been a metal one i'd have tried it." "i've nothing but a halfpenny," said belle. "it's all i possess in the world till to-morrow, when i get my pocket-money. but do put it on, bertie; it would be fun to see how large it makes it." bertie climbed over the gate and popped the coin with the others on the rail, much to the agitation of the pointsman, who ran in great anger from the signal-box, shouting to him to get off the line, for the train was coming. he was barely in time, for in another moment the express came whirling by with such a roar and a rattle, and making such a blast of wind as it went, that the children had to shut their eyes and cling on tightly. "you'll get into trouble here if you get over them bars when i've shut 'em," grunted the pointsman surlily, opening the gates to admit a waiting cart from the other side. "i'll take your name next time as you tries it on, and report you to the inspector, and you'll get charged with trespassing on the company's property." "oh, bother!" cried bertie; "i wasn't doing any harm. i can take jolly good care of myself, so don't you worry about me." and he rushed impatiently after the others, who were already picking up their pennies from the rail. "it's crushed them ever so flat!" exclaimed aggie wright, triumphantly holding up a dinted copper which seemed to be several sizes too large. "you can scarcely see which is heads and which is tails," said arnold rokeby. "just look at my halfpenny," said belle; "it's twice as big as it was before." "why, so it is! any one would take it for a penny if they didn't look at it closely. come along. they want to shut the gates again for a luggage train, and we shall have to clear out. we're all going to the pixies' steps. are you two coming with us?" "no, i think not," replied belle. "it's too hot to walk so far. isobel and i just want to stroll about." "then good-bye. we're off.--come along, cecil. for goodness' sake don't go grubbing in the hedge now after caterpillars. even if it _is_ a woolly bear, you'll find plenty more another day.--here, arnold, you young monkey, give me my cap." and the rokebys tore away up the road with a characteristic energy that even the blazing august heat could not quench. "if we go behind hunt's farm," said isobel, "we can turn up the path to the churchyard, and get on to the cliffs just over the quay. it's a short cut, and much nicer than the road." so they crossed the line again by the footbridge, passing the station, where the porter, overcome with the heat, was having a comfortable snooze on his hand-barrow; then, facing towards the sea, they climbed the steep track which zigzagged up the face of the cliff to the old church. the door was open, and the children stole inside for a minute and stood quietly gazing round the nave. it was cool and shady there, with the rich glow from the stained-glass windows falling in checkered rays of blue and crimson and orange upon the twisted pillars and the carved oak pews. the choir was practising in the chancel, and as they sang, the sun, slanting through the diamond panes of the south transept, made a very halo of glory round the head of the ancient, time-worn monument of st. alcuin, the saxon abbot, below. crosier and mitre had long ago been chipped away by the ruthless hands of cromwell's soldiers, but they had spared the face, and the light shone full on the closed eyes and the calm, sleeping mouth. isobel moved a little nearer, trying to spell out the half-effaced letters of the inscription. she knew the story of how the pagan norsemen had sacked the abbey, and had murdered the abbot on the steps of the altar, where he had remained alone to pray when his monks had fled to safety; but the words were in latin, and she could not read them. "for all the saints who from their labours rest," chanted the choir softly, the music of their voices mingling strangely with the shouts of the children at play which rose up from the beach below. "he looks as though he were resting," thought isobel; "not dead--only just sleeping until he was wanted again. i suppose he's one of the 'saints in light' now. what a long, long time it is since he lived here! i wonder if he knows they built a church and called it st. alcuin's after him." "here's the verger coming," whispered belle, pulling at her hand. "i think we'd better go." "let us sit down; shall we?" said isobel, when they were out in the glare of the sunshine once more on the broad flagged path which led from the church door to the steps looking down on to the sea. "not here, though," replied belle; "i don't like gravestones--they make me feel horrid and creepy." "under the lich-gate, then," suggested isobel. "it'll be cooler, for it's in the shade, and there's a seat, too." "what a simply broiling day!" said belle, settling herself as luxuriously as possible in the corner, and pulling off her hat to fan her hot face. "i don't like such heat as this; it takes my hair out of curl," tenderly twisting one of her flaxen ringlets into its proper orthodox droop. "it's jolly here. we get a little wind, and we can watch everything all round," said isobel, sitting with her chin in her hands, and gazing over the water to where the herring fleet was tacking back to the harbour. the children could scarcely have chosen a sweeter spot to rest. below them lay the sea, a broad flat expanse of blue, getting a little hazy gray on the horizon, and with a greenish ripple where it neared the rocks, upon which its waves were always dashing with a dull, booming sound. the old town, with its red roofs and poppy-filled gardens, made such a spot of brightness against the blue sea that it suggested the brilliant colouring of a foreign port, all the more so in contrast to the gray tower of the church behind and the wind-swept yew trees which had somehow managed to survive the winter storms. the grass had been mown in the churchyard, and filled the air with a fragrant scent of hay; a big bumble-bee buzzed noisily over a bed of wild thyme under the wall, and a swallow was feeding a row of young ones upon the ridged roof of the sexton's cottage. in the great stretch of blue above, the little fleecy clouds formed themselves into snowy mountains with valleys and lakes between, a kind of dream country in purest white, and isobel wondered whether, if one could sail straight on to the very verge of the distance where sea and sky seemed to meet, one could slip altogether over the invisible line that bounds the horizon, and find oneself floating in that cloudland region. "it's like the edge of heaven," she thought. "i think the saints must live there, and the cherubim and seraphim much farther and higher up--right in the blue part. one could never see _them_; but perhaps sometimes on a day like this the saints might come back a little way out of the light and nearer to the earth where they used to live, and if one looked very hard one might manage to catch a glimpse of them just where the sun's shining on that white piece." "o blest communion! fellowship divine! we feebly struggle; they in glory shine!" came wafted through the open church door, the sound of the singing, rather far off and subdued, seeming to join in harmony with the lap of the waves, the hum of the bees, the cries of the sea-gulls, the twittering of the swallows, and all the other glad voices of nature. it looked such a beautiful, joyful, delightful, glorious world that isobel sat very quietly for a time just drinking in the sweet air and the sunshine, and feeling, without exactly knowing why, that it was good to be there. "are you asleep?" said belle at last, in an injured tone; "you haven't spoken to me for at least five minutes. i'm sure it must be getting near tea-time. let us go now." "all right," said isobel, recalling herself with a start--she had almost forgotten belle's existence for the moment. "it's so nice on these steps, one feels as if one were up above everything. it's like being on the roof of the world. perhaps that was why st. alcuin and the monks built the abbey here; it seems so very near to the sky." "what a queer girl you are sometimes!" said belle, looking at her curiously; "i believe you're fond of old churches and musty-fusty monuments. come along. we'll buy some sweets or some pears as we go home." it was a change indeed from the cliff top to the bustle and noise of the little town below. most of the fish-stalls were empty in the market, for the stock of herrings and mackerel had been sold off earlier in the day; but a travelling bazaar was in full swing, and exhibited a bewildering display of toys, tea-cups, mugs, tin cans, looking-glasses, corkscrews, and many other wonderful and miscellaneous articles, any of which might be bought for the sum of one penny. the main street, narrow and twisting, ran steeply uphill, the high gabled houses crowding each other as if they were trying to peep over one another's shoulders; from the side alleys came the mingled odours of sea-weed and frying fish, and a persistent peddler hawking brooms shouted himself hoarse in his efforts to sell his wares. under the wide archway at the corner by the market stood a tiny fruit-shop, where piles of plums and early apples, bunches of sweet peas and dahlias, baskets of tomatoes, lettuces, broad beans, cauliflowers, and cabbages, were set forth to tempt customers. "there are the most delicious-looking pears," said belle, peeping through the small square panes of the window, "and so cheap. i shall go in and get some." "yes, love, six for a penny," said the woman, a motherly-looking soul, as belle entered the shop and inquired the price. "they're fine and ripe now, and won't do you no harm. a pen'orth, did you say?" and picking out six of the best pears, she put them into a paper bag and handed them to belle, who, turning to leave the shop, laid down on the counter the coin which she had placed that afternoon on the railway line. the woman did not look at it particularly, but naturally supposing from the size that it was a penny, she swept it carelessly into the till. "belle! belle!" whispered isobel, catching her friend hastily by the arm as she went out through the door, "do you know what you've done? you paid her your big halfpenny instead of a penny." "oh, did i?" said belle, flushing. "i didn't notice. i never looked at it." "what a good thing i saw the mistake! give her a proper penny, and get the halfpenny back." belle fumbled in her pocket in vain. "i don't believe i have another penny, after all," she said at last. "i thought i had several. i must have lost them while we were up on the cliffs, i suppose." "what _are_ we to do?" exclaimed isobel anxiously. "we can't take the pears when we haven't paid for them properly; it would be stealing." "i'll bring her another halfpenny to-morrow," suggested belle. "but suppose before that she looks at the money and finds out; she'll think we have been trying to cheat her." "perhaps she won't remember who gave it to her." "oh! but that wouldn't make it any better," said isobel. "look here; let us take back the bag, and tell her we paid the wrong money, and ask her to give us only half the pears." "very well," answered belle. "you go in, will you? i don't like to." isobel seized the parcel, and quickly re-entered the shop. "i'm ever so sorry," she said breathlessly, "but we find we've made such a dreadful mistake. we meant to give you a penny, and it wasn't a penny at all--only a halfpenny squashed out flat on the railway line; so, please, will you take back half the pears, because we neither of us have a proper penny in our pockets." the woman laughed. "i didn't think to notice what you give me," she said. "but you're an honest little girl to come and tell me. no, i won't take back none of the pears. you're welcome to them, i'm sure." "it was very nice of her," said belle sweetly, peeling the juicy fruit slowly with her penknife as they turned away down the street. "so stupid of me to make such a mistake! have another, darling; they're quite delicious, though they are so small." isobel walked along rather silent and preoccupied. though she would not allow it to herself, down at the bottom of her heart there was the uncomfortable suspicion that belle had known all the time, and had meant to give the wrong coin. "she _couldn't_!" thought isobel. "she _must_ have made a mistake, and thought she really had a penny in her pocket. yet at the level crossing she certainly said the halfpenny was all she had until she got her weekly money to-morrow. perhaps she forgot. oh dear! i know she didn't mean to cheat or tell stories--i'm sure she wouldn't for the world--but somehow i _wish_ it hadn't happened." chapter vii. the "stormy petrel." "a boat, a boat is the toy for me, to rollick about in on river and sea, to be a child of the breeze and the gale, and like a wild bird on the deep to sail-- this is the life for me." the united sea urchins' recreation society usually met every morning upon the strip of green common underneath the cliffs which they had appropriated to their own use, and were prepared to hold against all comers. the rokebys, who were enthusiastic bathers, had a tent upon the shore, and spent nearly half the morning in the sea, where they could float, swim on their backs, tread water, and even turn head over heels, much to the envy of the wrights, who made valiant efforts to emulate these wonderful feats, and nearly drowned themselves in the attempt. the two little barringtons were solemnly bathed each day by their mother in a specially-constructed roofless tent, which was fixed upon four poles over a hole previously dug in the sand, and filled by the advancing tide. here they were obliged to sit for ten minutes in the water, with the sun pouring down upon them till the small tent resembled a vapour bath, after which they were massaged according to the treatment recommended by a certain heidelberg doctor in whom mrs. barrington had great faith, and whose methods she insisted upon carrying out to the letter, in spite of ruth's indignant remonstrances and edna's wails. "ruth says bathing's no fun at all," confided isobel to her mother; "and i shouldn't think it is, if you can't splash about in the sea and enjoy yourself. mrs. barrington won't let them try to swim, and they just have to sit in a puddle inside the tent, while she flings cans of sea-water down their backs. edna says the hot sun makes the skin peel off her, and she can't bear the rubbing afterwards. her clothes fridge her, too; they always wear thick woollen under-things even in this blazing weather, their mother's so afraid of them taking a chill." "poor children!" said mrs. stewart; "i certainly think they have rather a bad time. it must be very hard to be brought up by rule, and to have so many experiments tried upon you." "ruth says she has one comfort, though," continued isobel: "they're allowed to speak english all the time during the holidays. at home they have a german governess, and they talk french one day, and german the next, and english only on sundays. ruth hates languages. she won't speak a word to mademoiselle, but she says the wrights simply talk cat-french--it's half of it english words--although they're so conceited about it, and generally say something out very loud if they think anybody is passing, even if it's only _il fait beau aujourd'hui_, or _comment vous portez-vous?_ the rokebys poke terrible fun at them; they've made up a gibberish language of their own, and they talk it hard whenever the wrights let off french. it makes charlotte and aggie quite savage, because they know they're talking about them, only they can't understand a word." * * * * * "what's the club going to do to-day?" asked bertie rokeby one morning, looking somewhat damp and moist after his swim. ("he never _will_ dry himself properly," said mrs. rokeby; "he just gets into his clothes as he is, and he's sitting down on the old boat just where the sun has melted the pitch, and it will be sure to stick to his trousers.") "don't know," said harold wright, lolling comfortably in the shade of a rock, with his head on his rolled-up jacket; "too hot to race round with the thermometer over °. i shall stay where i am, with a book." "get up, you fat porpoise! you'll grow too lazy to walk. unless you mean to stop and swat at greek like old arthur." "no, thanks," laughed harold. "i'm not in for a scholarship yet, thank goodness! i'm just going to kick my heels here. the _dolce far niente_, you know." "let us go down to the quay," suggested charlie chester, "and watch the boats come in. it's stunning to see them packing all the herrings into barrels, and flinging the mackerel about. some of the men are ever so decent: they let you help to haul in the ropes, and take you on board sometimes." "shall we go too?" said belle, who, with her arm as usual round isobel's waist, stood among the group of children; "it's rather fun down by the quay, if you don't get _too_ near the fish.--are you coming, aggie?" "yes, if charlotte and mademoiselle will go too.--mam'zelle, voulez-vous aller avec nous à voir le fish-market?" mademoiselle shivered slightly, as if aggie's french set her teeth on edge. "qu'est-ce que c'est, chère enfant, cette 'feesh markeet'?" she replied. "i don't know whether i can quite explain it in french," replied aggie; but seeing the rokebys come up, she made a desperate effort to sustain her character as a linguist. "c'est l'endroit où on vend le poisson, vous savez." unfortunately she pronounced _poisson_ like the english "poison," and mademoiselle held up her dainty little hands with a shriek of horror. "vere zey sell ze poison! non, mon enfant! you sall nevaire take me zere! madame wright, see not permit zat you go! c'est impossible!" "it's all right, mademoiselle," said arthur, taking his nose for a moment out of his dictionary. "aggie only meant _poisson_. the mater'll let the kids go, if you want to take 'em." "come along, mademoiselle, do!" said charlie chester cordially. "venez avec moi! that's about all the french i can talk, because at school we only learn to write exercises about pens and ink and paper, and the gardener's son, and lending your knife to the uncle of the baker; a jolly silly you'd be if you did, too! you'd never get it back. suivez-moi! and come and see the _poisson_. you'll enjoy it if you do." "i'm sure she wouldn't," said charlotte wright, who liked to keep her governess to herself. "we haven't time, either--we must do our translation before dinner; and joyce and eric can't go unless we're there to look after them." "all right; don't, then! we shan't grieve," retorted charlie. "we'll go with the rokebys." but the rokebys, though ready, as a rule, to go anywhere and everywhere, on this particular occasion were due at the railway station to meet a cousin who was arriving that morning; so it ended in only belle and isobel, with charlie and hilda chester, setting off for the old town. the quay was a busy, bustling scene. the herring-fleet had just come in, and it was quite a wonderful sight to watch the fish, with their shining iridescent colours, leaping by hundreds inside the holds. they were flung out upon the jetty, and packed at once into barrels, an operation which seemed to demand much noise and shouting on the part of the fishermen in the boats, and to call for a good deal of forcible language from their partners on shore. the small fry and cuttle-fish were thrown overboard for the sea-gulls, that hovered round with loud cries, waiting to pounce upon the tempting morsels, while the great flat skate and dog-fish were put aside separately. "they're second-rate stuff, you see," explained charlie chester, who, with his hands in his pockets and his most seaman-like gait, went strolling jauntily up and down the harbour, inspecting the cargoes, trying the strength of the cables, peeping into the barrels with the knowing air of a connoisseur of fish, and generally putting himself where he was decidedly not wanted. "they only pack the herrings, and they salt and dry the others in the sun. you can see them dangling outside their cottage doors all over the town, and smell them too, i should say. when they're quite hard they hammer them out flat, and send them to whitechapel for the jews to buy--at least that's what the mate of the _penelope_ told me the other day." "they eat them themselves too," said hilda. "i went inside a cottage one day, and they were frying some for dinner. the woman gave me a taste, but it was perfectly horrid, and i couldn't swallow it. i had to rush outside round the corner and spit it out." "you disgusting girl!" said belle, picking her way daintily between the barrels; "i wonder you could touch it, to begin with! why, here are the women coming with the cockles. what a haul they've had! there's old biddy at the head of them." "so she is!" cried charlie; "her basket looks almost bursting!--hullo, biddy!-- 'in dublin's fair city, where girls are so pretty, there once lived a maiden named molly malon she wheeled a wheelbarrow through streets wide and narrow, singing, "cockles and mussels alive, alive-o!"' change it into biddy, and there you are! i've an eye for an 'illigant colleen' when i see her!" "sure, ye're at yer jokes agin, masther charlie," laughed biddy; "colleen, indade, and me turned sixty only the other day! if it weren't for the kreel on me back, i'd be afther yez." "i'd like to see you catch me," cried charlie, as he jumped on a heap of barrels, bringing the whole pile with a crash to the ground, greatly to the wrath of the owner, who expressed his views with so much vigour that the children judged it discreet to adjourn farther on along the quay. they strolled past the storehouse, and round the corner to where a flight of green slimy steps led down to the water. there was an iron ring here in the sea wall, and tied to it by a short cable was the jolliest pleasure boat imaginable, newly painted in white and blue, with her name, the stormy _petrel_, in gilt letters on the prow, her sail furled, and a pair of sculls lying ready along her seats. "she's a smart craft," said charlie, reaching down to the painter, and pulling the boat up to the steps. "i vote we get inside her, and try what she feels like." "will they let us?" asked isobel. "we won't ask them," laughed charlie. "it's all right; we shan't do any harm. they can turn us out if they want her. come along." and he held out his hand. it was such a tempting proposal that it simply was not in human nature to resist, and the three little girls hopped briskly into the boat, belle and isobel settling themselves in the bows, and hilda taking a seat in the stern. "it almost feels as if we were really sailing," said isobel, as the boat danced upon the green water, pulling at its painter as though it were anxious to break away and follow the ebbing tide. "she'd cut through anything, she's so sharp in the bows," said charlie, handling the sculls lovingly, and looking out towards the mouth of the harbour, where long white-capped waves flecked the horizon. "can't you take us for a row, charlie?" cried belle; "it's so jolly on the water." "yes, do, charlie," echoed hilda; "it would be such fun." "do you mean, go for a real sail?" asked isobel, rather aghast at such a daring proposal. "oh, we'd only take her for a turn round the harbour, and be back before any one missed her. it would be an awful lark," said charlie. "but not without a boatman!" remonstrated isobel. "why not? i know all about sailing," replied charlie confidently, for, having been occasionally taken yachting by his father, and having picked up a number of nautical terms, which he generally used wrongly, he imagined himself to be a thorough jack tar. "wouldn't you like it? i thought you were fond of the sea." "so i am," said isobel; "but i don't think we ought to go without asking. it's not our boat, and the man she belongs to mightn't like us to take her out by ourselves." "i suppose you're afraid," sneered charlie; "most girls are dreadful land-lubbers. hilda's keen enough; and as for belle, she's half wild to go, i can see." "i should think i am; and what's more, i mean to!" declared belle; and settling the dispute as alexander of old untied the gordian knot, she took her penknife from her pocket, and leaning over, cut the painter off sharp. "_now_ you've done it!" cried charlie. "well, we're off, at any rate, so we may as well enjoy ourselves.--hilda, you must steer while i row. if you watch me feather my oars, you'll see i can manage the thing in ripping style." there was such a strong ebb tide that charlie had really no need to row. the boat went skimming over the waves as if she had been a veritable stormy petrel, sending the water churning round her bows. although all four children felt a trifle guilty, they could not help enjoying the delightful sensation of that swift-rushing motion over the sea. nearly all anglo-saxons have a love for the water: perhaps some spirit of the old vikings still lingers in our blood, and thrills afresh at the splash of the waves, the dash of the salt spray, and the fleck of the foam on our faces. there is a feeling of freedom, a sense of air, and space, and dancing light, and soft, subdued sound that blend into one exhilarating joy, when, with only a plank between us and the racing water, it is as if nature took us in her arms and were about to carry us away from every trammel of civilization, somewhere into that far-off land that lies always just over the horizon--that lost atlantis which the old navigators sought so carefully, but never found. isobel sat in the bows, her hand locked in belle's. she felt as if they were birds flying through space together, or mermaids who had risen up from the sea-king's palace to take a look at the sun-world above, and were floating along as much a part of the waves as the great trails of bladder-wrack, or the lumps of soft spongy foam that whirled by them. charlie rested on his sculls and let the boat take her course for a while; she was heading towards the bar, straight out from the cliffs and the harbour to where the heavy breakers, which dashed against the lighthouse, merged into the rollers of the open sea. "aren't we going out rather a long way?" said belle at last. "we've passed the old schooner and the dredger, and we're very nearly at the buoy. we don't want to sail quite to america, though it's jolly when we skim along like this. if we don't mind we shall be over the bar in a few minutes." "by jove! so we shall!" cried charlie. "i didn't notice we'd come so far. we must bring her round.--get her athwart, hilda, quick!" "i suppose if you pull one line it goes one way, and if you pull the other line it goes the other way," said hilda, whose first experience it was with the tiller, giving such a mighty jerk as an experiment that she swung the boat half round. "easy abaft!" shouted charlie. "do you want to capsize us? turn her to starboard; she's on the port tack. put up the helm, and make her luff!" "what _do_ you mean?" cried hilda, utterly bewildered by these nautical directions. "you little idiot, don't tug so hard! you'll be running us into the buoy. look here! you can't steer. just drop these lines. i'd better ship the oars and hoist the sail, and then i can take the tiller myself. there's a stiffish breeze; i can tack her round, you'll see, if i've no one interfering. now let me get my bearings." "are you sure you know how?" asked belle uneasily. "haven't i watched old jordan do it a hundred times?" declared charlie. "i'll soon have the canvas up. i say, look out there! the blooming thing's heavier than i thought." "oh, do be careful!" entreated belle, as the sail went up in a very peculiar fashion, and beginning to fill with the breeze sent the boat heeling sharply over. "she'll be perfectly right if i slack out. the wind's on our beam," replied charlie; "i must get her a-lee." "you're going to upset us!" exclaimed belle, for the sail was flapping about in such a wild and unsteady manner as seemed to threaten to overturn the little vessel. "not if i make this taut," cried charlie, hauling away with all his strength.--"hilda, that was a near shave!" as the unmanageable canvas, swelling out suddenly, caught her a blow on the side of her head and nearly swept her from the boat. hilda gave a shriek of terror and clung wildly to the gunwale. "o charlie!" she cried, "take us back. i don't like sailing. i want to go home." "oh! why did we ever come?" shrieked belle, jumping up in her seat and wringing her hands. "you'll send us to the bottom." "sit still, dear," cried isobel. "you'll upset the boat if you move so quickly.--charlie, i think you'd better take down that sail and try the sculls again. if you'll let me steer perhaps i could manage better than hilda, and we could turn out of the current; it's taking us straight to sea. if we can head round towards the quay we might get back." "all serene," said charlie, furling his canvas with secret relief. "there ought to be several, really, for this job; it takes more than one to sail a craft properly, and none of you girls know how to help." he gave isobel a hand as she moved cautiously into the stern, and settling her with the ropes, he once more took up the oars. "i shall come too," wailed belle. "i can't stay alone at this end of the boat. isobel, it's horrid of you to leave me." "sit still," commanded charlie. "it's you who'll have us over if you jump about like that. we can't all be at one end, i tell you. you must stop where you are." he made a desperate effort to turn the boat, but his boyish arms were powerless against the strength of the ebbing tide, and they were swept rapidly towards the bar. "it's no use," said charlie at last, shipping his sculls; "i can't get her out of this current. we shall just have to drift on till some one sees us and picks us up." "o charlie!" cried hilda, her round chubby face aghast with horror, "shall we float on for days and days without anything to eat, or be shipwrecked on a desert island like robinson crusoe, and have to cling to broken masts and spars?" "we're all right; don't make such a fuss!" said charlie, glancing uneasily, however, at the long waves ahead. they were crossing the bar, and the water was rough outside the harbour. "i _know_ we're going to be drowned!" moaned belle. "it's your fault, charlie. you ought never to have brought us." "well, i like that!" retorted charlie, with some heat, "when it was you who first thought of it, and asked me to take you. i suppose you'll be saying i cut the painter next." "you want to throw the blame on me!" declared belle. "no, i don't; but there's such a thing as fair play." "o charlie, it doesn't matter whose fault it was now," said isobel. "i suppose in a way it's all our faults for getting in, to begin with. couldn't we somehow raise a signal of distress? suppose you tie my handkerchief to the scull, and hoist it up like a flag. some ship might notice it." "not a bad idea," said charlie, who by this time wished himself well out of the scrape. "you've a head on your shoulders, though i did call you a land-lubber." between them they managed to tie on the handkerchief and hoist the oar, and as their improvised flag fluttered in the wind they hoped desperately that it might bring some friendly vessel to their aid. they had quite cleared the harbour by now; the sea was rough, and the current still carried them on fast. isobel sat with her arm round poor little hilda, who clung to her very closely, watching the water with a white, frightened face, though she was too plucky to cry. belle, who had completely lost self-control, was huddled down in the bows, shaking with hysterical sobs, and uttering shrieks every time the boat struck a bigger wave than usual. "i wonder no one in the harbour noticed us set off," said isobel after a time, when the land seemed to be growing more and more distant behind them. "they were busy packing the herrings," replied charlie, "and you see we started from round the corner. our only chance now is meeting some boat coming from ferndale. i say! do you think that's a sail over there?" "it is!" cried isobel. "let us hold the flag up higher, and we'll call 'help!' as loud as we can. sound carries so far over water, perhaps they might hear us." "ahoy there!" yelled charlie, with the full strength of his lungs. "boat ahoy!" and hilda and isobel joining in, they contrived amongst them to raise a considerably lusty shout. to their intense relief it seemed to be heard, as the ship tacked round, and bearing down upon them, very soon came up alongside. "well, of all sights as ever i clapped eyes on! four bairns adrift in an open craft! i thought summat was up when i see'd your flag, and then you hollered.--easy there, jim. take the little 'un on first. mind that lad! he'll be overboard!--whisht, honey! don't take on so. you'll soon be safe back with your ma.--now, missy, give me your hand. ay, you've been up to some fine games here, i'll wager, as you never did ought. but there! bairns will be bairns, and i should know, for i've reared seven." "mr. binks!" cried isobel, to whom the ruddy cheeks, the bushy eyebrows, and the good-natured conversational voice of her friend of the railway train were quite unmistakable. "why, it's little missy as were comin' to silversands!" responded the old man. "to think as i should 'a met you again like this! i felt as if somethin' sent me out this mornin' over and above callin' at ferndale for a load of coals, which would 'a done to-morrow just as well. it's the workin's of providence as we come on this tack, or you might 'a been right out to sea, and, ten to one, upset in that narrer bit of a boat." it certainly felt far safer in mr. binks's broad-bottomed fishing-smack, though they had to sit amongst the coals and submit to be rather searchingly and embarrassingly catechised as to how they came to be in such a perilous situation. their plight had been noticed at last from the harbour, where the owner of the boat, missing his craft, had raised a hue-and-cry, and there was quite a little crowd gathered to meet them on the jetty when they landed, a crowd which expressed its satisfaction at their timely rescue, or its disapproval of their escapade, according to individual temperament. "praise the saints ye're not drownded entoirely!" cried biddy, giving charlie a smacking kiss, much to his disgust. "and it's ould biddy mulligan as saw the peril ye was in, and asked st. pathrick and the blessed virgin to keep an eye on yez. holy st. bridget! but ye're a broth of a boy, afther all." "i'm main set to give you a jolly good hidin'," growled the owner of the boat, greeting charlie with a somewhat different reception, and fingering a piece of rope-end as if he were much tempted to put his threat into execution. "don't you never let me catch you on this quay again, meddlin' with other folk's property, if you want to keep your skin on you." "he really was most dreadfully angry," isobel told her mother in the graphic account which she gave afterwards of the adventure. "but charlie said how very sorry we were. he took the whole blame to himself, though it wasn't all his fault by any means, and he offered to pay for having borrowed the boat. then the man said he spoke up like a gentleman, and he wouldn't take his money from him; and mr. binks said bairns would be bairns, and it was a mercy we hadn't gone to the bottom; and the man shook hands with charlie, and said he was a plucky little chap, with a good notion of handling a sail, and he'd take him out some time and show him how to do it properly. and mr. binks said i'd never been to see him yet, and i told him you'd sprained your ankle and couldn't walk, but it was getting better nicely, and you'd soon be able to; and he said, would we write and give him warning when we'd made up our minds, and his missis should bake a cranberry cake on purpose, and if we came early, he'd row us over to see the balk. i said we should be very pleased, because you'd promised before that you'd go. so you will, won't you, mother?" "i shall be only too glad to have an opportunity of thanking him," said mrs. stewart. "i feel i owe him a big debt of gratitude to-day. perhaps in the meantime we can think of some pretty little present to take with us that would please him and his wife, as a slight return for his kindness. you would have time to embroider a tea-cosy if i were to help you." "that would be lovely," said isobel. "and then they could use it every day at tea-time. we could work a teapot on one side and a big 'b' on the other for binks. i'm sure they'd like that. may i go and buy the materials this afternoon? i brought my thimble with me and my new scissors in the green silk bag. i feel as if i should like to begin and make it at once." chapter viii. cross-purposes. "though a truth to outward seeming, yet a truth it may not prove." although mrs. stewart had now been more than ten days at silversands she had not yet received any reply to the letter which she had dispatched with so many heart-burnings on the evening of her arrival. "does he mean to ignore it altogether?" she asked herself. "will he never forgive? can he allow his grandchild, the only kith and kin that is left to him, to be within a few miles and not wish at least to see her? does he still think me the scheming adventuress that he called me in the first heat of his anger, and imagine i am plotting to get hold of his money? i would not touch one penny of it for myself, but i think it is only right and fair that isobel should be sent to a really good school. it would be such a small expense to him out of his large income, and it is simply impossible for me to manage it. i have done my best for her so far, but she is so quick and bright that she will very soon be growing beyond my teaching. he will surely realize that for the credit of his own name something ought to be done. perhaps he may be ill or away, and has not been able to attend to my letter. i must have patience for a little longer, and wait and see whether he will not send me an answer." the waiting seemed very long and tedious to poor mrs. stewart as she lay through those hot summer days on the hard horsehair sofa of the small back sitting-room at no. marine terrace. as the lonely hours passed away, the lines of trouble deepened in her forehead, and she stitched so many cares into the winter night-dresses she was beguiling the time by making that every gusset and hem seemed a reminder of some anxious thought for the future. in the meantime isobel remained sublimely unconscious of her mother's hopes and fears. to her the visit to silversands was nothing but the most glorious holiday she had spent in her life, and her jolly times with the sea urchins, and especially the delight of her friendship with belle, made the days fly only too fast. the latter was still as clinging and affectionate as ever, and would scarcely allow isobel out of her sight. "i'd rather be with you, darling, than with any one else," she declared enthusiastically. "i used to think i liked winnie rokeby, but she was very unkind once or twice, and told such nasty tales about me, actually trying to make out i was selfish, just because i wanted her to do one or two little things for me that _you_ don't mind doing in the least. she splashed sea-water all over my best white silk dress too, and i'm sure it was on purpose, and she said my hair looked exactly like sticks of barley-sugar." and belle tossed back her curls as if indignant yet at the remembrance. "she really _is_ fond of me," said isobel to her mother. "and it's so nice of her, because, you see, although she doesn't care for winnie rokeby, she might have had aggie wright or ruth barrington for her special friend; she knows them both at home, and goes to all their parties. charlotte wright says it's too hot to last, but that's just because aggie was jealous that belle didn't ask her to go to tea the day i went; and letty rokeby says we're bound to have a quarrel sooner or later, but i'm sure we shan't, for there never seems anything to quarrel about, and i couldn't imagine being out of friends with belle." on the afternoon following isobel's adventure in the _stormy petrel_, any one seated in the front windows of marine terrace might have been interested in the movements of an elderly gentleman, who for the last ten minutes had been slowly pacing up and down the broad gravel path in front. he was a very stately old gentleman, with iron-gray hair and a long, drooping moustache; he held himself erect, too, as if he were at parade, and he had that air of quiet dignity and command which is habitual to those who are accustomed to seeing their orders promptly obeyed. whether he was merely enjoying the fresh air and scenery, or whether he was waiting for somebody, it was difficult to tell, since he now lighted a cigar in a leisurely fashion, and cast an anxious, quick look towards the houses, and, frowning slightly, would walk away, then come back again as if he were drawn by some magnet towards the spot, and must return there even against his will. he was just passing the garden of no. when the front door opened, and belle, who had been spending an hour with isobel, sauntered down the path, and closing the gate behind her, seated herself upon one of the benches which the town council had put up that summer on the gravel walk in front of marine terrace, as a kind of earnest of the promenade which they hoped might follow in course of time. she spread out her pretty pink muslin dress carefully upon the seat, rearranged her hat to her satisfaction, and slowly fastened the buttons of her long kid gloves. it was too early to go home yet, she thought, for her mother was out with friends, and their tea-time was not until five o'clock, so she sat watching the sea and the fishing-boats, and drawing elaborate circles with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. she was quite unaware that she was being very keenly observed by the old gentleman, who, having followed her, walked past once or twice with an undecided air, and finally settled himself upon the opposite end of the bench where she was sitting. "that's certainly the address she gave me," he muttered to himself, "and it might possibly be the child. she tallies a little with the description; she's fair, and not bad-looking, though i don't see a trace of the stewarts in her face. as for resembling my isobel--well, of course, that was only a scheme on the mother's part to try and arouse my interest in her. what the letter said is true enough, all the same: if she's my grandchild it isn't right that she should be brought up in penury, and i suppose i must send her to school, or provide in some way for her. i can't say i'm much taken with her looks. she's too dressed-up for my taste. where did her mother find the money to buy those fal-lals? it doesn't accord with the lack of means she complained of. i wonder if i could manage to ask her name without giving myself away." he took a newspaper from his pocket, and spreading it out, pretended to read, stealing occasional glances in belle's direction, and racking his brains for a suitable method of opening a conversation. belle, who was beginning to be rather tired of her occupation, and was half thinking of moving farther on or going home, became suddenly conscious that she seemed to be arousing an unusual degree of interest in her companion at the other end of the bench. constantly petted and admired by her mother's friends, she was accustomed to receive a good deal of attention, and it struck her that a short chat with this distinguished-looking stranger might beguile her monotony until tea-time. she therefore let her fluffy curls fall round her face in the way that an artist had once painted them, and began to cast coy looks from under her long lashes in his direction, hoping that he might speak to her; both of which methods she usually found very engaging with elderly gentlemen, who generally asked her whose little girl she was, and ended by saying she was a charming child, and they wished they owned her, or some other remark equally flattering and gratifying. in this case however, her pretty ways did not seem to have their due effect; either the old gentleman was really shy himself, or he found a difficulty in starting, for though he cleared his throat several times, as if he were on the very point of speaking, he seemed to change his mind, and kept silence. somewhat disappointed, belle nevertheless was not easily baffled, and after having sighed, coughed, opened and shut her parasol, taken off her gloves and put them on again, thereby exhibiting the small turquoise ring that was her greatest delight, and finally even got up a sneeze, all without any result, she at last pulled off her bracelet, and in refastening it managed with considerable skill to let it drop on the ground and roll almost to her companion's feet. it was but natural that he should pick it up and hand it to her. "oh, thank you so much!" exclaimed belle, in what some one had once called her "parisian" manner. "it was so careless of me to drop it, and i wouldn't have lost it for the world. things so easily roll away on the shore, don't they?" "i suppose they do," replied the colonel. "it certainly isn't wise to send your trinkets spinning about the sands." "i value that one, too," said belle, shaking her curls, "because, you see, it was a present. a friend of mother's gave it to me on my last birthday. he was going to choose a book at first--he always sent me books before, the most terrible ones: shakespeare, and lamb's 'essays,' and ruskin, and stupid things like that, which i shan't ever care to read, even when i'm grown up--so this birthday i asked him if he would give me something really nice; and he laughed, and brought me this dear little bangle, and said he expected it would suit miss curly-locks better than solid reading." "ugh!" grunted her new acquaintance, with so ambiguous an expression that belle could not make out whether he sympathized or not; but as he put down his paper, and seemed quite ready to listen to her, she went on. "it's very nice at silversands. mother and i have been here nearly a fortnight. we think the air's bracing, and the lodgings are really not bad for a little place like this. one doesn't expect a hotel." "are you staying in marine terrace?" "yes; it's the nicest part, because you get the view of the sea. i don't like the rooms near the station at all. mother looked at some of them first, but there were such dreadfully vulgar children stopping there. 'this won't do, belle,' she said. 'i couldn't have you in the same house with people of that sort.'" "is your name belle?" "yes, isabelle stuart; but it's generally shortened to belle. mother says a pet name somehow seems to suit me better. last winter i went to a party dressed all in blue, and everybody called me 'little bluebell,' and asked if i came from fairyland." she paused here, thinking the old gentleman might take the opportunity to put in a compliment; but he did not rise to the occasion, so she continued,-- "other people asked if i were one of the bluebells of scotland; but we're not scotch, although our name's stuart. my father was english. i can't remember him properly, i was so little when he died, but mother always says i'm his very image." "rubbish!" growled the colonel suddenly. "why!" exclaimed belle, in astonishment, "how can you tell? you didn't know him? he was very tall and fair, mother says, and _so_ handsome. she cries when i talk about him, so i don't like to speak of him very often." "what is she doing for you in the way of lessons? is it all parties and trinkets, or do you ever do anything useful?" asked her companion. "of course i have lessons," replied belle with dignity, feeling rather hurt at his tone. "i learn french, and drawing, and music, and dancing, and a great many other things." "and which do you like best?" "i don't know. i'm not very fond of history or geography, but mother hopes i'll get on with music. it's so useful to be able to play well, you see, when one comes out. i think i like the dancing lessons most; we learn such delightful fancy steps. some of us did a skirt dance at the cavalry bazaar last winter, and i was the queen of the butterflies. i had a white dress lined with yellow and turquoise, and i shook it out like this when i danced, to show the colours. people clapped ever so much, and it was such a success we had to do it over again, in aid of the hospital. our mistress wants to get up a flower dance for the exhibition _fête_ next winter, and she promised i should be the rose queen, but mother says perhaps i may go to school before then." "time you did, too--high time--and to a school where they put something in the girls' heads," remarked the colonel, almost as if he were thinking aloud. "it ought to be history and geography, instead of bluebells and rose queens. i don't approve of capering about on a stage in fancy dress." belle was much offended. the conversation had not turned out nearly so interesting as she expected. instead of being appreciated, she had an uneasy sensation that the old gentleman was making fun of her; and as this was not at all to her taste, she thought it time to beat a retreat; so, noticing the wrights approaching in the distance, she rose and put up her parasol. "i see some of my friends," she said, in what she hoped was rather a chilling manner, "and i must go and speak to them." and to show her displeasure, she marched off without deigning even to say good-bye. colonel stewart sat watching her as she walked away, with a somewhat peculiar expression on his face. "worse than i could ever have imagined!" he groaned. "vain, shallow, and empty-headed, caring for nothing but pleasure and showing herself off in public places decked out like a ballet dancer! she's pretty enough in a superficial kind of way--the sort of beauty you get in a doll, with neither mind nor soul behind it. _she_ worthy of the name, indeed! oh, my poor boy! is this the child on whom you had set such high hopes? and is this little french fashion-plate really and truly the last of the stewarts?" chapter ix. silversands tower. "say, what deeds of ancient valour do thy ruined walls recall?" four o'clock on the next afternoon found belle tapping at the door of the little back sitting-room in no. with a very important face. "why, what's the matter?" she exclaimed, as she entered in response to mrs. stewart's "come in," for isobel was sitting in the big armchair propped up with cushions, looking as limp as a rag and as white as a small ghost. "it's only one of her bad headaches," replied mrs. stewart; "i think it must be the heat. she ought not to have played cricket this morning in the blazing sun.--no, isobel, you mustn't try to get up. belle may sit here and talk to you for a few minutes, but i'm afraid i can't ask her to stay long." "i'm _so_ sorry!" said belle, sitting down on the arm of the big chair and squeezing her friend's hand. "i've brought an invitation. it's mother's birthday on saturday, and she's going to give a picnic at silversands tower, and ask all the sea urchins. won't it be splendid fun? you simply _must_ be better by then. it will be quite a large party: mr. chester and a good many other grown-up people are coming.--mother wonders if your foot will be well enough, mrs. stewart? she would be so pleased to see you, if you don't mind so many children." "thank you, dear; but i can scarcely manage to hobble on to the beach at present," replied mrs. stewart, "so i fear it is out of the question for me, much as i should have enjoyed it. isobel, of course, will be only too delighted to accept. i believe the very thought of it is chasing away her headache." "we're to drive there on two coaches," said belle, "and have tea in the ruins, and afterwards we can play games or ramble about in the woods. there'll be twelve grown-up people and twenty children. we didn't invite the wrights' baby, because mother said it was too young, and she really couldn't stand it. she's asked all the rokebys, even cecil, though he _is_ rather a handful sometimes; but mr. rokeby's coming, i expect, and he'll keep him in order. the wrights are bringing an aunt who's just arrived back from a visit to paris. i'm afraid we shall scarcely get them to talk english. and mrs. barrington hasn't decided yet whether she'll let ruth and edna go--she says it depends upon how they do their health exercises; but they're going to try and get their father to persuade her. well, i mustn't stay now if your head aches, but i'm very glad you can come; i think we shall have a glorious time, and i _do_ hope saturday will be fine." not one of the numerous members of the sea urchins' club could have been more anxious for a brilliant day than isobel. she tapped the glass in the hall with much solicitude, and even paid a visit to her friend the coastguard to inquire his opinion as to the state of the weather; and having carefully examined a threatening bank of clouds through his telescope, and ascertained that the objectionable little sailor was peeping from his barometer, she came home in rather low spirits, in spite of his assurances that "if it did splash a bit, it wouldn't be nowt." luckily her fears proved groundless. saturday turned out everything that could be desired in the way of sun and breeze, and two o'clock found a very excited group of children gathered outside marine terrace, where two yellow coaches, hired specially from ferndale for the occasion, were in waiting to drive the party to the tower. barton, mrs. stuart's maid, was busy packing the insides with baskets of tea-cups and hampers of provisions, and some of the smaller boys had already climbed to the top with a view of securing the box-seats, whence they were speedily evicted by the younger guard, who had his own notions about reserving the best places, and who, having already had a scuffle with arnold rokeby on the subject of the unauthorized blowing of his horn, was disposed to resent undue interference with his privileges. there were quite enough older people to keep the children in order, which seemed a fortunate thing, to judge from the effervescing nature of their spirits. mrs. stuart had invited several of her friends, among the number an athletic young curate named mr. browne, who tucked both arnold and bertie rokeby easily under one arm, and held them there as in a vice, while he dangled charlie chester in mid-air with the other hand--a feat of prowess which so excited their admiration that they clung to him like burrs for the rest of the afternoon. the wrights had turned up in full force, with the aunt and mademoiselle, and were commenting upon the horses and the general arrangements in their best english-french; while even the little barringtons had been allowed, after all, to join the fun, though at the last moment, much to ruth's disgust, their mother had decided to accompany them, to see that they did not race about in the sun or eat indigestible delicacies. it took a long time to settle all the guests in their seats, and to stow away the lively members of the party where they could not get into mischief, yet would not interfere with the comfort of their more sober-minded elders, was as difficult a problem as the well-known puzzle of the fox, the goose, and the bag of corn; but eventually things were arranged to everybody's satisfaction. bertie rokeby, who had announced his intention of taking the journey hanging on to the leather strap at the back beside the guard, was safely wedged between his long-suffering mother and the jovial curate; while charlie chester had been allowed to screw into a spare six inches of box-seat next to the driver, who held out a half-promise that he might hold the reins going uphill. the whole company seemed in the gayest of spirits and the most sociable of moods. mr. chester, who was something of a wag, kept both coaches in a roar with his jokes, and a fashionably-dressed young lady in pince-nez, who had looked rather unapproachable at first, proved to have her pockets overflowing with chocolates, which she distributed with a liberal hand, and was voted by the boys in consequence a "regular out-and-outer." the last comers being at length seated, and the last forgotten basket put inside, the guards blew their horns, the drivers whipped up, and the two coaches set off with a dash, to the admiration of all the visitors in marine terrace, and the rejoicing of a small crowd of barefooted boys from the town, who had assembled to watch the start, and who ran diligently for nearly half a mile behind them shouting, "a 'alfpenny! give us a 'alfpenny!" with irritating monotony, and eluding the skilful lashes of the coachmen's long whips with considerable agility. it was not a very great distance to the tower, and the children thought the drive far too short, and were quite loath, indeed, to come down when the horses stopped before the gray old gateway, and the guards, who had been rivalling one another in solos on the horn, joined in a farewell duet to the appropriate air of "meet me again in the evening." the ruined castle made a charming spot for an out-door party. situated at the foot of a tall wooded hill called the scar, its battered walls faced the long valley to the north, up which in the olden days a strict watch must have been kept for border raiders. the ancient turreted keep, with its tiny loophole windows, was still standing, half covered with ivy, the hairy stems of which were as thick as small trees, and a narrow winding staircase led on to the battlements, from whence you might see, on the one hand, the green slopes of the woods, and on the other the yellow cliffs which bounded the blue waters of the bay. inside the keep was a large square courtyard, where in times gone by the neighbouring farmers would often drive their cattle for safety when the gleam of the scottish pikes and the smoke of burning roofs were seen to northward. the heavy portcullis hung yet in the gateway, and though the drawbridge was long ago gone, and the moat was dry, the fragments of an outer wall and a portion of a barbican remained to show how powerful a protection was needed in the days when might was right, and each man must guard his goods by the strength of his own hand. the courtyard now was covered with short green grass spangled with daisies, where a pair of tame ravens were solemnly hopping about, while the ivy was the home of innumerable jackdaws that flapped away at the approach of strangers, uttering their funny spoilt "caw," as if indignant at having their haunts disturbed. visitors were admitted to the castle by an old woman, who looked almost as ancient as the ruin itself, and who insisted upon giving a full account of the dimensions, situation, and history of the place, which she had learnt from the guide-book, and which she repeated in a high, sing-song voice, without any pauses or stops, as if she were saying a lesson. she followed the various members of the party for some time, trying to make them keep together and listen to her explanations; but as they much preferred to explore on their own account, she was obliged to subside at last to her little kitchen under the archway, and employ herself in the more practical business of boiling the water for tea. all the guests were very soon distributed about the ruins, some admiring the view from the battlements, some peering into the darkness of the dungeons, and others trying to re-people the guardroom and the banqueting-hall with knights and dames of old, and to imagine the clink of armour and the clash of swords in the courtyard below. the rokeby boys were imperilling their limbs by a climb after jackdaws' nests, oblivious of the fact that it was long past the season for eggs, and the young birds, already in glossy black plumage, were flying round as if in mockery at their efforts. austin wright, after a vain attempt to establish an acquaintance with the ravens, had been seen racing as if for his life with the pair in hot pursuit of his small bare legs; while charlie chester, in an essay to investigate the interior of the well, very nearly fell to the bottom, being only saved by the tail of his jacket, which luckily caught on a prickly bramble bush, and held him suspended over the dark gulf till he was rescued by his indignant father. in the meantime tea had been spread in the courtyard. two great hissing urns were carried from the kitchen and placed upon the grass, and both grown-ups and children, abandoning the study of mediæval history or the pursuit of jackdaws, collected together to discuss sandwiches, cakes, and jam puffs, in spite of mr. chester's laughing protestations that such modern luxuries were out of place, and an ox roasted whole or a red deer pasty would have been a more appropriate feast for the occasion. even the ravens came hopping round at the sight of the cups and plates, and waxed quite friendly on the strength of sundry pieces of bun and bread and butter, which they snapped up with voracious bills, growing too forward, indeed, as the meal progressed, for they stole the curate's tartlet, which he had laid down in an unguarded moment on the grass, and shamelessly snatched bertie rokeby's sponge-cake out of his very hand. "i'm sure the wrights enjoyed themselves," isobel told her mother afterwards. "harold had seven rice buns and ten victoria biscuits, and charlotte and aggie ate a whole plateful of cheese-cakes between them. belle says they always have the most enormous appetites, and at her last party eric took four helpings of turkey; he just gulped it down, and kept handing up his plate while the others were eating their first serving, and after that he tasted every different dish on the table. it's a great trial for the wrights to go to parties at the barringtons; they never get half enough supper, though they have the most delightful magic lanterns and conjurers. ruth and edna were scarcely allowed to eat anything at tea. mrs. barrington picked all the raisins out of edna's bun, and made ruth put back the jam tart she'd just taken. she said if they were really hungry they might eat some plasmon biscuits she had brought with her, but they mustn't touch pastry; and ruth was so savage, she filled her pocket with queen-cakes when her mother wasn't looking--she said she didn't mean to come away without having tasted anything nice after all." if the barringtons were obliged to rise with unsatisfied appetites, the same certainly could not be said of the other guests; the piles of good things disappeared with much rapidity, and at last even the insatiable eric wright declined another bun. it was at this point that mrs. stuart produced a special basket, which she had reserved for a final surprise, and raising the lid, disclosed a row of marvellous little cakes, each made in the exact form of a sea urchin, with spines of white sugar, and the inside filled with vanilla cream. "it's a delicate compliment to the sea urchins' club," she said. "it was my own idea. i sent to my confectioner at home, and asked him what he could manage in the matter. i think he has carried it out very well. the cakes look so natural, you could almost imagine they had been fished out of the water." quite a howl of delight went up from the young guests, who had never seen such appropriate confectionery before, and the basket was handed round by belle amid a chorus of thanks, the united sea urchins consuming their own effigies with much appreciation, even ruth and edna, at the special request of mrs. stuart, being allowed for once to share the treat, though only on the distinct understanding that they submitted peaceably to a dose of gregory's powder if the unwonted dainties disagreed with them. tea being over, the party broke up to amuse itself in various ways, most of the children playing at hide-and-seek among the crumbling walls, or chasing each other up the winding staircase, while a few more adventurous spirits took the opportunity of exploring the dungeons with a candle. it was deliciously creepy down there; you could still see the iron stanchions by which the wretched prisoners had been chained to the wall, and the little hole through which their daily portions of food had been handed in to them, and could imagine, if you were fond of recalling the past, how from their beds of straw they would watch the light fading from the tiny barred window, and shiver as they heard the rats gnawing at the stout oak door, or felt a toad crawl over their feet in the murky darkness. some of the grown-ups had been busy marking out bounds in the courtyard, and soon enlisted every one in an exciting game of prisoner's base. mr. chester and the curate made the most successful captains, directing the proceedings with great spirit, and sometimes by a bold dash rescuing the more important of their prisoners, and bertie rokeby covered himself with glory by quietly walking to the "prison" while the opposite side was occupied in a hardly-contested struggle, and unsuspectedly freeing all the captives one by one. it was warm work, however, on a hot august day, and after a time the wrights, never good runners, subsided, panting, on to a piece of ruined wall, and even the enthusiastic curate, who had pulled off his coat, and was prosecuting the game in his shirt sleeves, began to show signs of flagging zeal. "i'm done up!" cried mr. chester at last, flinging himself under the shade of a small elder tree near the banqueting-hall. "i haven't a leg left to stand on, and i'm hoarse with shouting orders. you'd better give in, and do something quiet. i don't want to see another boy or girl for the space of the next half-hour, so scoot, all of you, anywhere, and leave mr. browne and myself to enjoy a smoke in peace." chapter x. wild maidenhair. "on our other side is the straight-up rock, and a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it by boulder stones, where lichens mock the marks on a moth, and small ferns fit their teeth to the polished block." somewhat hot and tired with their exertions, the children dispersed in small groups to lounge about or amuse themselves in any way they happened to feel inclined. as there was still plenty of time before the coaches returned at seven o'clock, belle and isobel, together with four of the rokebys, decided to stroll up the scar, from the top of which they expected to obtain a very good view of the distant moorland, together with a wide stretch of sea. a narrow path led steeply by a series of steps through the wood, a delightful, cool, shady place, with soft moss spreading like a green carpet underfoot, and closely-interlacing boughs shutting out the sunlight overhead. trails of late honeysuckle still hung in sweet-scented festoons from the undergrowth, and an occasional squirrel might be seen whisking his bushy tail round the bole of an oak tree in a quest for early acorns. there was an interesting little pool, too, where a number of young frogs were practising swimming; and the children thought they saw an otter, but they could not be quite sure, for it scurried off so quickly up the bank that they had not the chance to get more than a glimpse of it. the hazel bushes were covered with nuts, a few of which already contained kernels, and clumps of ferns grew luxuriantly under the shadow of the trees. pleasant as it was in the wood, it was even more enjoyable when they reached the top of the hill, and seating themselves upon a thick patch of heather, looked down the other side of the scar over the rich undulating silvan slope, where among great round boulders they caught the glint of a stream, and heard in the distance the rushing noise of a waterfall. at the foot of the incline, in a narrow valley between the scar and the cliffs which bounded the sea, rose the gray-brown stone roof of a quaint old elizabethan house. the richly-carved timbers, the wide mullioned windows, and the ornamental gables were singularly fine, and told of the time when those who built put an artistic pride into their work, and thought no detail too unimportant to be well carried out. the south side was covered with a glorious purple clematis, which hung in rich masses round the pillars of a veranda below, and even from the distance the flaming scarlet of the scotch nasturtium clothing the porch arrested the eyes by its brilliant contrast with the delicate tea-roses that framed the windows. "what a splendid place!" cried belle, glancing beyond the twisted chimneys to where the smooth green lawns and gay beds of a garden peeped from between the trees of the shrubbery. "just look at the beautiful conservatories and greenhouses, and such stables! there's a tennis lawn on the other side of the flagstaff, and a carriage drive leading down towards the road. it's the nicest house i've seen anywhere about silversands. i wonder to whom it belongs, and what it's called." "it's the chase, and belongs to colonel smith, i believe," said cecil. "there's a huge 's' on the gates, at any rate, and one day when we were passing i saw an old buffer going in with a gun, and arthur wright said he was sure it was colonel smith, who has all the shooting on the common. lucky chap! if it were mine, wouldn't i have a glorious time! i'd keep ever so many ferrets and dogs in those stables, and go rabbiting every day in the year." "i'd have a very fast pony that could fly like the wind," said winnie, "and i'd gallop all over the moors and the shore with my hair streaming out behind in ringlets like the picture of diana vernon on the landing at home." "you'd very soon fall off," remarked bertie unsympathetically, "seeing you can't even stick on to a donkey on the sands. the little brown one threw you twice this morning." "that was because the saddle kept slipping," said winnie indignantly. "and that particular donkey has a trick of lying down suddenly, too, when it's tired. it wants to get rid of you--i know it does--because it rolls if you don't tumble off. it did the same with charlie chester the other day, and shot him straight over its head; then it got up and flew back to the parade before he could catch it. the pony would be quite a different thing, i can tell you, and i'd soon learn to ride it. what would you do, belle, if you owned the chase?" "i'd give the most wonderful parties," said belle, "and invite all kinds of distinguished people--dukes and duchesses, you know, and members of parliament, and admirals, and generals, and perhaps even the prince and princess of wales; and i'd send to paris for my hats, and have my clothes made by the court dressmaker." "i'd give a cricket match on that lawn," said isobel, "and ask all the sea urchins to tea. we'd have loads of lovely fruit from those gardens and greenhouses, and when we were tired of cricket we could get up sports, and let off fireworks in the evening just when it was growing dark. that's what i'd like to do if i lived there." "pity you don't," exclaimed bertie; "we'd all come. but what's the use of talking when you know you'll never have the chance. i say, suppose we go down the wood on this side and try to find the waterfall? it must be rather a decent-sized one to make such a thundering noise." the others jumped up very readily at the suggestion, and leaving the path, they slid through the steep wood, and climbing a high wall, found themselves at the rocky bed of a stream, which rushed swiftly along under the overhanging trees, forming little foaming cascades as it went. at one point the water, dashing between two steep crags, descended in a sheer fall of about thirty feet, emptying itself at the bottom into a wide and deep pool overhung by several fine mountain ashes, the scarlet berries of which made a bright spot of colour against the silvery green of the foliage behind. the rokebys instantly rushed at these, and began tearing off quite large branches, breaking the boughs in a ruthless fashion that went to isobel's heart, for she always had been taught to pick things carefully and judiciously, so as not to spoil the beauty of tree or plant. "it's grand stuff," said cecil, descending to the ground with a crash, and switching at the ferns by the water's edge with his stick as he spoke. "i've got a perfect armful. hullo! what's that all down the side of this overhanging rock? it's actually maidenhair fern growing wild in the open air! i'm going to have some. we'll plant it in pots, and take it home." it was indeed the true maidenhair, flourishing on the damp crag under the spray of the waterfall as luxuriantly as though it had been in a conservatory, its delicate fronds showing in large clumps wherever it could obtain a hold on the rocky surface. i grieve to say that the rokebys simply threw themselves upon it, pulling it up by the roots, and destroying as much as they gathered by trampling it in their frantic haste. "o cecil!" cried isobel, in an agony, "you're spoiling the ferns. they looked so lovely growing there by the waterfall. please don't take them all. haven't you got enough now?" "but he hasn't given _me_ any yet," protested belle. "and i must have some." "one doesn't often get the chance to find maidenhair," declared cecil, "so i shall make the most of it, you bet.--here, belle, you may have this piece. catch! if i climb a little higher i can reach that splendid clump under the tree. i'll take that to the mater." "i think, on the whole, you will not, my boy," said a dry voice from the bank behind; and looking round, the children, to their horror and astonishment, saw the tall figure of an elderly gentleman who had stolen upon the scene unawares. he spoke quite calmly, but there was a twitch about his mouth and a gleam in his gray eye which suggested the quiet before a thunderstorm, and he stood watching the group in much the same way as a detective might have done who had made a sudden successful capture of youthful burglars red-handed in the act of committing a felony. "may i ask," he observed, with withering politeness, "by whose invitation you have entered my grounds, and by whose permission you have been destroying my trees and uprooting my ferns? i was under the impression that this was my private property, but you evidently consider you are entitled not only to annex my possessions, but to exercise a cheap generosity by presenting them to others. i shall be obliged if you will kindly offer me some explanation." cecil was so absolutely transfixed with amazement that for a moment he remained with his mouth wide open, staring at the newcomer as though the latter had dropped from the skies. the rokebys were not well-trained children; they did not possess either the moral courage or the good manners which charlie chester, madcap though he might be, would undoubtedly have displayed in the same situation, and instead of meeting the matter bravely and making the best apology he could, cecil flung down the ferns, and without a word of excuse took to his heels and ran back up the wood at the top of his speed, closely followed by winnie, bertie, and arnold. belle for an instant wavered, but recognizing the old gentleman as the same whose acquaintance she had cultivated on the beach with such unsatisfactory results, she decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and turning away, vanished through the trees like a little white shadow. isobel, the only one of the six who stood her ground, was left to bear the whole brunt of the matter alone. she looked at the broken branches of mountain ash and the damaged ferns which the rokebys had dropped in the panic of their flight, and which surrounded her like so much guilty evidence of the deed, then screwing up her courage, she faced the outraged owner in a kind of desperation. "i'm _very_ sorry," she began, twisting and untwisting her thin little hands, and colouring up to the roots of her hair with the effort she was making. "we oughtn't to have come. but, indeed, we didn't know it was your ground; we thought it was only just part of the scar. and i don't believe the others would have taken the ferns if they'd thought for a moment, because they would have known maidenhair doesn't grow wild out of doors like bracken or hart's-tongue." "but it _was_ wild," said the colonel--"that's the unfortunate part of it. it wouldn't have distressed me if i could have replaced it from the conservatory. this happens to be one of the few spots in the british isles where _adiantum capillus-veneris_ is found in an undoubtedly native situation." "oh, then that's worse than ever!" cried isobel, with consternation. "i know how very, very rare it is, because mother and i once found a little piece in a cave in cornwall." "did you? are you sure it was an absolutely genuine specimen and not naturalized?" asked colonel stewart, with keen interest. "no; it was quite wild, for it was in a very out-of-the-way place by the seashore." "i hope you didn't take it?" "oh no! we didn't even pick a frond; and mother made me promise never to tell any one where it grew, she was so afraid some one might root it up." "a sensible woman!" exclaimed the colonel. "pity there aren't more like her! why people should want to grub up every rare and beautiful thing they find in the country to plant in their miserable town gardens, i can't imagine. it's downright murder. the poor things die directly in the smoke. look at these splendid roots that have been growing here since i was a boy! i would rather they had destroyed every flower in my garden than have worked such wanton havoc in the spot i value most in all my grounds." "it's most unfortunate we came this particular walk," said isobel, almost crying with regret. "you see, the rokebys aren't used to the country, so they don't seem to think about spoiling things. i believe i could manage to plant these roots again; they're not very bad, and if i tucked them well into the crevices of the rock i really fancy they'd grow." she picked up some of the ferns as she spoke, and began carefully to replace them in the little ledges on the side of the rock, moistening the roots first in the stream, and scraping up some soil with a thin piece of shale which she made serve the purpose of a trowel. "they haven't taken quite all," she said. "that beautiful clump up there hasn't even been touched, and it may spread. i wish i could put back the mountain ash. i simply can't tell you how sorry i am we ever came." the colonel smiled. "i don't blame _you_," he said. "it was those young heathens who ran away. their methods of studying botany were certainly of a rather rough-and-ready description. i should have thought better of them if they had stayed to apologize. your friend with the light curls, whom, by-the-bye, i have met before, seemed also unwilling to enter into any explanations. in fact, to put it plainly, she left you in the lurch." "i think she was frightened," said isobel, wondering what possible excuse she could frame for belle's conduct. "you came so--so very suddenly. there! i've put all the ferns back. they're rather broken, i'm afraid; but there are plenty of new fronds ready to come up, so i hope you'll find that, after all, we haven't quite spoilt everything." "think i'm not so much hurt as i imagined?" said the colonel, with a twinkle in his eye. "oh, i didn't mean that!" replied isobel quickly. "i know we've done a great deal of harm. please don't think i wanted to make out we hadn't." "all right; you've done your best to repair the damage, so that's an end of the matter." "i ought to be going now," continued isobel. "the rokebys and belle will be wondering what has become of me, and the coaches were to start at seven o'clock. it must be after six now." "exactly half-past six," said colonel stewart, consulting his watch. "if you follow that footpath it will take you through a side gate and straight up the hillside; i expect you will find the others waiting for you on the top of the scar. good-bye. give my compliments to your friends, and tell them to learn to enjoy the country without spoiling it for other people; and the next time they get into a tight place to show a little pluck, and not to run off like a set of cowardly young curs." chapter xi. the island. "oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, in a blue summer ocean, far off and alone." though the united sea urchins were still very faithful to their cricket ground under the cliffs, the older and more daring spirits were always ready to ramble farther afield in quest of new scenes and adventures. every day seemed to bring with it some fresh delight, whether it were a shrimping expedition among the green sea-weedy pools of the rocks on the far shore, or a cockle gathering on the gleaming banks left by the ebb-tide, where the breath of the salt wind on their faces or the feel of the wet, oozing sand under their bare feet was a joy to be garnered up and held in memory. sometimes it was a scramble over the moors, between thickets of golden gorse and stretches of heather so deep and long that to lie in it was to bury oneself like a bee in a bed of purple fragrance, or a hard climb would take them to the summit of some neighbouring hill, where, watching the sun sink from a primrose sky into a pearly, shimmering sea, they would all grow a little silent and quiet, even the roughest spirits restrained in spite of themselves by the sight of that indescribable majesty and calm which marks the parting of the day. it is hours such as these--glad, exhilarating, glorious hours, when the world seems as young as ourselves, and merely to live and breathe is a delight--that lay up in our hearts a store of sunshine to be drawn upon in after life as from a treasure-house of the mind, and to brighten dark days to come with the rapture of the remembrance. it was, perhaps, somewhat against her natural tastes that belle found herself included in the many and various excursions of the sea urchins. she was no country lover, and the stir of a promenade in a fashionable watering-place gave her more pleasure than the dash of waves or the scent of wild flowers. she did not enjoy splashing her pretty clothes with sea-water among the rocks, or tearing them in search of blackberries on the hedgerows; and it was only her love of society, and a dislike of being left behind, which induced her to follow where the others led. the rough walks and hard scrambles were often a real trial to her, though with isobel to tow her up steep hills, help her across stiles, disentangle her laces from insistent brambles, jump her over pools, and take her hand in dangerous spots, she managed to keep up fairly well. isobel, to whom these excursions were the topmost summit of bliss, and who was apt to measure others' standards by her own, never suspected for a moment that belle was beginning to grow tired of it, and received an occasional outburst of petulance or fretful complaint with such amazement that the latter would, for very shame, desist, and for a time the friendship continued to remain at high-water mark. that belle was selfish and exacting never once crossed isobel's mind, and though she could not help frequently detecting in her certain little meannesses, exaggeration, or even occasional wanderings from the truth, there always seemed to be some exonerating circumstance which would in a measure either clear her from blame or give her the benefit of a doubt. it is often so difficult to find fault with those for whom we care very dearly: we are ready to make excuses, condone their mistakes, overlook their shortcomings, anything but allow to ourselves the unfortunate and yet unmistakable fact that our idol has feet of clay; and so isobel went on from day to day blinding her eyes with her adoration for her namesake, and investing belle with a halo of virtues and attractions which certainly did not exist except in her own imagination. apart from belle, i think that among the various members of the sea urchins' club isobel found the chesters the most congenial. they had all the dash and daring of the rokebys without the over-boisterous manners which characterized that rough-and-tumble family, whose friendship at times was apt to prove a trifle wearing. little hilda had taken a great affection for isobel, and charlie, since the adventure in the _stormy petrel_, was disposed to consider her in the light of a chum, and to cultivate her acquaintance. as knowing isobel meant including belle, the four children therefore might often be found in each other's company, and it was at charlie's suggestion that they determined one afternoon to pay a visit to a certain small island which lay a short distance along the coast, at the other side of the rocky headland that jutted out at the far side of the bay. "i've not been close to," said charlie, "but you can see it very well from the top of the scar. it looks a regular robinson crusoe desert island kind of a place, just given up to sea-gulls and rabbits. i don't believe a soul ever goes there." "it would be grand if we were the first to set foot on it," said isobel. "it would be our own island, and we'd claim it in the name of the club, like travellers do in central africa when they run up the union jack, and then mark the place pink on the map, to show it's a british possession." "and then all the others could be settlers," added hilda, "and we'd light a fire and cook fish and have _such_ fun!" "it would be exactly like the coral island in 'the young pioneers,'" said belle. "perhaps i might become the queen, like the mysterious white lady they found living among the natives, and have a throne made out of sand and shells, and wear a garland of flowers for a crown." "oh, we won't go in for nonsense like that!" declared charlie, who was not romantic, and, moreover, enjoyed squashing belle on occasion. "but we might build a hut there, and rig up a sort of camp, and then, if the whole lot of us came, we could have a regular ripping time. it's worth while going to see, at any rate." armed with a mariner's compass, a tin pail full of biscuits, isobel's botanical case for specimens, and a stout stick apiece, the four friends set out on their pioneering expedition with all the enthusiasm of a band of explorers penetrating into the heart of an unknown continent, or a roman legion bent on the conquest of some distant albion. as the geography books determine an island to be "a piece of land surrounded by water," the particular spot in question could only claim to justify its name at high tide, since at low water it was joined to the mainland, and by scrambling over the rocks and jumping a few channels which the sea had left behind, any one could reach it quite easily dry shod. the children marched sturdily along over the wet sands, with a pause here and there to dive after a particularly interesting crab, or to float a jelly-fish left stranded by the tide, in the deeper water. charlie, however, would not allow many digressions, and hurried them as fast as possible towards the object of their journey. the island, on a nearer view, proved to be a bare, craggy spot, about half a mile in length by a quarter in breadth, bounded by steep cliffs which supported a rocky plateau covered with short rough grass and sea pinks, and honeycombed in every direction with rabbit burrows. it seemed the haunt of innumerable gulls, guillemots, and puffins, for whole flocks of them flew away, wheeling overhead in wide circles, and uttering loud, piercing cries in protest at the invasion of their rocky stronghold. "we'd better do the thing thoroughly. suppose we start from this big rock and walk right round the island," suggested isobel. "i have a piece of paper and a pencil in my pocket, and i'll draw a map of it as we go along, and we'll give names to all the capes and bays and headlands." "stunning!" agreed charlie. "this rock can be 'point set-off,' and we can take it in turns to christen the other places. i don't believe the island itself has a name; we shall each have to suggest something, and then put it to the vote. i'm for 'craggy holme' myself, but we won't decide anything yet until we have been completely over it." thrilled with the excitement of the occasion, the pioneers started on their tour of inspection, noting with approval that the pools at the foot of the cliff were full of sea anemones, star-fishes, hermit crabs, periwinkles, whelks, pink sea-weed, and a wealth of desirable treasures; that the brambles which grew on the slopes above were already covered with fast ripening blackberries; that there were flukes quite seven inches long in the narrow channel on the north shore; and that the sands beyond showed a perfect harvest of cockles and other shells. they had gone perhaps halfway round the coast, and were on the south side, facing the open sea, when suddenly, turning a corner, they found themselves in a spot which made them stand still and look at one another with little gasps of delight. surely it was the ideal place for a camp. they were in a small creek between two great overhanging crags, where brambles and wood vetch hung down in delightful tangled masses, the fine white sand under their feet alternated with soft green turf, spangled with tiny sea-flowers, and there was quite a bank of small delicate shells left by the high spring tides. close under the rocks lay the wreck of a schooner, driven ashore by winter storms, and stranded upon the shingle, the broken spars and a fragment of the hull lying half buried in the silvery sand, surrounded by a forest of sea-weed and drift-wood. "why, it just beats 'the swiss family robinson' or 'the boy explorers' hollow!" said charlie, turning to his companions with something of the look that christopher columbus may have worn when he stepped with his followers on to the shores of the new world. "here's the very place we were hoping for! we'd soon get that old trail tilted out of the sand; she only needs propping against the cliff, and she'd make a regular uncle tom's cabin. with the wrights and the rokebys to help, we'd haul her up in a jiffy. some of these spars and planks would do for seats and tables, and we could light fires with the drift-wood. it's a camp almost ready made for us, i declare." "and look!" cried hilda, pointing to a sand-bank which lay at the mouth of the creek; "the tide seems to have thrown up a great many things down there." and she hurried to the water's edge, where the drifting current had lodged a variety of miscellaneous articles--walking-sticks, tin cans, a child's boat, a straw hat, several baskets, glass bottles, and even a lady's parasol, all lying tangled among the sea-weed, washed across the bay no doubt from the beach at ferndale. "i've fished out a little horse and cart, and there's something here that looks like the remains of a gentleman's top hat. we can use the tins for the cabin. they'll do for flower-pots. o charlie! aren't you glad we came?" "it's quite romantic," said belle, sitting down on a spar, and twisting some pink bindweed round her hat. "we could have tea here, and get up a dance on the sands afterwards. i've found such a pretty pencil-case among the drift-wood. i mean to keep it." "i don't think any one else has discovered the island," said isobel. "so we've quite a right to take possession, haven't we?" "it's the very thing we want, and we'll annex it at once," said charlie; and drawing the empty shell of a sea urchin from his pocket, he slipped it on to the top of a stick, which he planted firmly in the sand as an ensign; then climbing on to the summit of a rock close by, he waved his handkerchief to north, south, east, and west, exclaiming, "we hereby take solemn possession of this island in the name of the united sea urchins' recreation society, and are prepared to hold the same in legal right against all comers. if any one has just cause or impediment to offer why the said society should not occupy this territory in peace and prosperity, let him speak now, or hereafter for ever hold his peace. rule, britannia! god save the king!" with a burst of cheers the others unanimously declared themselves witnesses to the deed, and decided that possession being nine-tenths of the law, the island, for the time at any rate, was undoubtedly their own, and until any one appeared to dispute their claim they would make what they pleased of it. "to-morrow we'll rig out a real pioneer party of settlers, and come with hammers and nails and axes and all the rest of it," said charlie. "then we can put up a flag and decide on names and everything. we haven't time to explore the top now, though it looks jolly upon those cliffs; we must get back before the tide turns. it's a ripping place, but it would be no joke, all the same, to be surrounded and have to spend the night here." the sea urchins took to the idea of a camp on a desert island with the greatest enthusiasm, and next day the elder portion of them started off with any tools which they could buy, beg, or borrow, anxious to set to work at once upon the task of constructing a dwelling from the wreck of the old schooner. by fastening a rope to the hull, they contrived to tug it out of the sand and tilt it on end against a rock; then with the aid of the broken planks which were lying near they propped it up securely and repaired any damaged or broken pieces, so that it made the most successful hut, a kind of combination of a viking's hall with a pirate's cave or an indian wigwam. the face of the cliff which formed the wall on one side was full of ledges and crevices which served admirably for cupboards, a few nails driven into the boards answered for hat pegs, and it was no difficult matter to put up shelves from odd pieces of drift-wood. it was amazing how the work brought out the varying capacities of the settlers. to every one's surprise, arthur wright developed a perfect genius for carpentry. he had borrowed a few tools from a friendly joiner in the town, and constructed quite a tidy little table, forming the legs from broken masts; and he managed to make a door for the fortress of the best portions of three rotten planks, fastening it on with hinges cut from an old leather strap, and even putting a latch which would open with a string pulled from the outside. while the boys did the harder part of the work, the girls contented themselves with the more feminine element of artistic decoration. they thatched the roof elaborately with masses of brown bladder-wrack sea-weed, tying it securely with pieces of cord; they fixed a row of twenty-one sea urchins, with the spines on, over the door as a coat of arms, one to represent each member of the club; and pink and white fan shells were nailed alternately round the window, with yellow periwinkles wedged between. a little garden was carefully laid out, a wall being made of stones and sand, and a path of fine gravel leading up to the door. green sea-weed was put down to represent grass, the most wonderful arrangements in the way of cockles, mussels, and limpets took the place of flower-beds, and a few sea-pinks and harebells planted in tins rescued from the sand-bank adorned the window-sill. inside, a fireplace had been built with stones at the rocky end, a hole being made in the roof to let out the smoke, and seats were dug from the sand sufficient to accommodate the whole party. a tin kettle and a frying-pan, purchased by subscription, constituted the cooking utensils of the camp, and the members waxed so eager over the domestic arrangements of their hut that they spent all their pennies at the cheap stalls in the market on tin mugs and plates and other articles likely to be of service to the community. eric wright denied himself toffee or caramels for three whole days--a heroic effort on his part--that he might contribute a certain gorgeous scarlet tea-tray on which he had set his young affections; the rokebys clubbed together to buy muslin for window curtains; belle presented a looking-glass as a suitable offering; and mrs. barrington, who was always generous when it was not a question of diet, allowed ruth and edna to purchase a dozen pewter teaspoons, a bright blue enamelled teapot, and a bread-and-butter plate with a picture of the promenade at ferndale upon it. the sand-bank was rummaged for anything that would come in handy, and though it did not yield such wonderful treasures as the wrecked ship generally contains in desert-island stories, they found several empty bottles, an old lantern, a dripping-tin, a wooden spoon, and a battered bird-cage, all of which they decided might come in useful in course of time and were carefully put by in a safe place among the rocks. isobel, who toiled away at the camp with untiring zeal, had drawn and painted a very nice map of the island on a sheet of cardboard, all the various places being neatly marked, and had nailed it on the wall inside. after a good deal of discussion it had been decided to call the domain "rocky holme," the crag on the extreme summit was "point look-out," the tall cliff to the north, "sea-birds' cape," while the one on the south was "welcome head." the creek where they had established their headquarters was christened by the appropriate name of "sandy cove," and the hut bore the more romantic title of "wavelet hall." they had fixed a broken mast at the end of the little garden for a flagstaff, and ran up an ensign specially designed and executed for them by mrs. stewart, consisting of a large sea urchin cut out of white calico, and stitched upon a ground of turkey-red twill, with the initials "u.s.u.r.s." below; so that, with their colours floating in the breeze and the smoke of their fire rising in a thin white column among the rocks, no band of colonists could have felt that the country was more really and truly their own. chapter xii. a first quarrel. "the little rift within the lute, that by-and-by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all." it had become an almost daily programme for the sea urchins to jump across or even to wade through the channel the moment the tide was sufficiently low to enable them to do so with safety, and to establish themselves upon their desert island. the joys of pioneering seemed to have quite put cricket in the shade; the hut had still the charm of novelty, and to fry the flukes which they had themselves speared or to concoct blackberry jam or toffee in an enamelled saucepan over the camp fire was at present their keenest delight. the only regret was that they did not possess a boat in which they could row over to their territory whenever they wished, and the boys had tried to provide a substitute by constructing a raft from some of the old planks left lying about from the schooner, lashing them together with pieces of rope in the orthodox "shipwrecked sailor" fashion, and making paddles out of broken spars. it looked quite a respectable craft--as charlie chester said, "most suitable for a desert island"--and they had anticipated having a good deal of fun with it, and being able to take little sea excursions if they could only manage to steer it properly; and charlie even had ideas of rigging up a sail, and perhaps getting across the bay as far as ferndale with a favourable wind. its career, however, was short and brilliant. it was launched with much noise and nautical language by charlie and the other boys, and started gaily off, greatly to the admiration of the feminine portion of the sea urchins, who ran along the shore shouting encouragement. but it had hardly gone more than a hundred yards, and was still in shallow water, when the too enthusiastic efforts of its amateur oarsmen caused it suddenly to turn a somersault, and upset the crew into the briny deep; then floating swiftly away bottom side up, it was caught by the current, much to the regret of its disconsolate builders, who, wet through with their unexpected swim, watched it drift in the direction of ferndale, where the tide probably carried it over the bar, to wash about as a derelict in the open sea till the water had rotted the ropes that bound the planks. after the raft proved a failure, the boys took to carving miniature yachts out of pieces of drift-wood, and sailing them in a wide pool which was generally left at the mouth of the creek. the girls hemmed the sails, and provided the vessels with flags in the shape of tiny coloured pieces of ribbon stitched on to the masts, and would stand by to cheer the particular bark in which they were interested, as the ladies in olden days encouraged their knights in the tourney. there was great competition between the various boats, and it seemed a matter of the utmost importance whether charlie chester's _water sprite_, bertie rokeby's _esmeralda_, or arthur wright's _invincible_, should reach the opposite shore in the shortest space of time. occasionally a good ship would get becalmed in the middle of the pool, in which case its owner would have to wade to the rescue, probably finding it caught in a mass of oar-weed, or even entangled in the floating tentacles of a huge jelly-fish. the children had made a nice aquarium not far from the hut, and in this they put specimens of every different kind of sea-weed on the island, as well as crabs, anemones, limpets, sea cucumbers, star-fishes, zoophytes, or any other treasures of the deep that they might be lucky enough to collect; while the boys, i regret to say, took a keen delight in securing a couple of hermit crabs, and setting the pugnacious pair to fight in a small arena of sand which they prepared specially for the purpose, somewhat in the same manner as our unregenerate forefathers devoted certain portions of their gardens to the formation of cock-pits. another favourite amusement was to divide into two regiments, each under the leadership of suitable officers, and, armed with pea-shooters, to conduct a series of volunteer manoeuvres upon the shore. the defending party would throw up ramparts of sand, and duly garrison their stronghold, while the enemy would attack with the ferocious zeal of a band of north american indians or a gang of chinese pirates, being greeted by a volley of fire from the pea-shooters, and missiles in the shape of whelks' eggs, the dried air-vessels of the bladder-wrack, little rolled-up balls of slimy green sea-weed, or anything else which could be flung as a projectile without injuring the recipients too severely. very exciting struggles sometimes took place for the possession of a fortress or the securing of an outpost; and i think the girls were really as keen as the boys in this amateur warfare, letty and winnie rokeby proving deadly shots with their pea-shooters, and aggie wright becoming quite an admirable scout. isobel undertook the ambulance department, and made a delightful hospital with beds dug out of sand, and a dispensary fitted with empty bottles collected from the sand-bank. she installed herself here as a red cross sister, with ruth barrington for a helper, and was ready to doctor the combatants, who were carried in suffering from various imaginary wounds, the sole flaw in her arrangements being that the invalids insisted upon getting well too quickly, and leaving their pills and potions to rush back and rejoin the fray. the only one of the sea urchins who did not thoroughly enjoy the charms of the desert island was belle. she was not suited for camp life, and though she tolerated the tea-parties when she brought her own china cup with her, she took no interest in the boat-sailing, and frankly disliked the manoeuvres. she would not have come at all, only she found it so dull to remain behind, as her mother was mostly occupied in reading, writing letters, or entertaining friends, and not inclined to devote much attention to her little daughter. poor belle was expected to find her own amusements, and having no resources in herself, she sought the society of the other children in preference to being alone, though she grumbled incessantly at the boyish games, and longed for a different sphere, where pretty frocks and trinkets would have a better chance of due appreciation. towards isobel the fever-heat of her first affection had cooled down considerably, and she had begun to treat her friend with a rather patronizing authority, ordering her about in a way which would have provoked any one with a less sweet temper to the verge of rebellion. she had quarrelled more than once with the wrights and the rokebys, since those outspoken families had given her their frank opinion of her behaviour on several occasions, and as it was not a flattering one, she had been far from pleased. so long as belle's pretty pleading manners secured for her the best of everything she was a charming companion, but she could prove both pettish and peevish when she considered herself neglected. her light, pleasure-loving nature depended for its happiness on continual attention and admiration, and if she could not have these she was as miserable as a butterfly in a shower of rain. one afternoon the question of the possession of a certain basket, supposed to be common property among the settlers, resulted in a war of words between belle and letty and winnie rokeby--a quarrel which waxed so fast and furious that isobel, who fought her friend's battles through thick and thin, was obliged to interfere (not without an uneasy consciousness that the rokebys had right on their side), persuaded letty to relinquish the disputed treasure, and bore belle away up the hill to soothe her ruffled feelings by picking blackberries. micky, the little pet dog, followed close at their heels. as a rule he preferred the society of mrs. stuart, and rarely accompanied the children on their rambles, but to-day they had brought him with them to the island. "it _is_ my basket," grumbled belle, threading her way daintily between the brambles with a careful regard for her flowered delaine dress. "mrs. barrington lent it to me first. the rokebys are so selfish, they want to keep everything to themselves. i don't know whether they or the wrights are worse. it's such a pretty one, too--quite the nicest we have at the hut." "never mind," said isobel hastily, anxious to dismiss the subject. "let us fill it with blackberries. there are such heaps here, and such big ones." it was indeed a harvest for those who liked to gather. brambles grew everywhere. long clinging sprays, some still in blossom and some covered with the ripe fruit, trailed in profusion over the rocks, their reddening leaves giving a hint of the coming autumn, for it was late august now, and already there was a touch of september crispness in the air. it was delightful on the headland, with sea and sky spread all around, the sea-gulls flapping idly below just on the verge of the waves, and banks of fragrant wild thyme under their feet, growing in patches between the great craggy boulders, which looked as though they had been piled up by some giant at play. the picking went on steadily for a while, though it was a little unequal, as belle had a tender consideration for her spotless fingers, and gathered about one berry to isobel's dozen. "we shall soon have the basket full," said isobel. "hold it for a moment, belle, please, while i get to the other side of this rock; there are some still finer ones over here." "i should think we have enough now," said belle, upon whom the occupation began to pall. "we don't want to make any more jam; the last we tried stuck to the pan and burnt, and wasted all the sugar i had brought. mother says she won't let me have any more. come back, isobel, do, and take the basket. why, what are you staring at so hard?" "at this stone underneath the brambles," replied isobel. "it's most peculiar. it has marks on it like letters, only they aren't any letters i know. do come and look." she pulled the long blackberry trails aside as she spoke, and disclosed to view a large stone, something like a gate-post, lying on its side, half sunk into the soil. it was worn, and weather-beaten, and battered by time and storms, but on its smooth surface could still be traced the remains of a rudely-carved cross, and the inscription,-- [illustration] "what does it mean?" asked belle. "are they really letters?" "i can't tell," replied isobel. "it looks like some writing we can't read. perhaps it's greek, or old black letter. i wonder who could have put it here?" "i don't know, and i'm sure i don't care," said belle. "what does it matter? let us come along." "oh! only it's interesting. i want to tell mother about it; she's so fond of old crosses, and she may know what it means. i can copy it on this scrap of paper if you'll wait a minute." belle sat down with a martyred air. she was not in the best of tempers, and she did not like waiting. she put the basket of blackberries by her side, and took micky on her knee. then, for want of anything better to do, she began to tease him by pulling the silky hair that grew round his eyes. "don't do that, belle," said isobel, looking round suddenly at the sound of micky's protesting yelps. "why not?" asked belle, somewhat sharply. "because you're hurting him." "i'm not hurting him." "yes, you are." "i suppose i can do as i like with him; he's my own." "he's not yours to tease, at any rate. belle, do stop!" "i'll please myself; it's nobody else's affair," said belle, giving such a tug as she spoke to micky's silken top-knot that he howled with misery. isobel sprang up. she could not bear to see an animal suffer, and her anger for the moment was hot. "let him go, belle!" she cried, wrenching at her friend's hands. "you've no right to treat him so. let him go, i tell you!" micky seized the golden opportunity, and escaping from his mistress's grasp, beat a hasty retreat towards the beach, yelping with terror as he went, and upsetting the basket of blackberries in his flight. belle turned on isobel in a rage. "look what you've done!" she exclaimed. "i wish you would mind your own business, and leave me to manage my own dog. all the blackberries have rolled over the cliff where we can't get them, and it's your fault. i hope you're sorry." isobel stooped to rescue the empty basket, but she did not apologize. "i think it was as much your fault as mine," she replied. "you shouldn't have teased him. perhaps we can pick the blackberries up again." "no, we can't. they've fallen among the briers, and _i_ don't mean to scratch my fingers by trying. you can stay and fish them out if you like. i'm going home." "but we haven't had tea yet." "i don't care. i don't want tea out of a tin mug. i shall have it comfortably at the lodgings, with a nice clean tablecloth and a serviette. i'm tired of stupid picnics." and belle flounced away down the hill with anything but a sweet expression or a "parisian" manner. isobel did not try to stop her. as the proverbial worm will turn, so there are limits to the endurance of even the most devoted of friends, and i think this afternoon she felt that belle's conduct had reached a climax for which no excuse could be made. the latter, who considered herself both hurt in her feelings and offended in her dignity, scrambled down to the shore, and calling micky to her heels, set off promptly for home. "hullo, belle!" cried bertie rokeby, catching at her dress as she hurried past the hut. "look out, can't you! don't you see that you're trampling all over the shells that i've just laid out to sort on the sand? what's the row? you look like a regular tragedy queen--lady macbeth in the murder scene, or juliet about to stab herself!" "let me go," said belle crossly, trying to pull herself free. "what horrid, rough things you boys are! why can't you leave me alone, i should like to know?" "humpty-dumpty! we _are_ in a jolly wax," said bertie. "you're as bad as a cat with her back up. all the same, i don't want my shells smashed, so please to mind where you're stepping." "bother your shells!" said belle. "you shouldn't leave them lying about in people's way. there! you've torn a slit in my dress. i knew you would! let me go, bertie rokeby, you mean coward!" and jerking her skirt with an effort from his grasp, she started at a run along the beach, and fled as fast as she could in the direction of silversands. she had reached the southern point of the island, where they generally crossed the channel, and was hurrying on, not looking particularly where she was going, her eyes half blinded with self-pitying tears, when, turning the headland sharply, she ran full tilt against her quondam acquaintance of the parade, who was walking leisurely along the sands with a cigar in his mouth and a breechloader under his arm. the collision was so sudden and unexpected that belle sat down swiftly in a pool of slimy green sea-weed, while the gun, knocked by the impact from its owner's grasp, struck the rock violently, and discharged both barrels into the air. the colonel, who had been almost upset with the shock, recovered his balance as by a miracle, and hastened to ascertain the extent of the mishap; but finding no harm done, he picked up his gun and surveyed belle with considerable disfavour. "you might have caused a very nasty accident, young lady," he said. "it's a mercy the charge didn't land in either your leg or mine. why don't you look where you're going?" belle raised herself carefully from the pool, glancing with much concern at the large green stains which had reduced her dress to a wreck, and at the moist condition of her silk stockings. "how could i know any one was round the corner?" she replied, somewhat sulkily. "i wonder what my mother would have said if you'd killed me. i'm not sure if my leg isn't shot through, after all." "let me look," said the colonel quietly. "no, that's not a wound, though you've grazed it a little, very likely in falling. there's no real damage, and i think you're more frightened than hurt." "my dress is spoilt," said belle, determined to have a grievance. "these green stains will never wash out of it. it's really too bad." "be thankful it's only your dress, and not your skin," said the owner of the chase, with scant sympathy. "what are you doing here, so far away from the parade? you had better go home to your mother, and tell her to take more care of you, and not let you wander about alone to get into mischief." "i was going home as fast as i could," retorted belle, not too politely, for she disliked the old gentleman extremely, and wished he would not interfere with her. "and i think my mother knows how to take care of me without any one telling her, thank you." "i have no doubt she imagines she does," replied colonel stewart, rather bitterly. "i can't say i admire the result. i should certainly wish to teach you better manners if i had any share in your bringing up." "i'm glad you haven't," said belle smartly; and catching micky in her arms, she put an abrupt end to the conversation by running away again at the top of her speed over the shallows towards the mainland. "he's perfectly horrid!" she said to herself. "this is the third place i've met him, and each time he has been more disagreeable than the last. i can't imagine why, but i somehow feel as if he had taken quite a dislike to me." chapter xiii. reading the runes. "words from the long far-away link the dim past with to-day." isobel descended from the headland in the lowest of spirits. to have quarrelled with belle, even in a just cause, was a disaster such as she had never contemplated, and for a moment she was half inclined to run after her friend and seek a reconciliation at any cost. her pride, however, intervened; she felt that belle had really been very rude and unreasonable, while her treatment of micky was quite unpardonable. she strolled along, therefore, in the direction of the hut instead, trying to wink the tears out of her eyes, and to make up her mind that she did not care. all the sea urchins were rushing off to investigate some mysterious black object which they could see bobbing about in the water, and which they hoped might prove to be a porpoise. they called to her to join them, but even the prospect of capturing a sea monster had for the moment no charms, so she shook her head and volunteered instead to stay in the hut and get tea ready for their return. she filled the kettle from a little spring of fresh water, which always ran pure and clear in a small rivulet down the side of the cliff, threw some more drift-wood and dry sea-weed on the fire which the boys had already lighted, then set out the tea things, and taking a piece of chalk, began to amuse herself by drawing upon the wall of the hut the curious letters which she had copied from the stone. she was so absorbed in her occupation that she did not notice a tall figure, who stooped to enter the low doorway, and paused in some astonishment at the scene before him. "hullo!" said a voice. "am i addressing miss robinson crusoe, or is this the outpost of a military occupation? i see a flag flying which is certainly not the union jack, and as a late colonel in his majesty's forces, and a justice of the peace, i feel bound to protect our shores from a possible invasion." isobel turned round hastily. she recognized the newcomer at once as the owner of the maidenhair fern and the beautiful grounds into which she had so unwittingly trespassed, and noticing his gun, concluded that he must without doubt be the colonel smith of whom cecil rokeby had spoken, and whom she had also heard mentioned by mrs. jackson as a keen sportsman and a magistrate of some consequence in the neighbourhood. "i'm not miss robinson crusoe," she replied, laughing, "and it's not a military occupation either." "perhaps i am in a prehistoric dwelling, then, watching a descendant of the ancient britons conducting her primitive cooking operations. or is it an indian wigwam? i should be interested to know to what tribe it belongs," said the colonel, advancing farther into the hut, and looking with an amused smile at the sand seats, the shelves, the pots, and all the other little arrangements which the children had made. "no, i'm not an ancient briton," said isobel, "and it isn't a wigwam. it's 'wavelet hall,' and it belongs to us." "and who is 'us,' if you will condescend to explain so ambiguous a term?" "the united sea urchins' recreation society," said isobel, rolling out the name with some dignity. "no doubt it's my crass ignorance," observed the colonel, "but i'm afraid i have never heard of that distinguished order. will you kindly enlighten me as to its object and scope?" "why, you see, we're all staying at silversands," explained isobel; "so we made ourselves into a club, that we might have fun together, and called it the 'sea urchins.' then we found this desert island that doesn't belong to anybody, so we took possession of it, and built this hut out of the wreck of the old schooner, and it's ours now." "is it?" said the colonel dryly. "i was under the impression that the island belonged to me. it is certainly included among my title-deeds, and as lord of the manor i am also supposed to have the rights of the foreshore." "i don't quite understand what 'lord of the manor' means," said isobel; "but does the island really and truly belong to you?" "really and truly. i keep it for rabbit shooting exclusively." "then," said isobel apprehensively, "i'm very much afraid that we've been trespassing on your land again." "not only trespassing, but squatting," returned the colonel, with a twinkle in his eye. "the case is serious. this island has belonged to me and to my ancestors for generations. i arrive here to-day to find it occupied by a band of individuals who, i must say" (with a glance out through the door at the barefooted sea urchins yelling in the distance as they hauled up the dead porpoise), "bear a very strong resemblance to a gang of pirates. i am frankly informed by one of their number that they claim possession of my property. i find their flag flying and a fortress erected. the question is whether i am at once to declare war and evict these invaders, or to allow them to remain in the position of vassals on payment of a due tribute." "oh, please let us stay!" implored isobel; "we won't do any harm--we won't, indeed. we're all going home in a few weeks, and then you can have the island quite to yourself again." "suppose i were to regard you as surety for the good behaviour of the rest of the tribe," said the colonel: "would you undertake that no rare or cherished plants should be uprooted or any damage inflicted during your tenancy?" "we wouldn't touch anything," declared isobel, "we've only taken the blackberries because there are so many of them. i know you're thinking of the maidenhair. oh, please, is it growing? i do so hope it wasn't spoilt." "yes, it's growing. i really don't believe it has suffered very much, after all. i took a look at it this morning, and found the young fronds pushing up as well as if they had never been disturbed." "i'm _so_ glad!" said isobel, with a sigh of relief; "i've often thought about it since. it's very kind of you to say we may stay here; it would have seemed so hard to turn out after we'd had the trouble of building the hut." "but what about the rent?" inquired the colonel; "will you be answerable for its proper payment? i may prove as tough a customer as old shylock, and insist on my pound of flesh." "we've very little money, i'm afraid," said isobel timidly; "we spent all the club funds on buying the kettle and the frying-pan--even what we'd saved up for a feast at the end of the holidays. i've only got threepence left myself, though perhaps some of the others may have more." "i must take it in kind, then--the sort of tribute that is exacted from native chiefs in central africa--though you can't bring me pounds of rubber or elephants' tusks here." "we could pick you blackberries, if you like them," suggested isobel; "or get you cockles and mussels from the shore. sometimes the boys spear flukes. they're rather small and muddy, but they're quite nice to eat with bread and butter if you fry them yourself." "my consumption of blackberries is limited," replied the colonel, "and there seems slight demand for shell-fish in my kitchen. the flukes might have done; but if they are only edible when you fry them yourself, i'm afraid it's no use, for i don't believe my housekeeper would allow me to try. no! i must think out the question of tribute, and let you know. i won't ask a rack rent, i promise you, and i suppose i could distrain on these tea things and the kettle if it were not paid up. the latter appears to be boiling over at this instant." "so it is!" cried isobel, lifting it off in a hurry. "i wonder," she continued shyly, "if you would care to have a cup of tea. i could make it in a moment, if you wouldn't mind drinking it out of a tin mug." "miss robinson crusoe is very hospitable. i haven't had a picnic for years. the tin mug will recall my early soldiering days. i have bivouacked in places which were not nearly so comfortable as this." he took a seat in a sand armchair, and looked on with amusement while isobel made her preparations. something in the set of her slim little figure and the fall of her long straight fair hair attracted him, and he caught himself wondering of whom her gray eyes reminded him. he liked the quiet way she went about her business, and her frank, unaffected manners--so different from belle's self-conscious assurance. "why can't the other child wear a plain holland frock?" he thought. "it would look much more suitable for the sands than those absurd trimmed-up costumes. what a pity she hasn't the sense of this one! well, it's no use; it evidently isn't in her, and i doubt if any amount of training at a good school will make much difference." isobel in the meantime having brewed the tea handed it to him upon the scarlet tray. "i'm sorry we haven't a cream jug," she apologized. "we always bring our milk in medicine bottles. do you mind sugar out of the packet? i wish i had some cake, but mrs. jackson didn't put any in my basket to-day, and i don't like taking the others' without asking them. i hope it's nice," she added anxiously. "i'm so afraid the water's a little smoked." "delicious," said the colonel, who would have consumed far more unpalatable viands sooner than hurt her feelings, and who tried to overlook the fact that the tin mug gave the tea a curious flavour, and the bread and butter was of a thickness usually meted out to schoolboys. "but aren't you going to have any yourself?" "not now, thank you. i'd rather wait for the others. i promised to have everything ready for them when they came back." "i see. you're 'polly, put the kettle on,' to-day, and 'sukey, take it off again,' also, as they appear to have 'all run away.' no more, thanks. one cup is as much as is good for me. why, in the name of all that's mysterious, who has been writing these?" the colonel jumped up and strode to the other end of the hut, having suddenly caught sight of the quaint letters which isobel had drawn upon the wall. "i have," replied isobel simply. "then, my dear miss robinson crusoe, may i ask how you came to be acquainted with runic characters?" "i don't know what they are," said isobel. "it's very queer writing, isn't it? i was only copying it for fun." "where did you copy it from?" "it's on a stone at the top of the headland." "this headland?" "yes, just above here, but a little farther on." "do you mean to tell me there is a stone bearing letters like that on these cliffs?" "yes; it's a long kind of stone, something like a cross without arms." "i thought i had walked over every inch of this island, yet i have never noticed it." "it was quite covered with brambles," said isobel. "i found it when we were picking blackberries. i had to pull them all away before i could see it." "if you can leave your domestic cares, i should very much like you to show it to me," said the colonel. "i happen to be particularly interested in such stones." "i'll go at once," said isobel, putting the kettle among the ashes, where it could not boil over, and slamming on her hat. "it looks ever so worn and old, but the letters are cut in the stone, like they are on graves." she led the way up the steep, narrow path which scaled the hill, on to the cliff above, and after a little hunting about, found the brambly spot which had been the scene of her quarrel with belle. the owner of the island knelt down and examined the stone intently for some moments. "to think that i must have passed this place dozens and dozens of times and never have known of its existence!" he said at last. "i have searched the neighbourhood so often for some record of the viking period. strange that it should be found now by the chance discovery of a child!" "are they really letters, then?" inquired isobel. "is it some foreign language?" "yes; they are runes, very old and perfect ones. the runic characters were used by our teutonic forefathers before they learned the roman alphabet. this stone shows that long, long ago the northmen have been here." "the same northmen who came in their great ships, and burnt the abbey, and killed st. alcuin at the altar?" asked isobel, keenly interested. "very likely, or their sons or grandsons." "why did they write upon a stone here?" "it was set up as a monument--just like a grave stone in a churchyard." "but if the northmen were pagans, why is there a cross carved on the stone?" "many of them settled in this country, and became christians, and turned farmers instead of sea-robbers." "perhaps the monks went back to the abbey afterwards and taught them," suggested isobel. "i always thought they must have felt so ashamed of themselves for running away. they couldn't all be saints like st. alcuin, but they might do their best to make up." "no doubt they did. they were brave men in those days, who were not afraid to risk their lives. it is possible that a small chapel may have been built here once, though the very memory of it has passed away." "is some one buried here, then?" "yes. put into english characters, the inscription runs: '_ulf suarti risti krus thana aft fiak sun sin_.' that is to say: '_black ulf raised this cross for fiak his son_.'" "i wish we knew who they were," said isobel. "the son must have died first. perhaps he was killed in battle, and then his father would put up this cross. how very sorry he must have felt!" "very," said the colonel sadly--"especially if he were his only son. it is hard to see the green bough taken while the old branch is spared." "my father died fighting," said isobel softly. "but his grave is ever so far away in south africa." "and so is my son's. death reaps his harvest, and hearts are as sore, whether it is the twentieth century or the tenth. customs change very little. we put up monuments to show the resting-places of those we love, and a thousand years ago black ulf raised this cross that fiak his son should not be forgotten." "and he's not forgotten," said isobel, "because we've found it all this long time afterwards. i didn't know what it meant until you told me. i'm so glad i can read it now. i want to tell mother; she likes old monuments, or any kind of old things." "she has evidently taught you to think and to use your eyes," said the colonel, "or you would not have copied the inscription, and then i might never have discovered the stone." "what a pity that would have been!" returned isobel. "i was very lucky to find it. do you think it makes up a little for the maidenhair?" "completely; though, remember, i didn't blame you for that incident. it was your friends--the same young ruffians, i believe, who are racing up the sands now, dragging some carcass behind them." "oh! they're coming back for tea," cried isobel. "and i forgot all about the kettle! i hope it hasn't boiled away. i ought to go. you haven't told me yet, please, what you would like us to bring you instead of rent for the island. i should like to know, so that i can tell the others." "i'll take this discovery in lieu of all payment," declared the colonel. "you and your companions, the sea urchins, are welcome to have free run of the place while you are here. good-bye, little friend! you always seem to turn up in exceptional circumstances. you and i appear to have a few interests in common, so i hope that some time i may have the pleasure of meeting you again." chapter xiv. a wet day. "oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest and despair most sits." the estrangement between isobel and her friend was of very short duration after all. that same evening they had met on the parade, and belle had run up with her former affectionate manner, so completely ignoring the remembrance of any differences between them that isobel thankfully let the matter slide, only too glad to resume the friendship on the old terms, and hoping that such an unpleasant episode might not occur again. the two had arranged to make an expedition together to the old town on the following day, but the morning proved so very wet that it was impossible for any one to go out of doors. "it's a perfect deluge of a day," said isobel, looking hopelessly at the ceaseless drip, drip which descended from the leaden skies. "it doesn't seem as if it ever meant to clear up again. i think it must have rained like this on the first morning of the flood. it couldn't have been worse, at any rate." the back sitting-room of a lodging-house does not, as a rule, afford the most brilliant of views, so the scene which met isobel's eyes was hardly calculated to raise her spirits. the paved yard behind was swimming with water, through which a drenched and disconsolate tabby cat, excluded from the paradise of the kitchen, was attempting to pick its way, shaking its paws at every step. marine terrace being a comparatively new row, the back premises were still in a somewhat unfinished condition, and instead of gardens and flower-beds, your eye was greeted by heaps of sand and mortar, bricks and rubbish, not yet carted away by the builders, which, added to piles of empty bottles and old hampers, gave a rather forlorn appearance to the place. after watching pussy's struggles with the elements, and seeing her finally seek refuge in the coal-house, isobel took a turn to the front door, and stood looking over the parade, where the rolling mist almost obscured all sight of the sea, and sky and water were of the same dull neutral gray. the road was empty, not even the most venturesome visitors having braved the wind and weather that morning; while biddy herself, usually as punctual as the clock, had evidently decided it was too wet a day to vend her fish. there was absolutely nothing to be seen; nevertheless isobel would have stood there watching the endless drops falling from the unkindly skies, had not mrs. jackson appeared from the kitchen, and declaring that the rain was beating into the hall, firmly closed the door and shut out any further prospect. "you'd get cold too, missy," she said, "standin' in a full draught, for polly will leave that back door open, say what i will, and it turns chilly of a wet day. one can have too much fresh air, to my mind. there was a gentleman stayed here last summer, now, just crazy he was on what he called 'hygiene;' bathed regular every morning before breakfast, no matter how the tide might be. i warned him it was a-injuring his health to go in the water on an empty stomach, but he didn't take no notice of what i said, and lay out on damp sand, and sat under open windows, till he ended up with a bad bout of the brown-chitis, with the doctor comin' every day, and me turned sick nurse to poultice him--emma jane bein' at home then, or i couldn't have found the time to do it. i've no opinion of these modern health dodges as folks sets such store by now. in my young days we never so much as thought about drains, and if the pig-sty was at the back door, no one was any the worse for it! i call it right-down interferin' the way these inspectors come round sayin' you mustn't even throw a bucket of potato skins down in your own yard. nuisance, indeed! it's them as is the nuisance. their nasty disinfectants smell far worse, to my mind, than a few cabbage leaves. my grandmother lived to ninety-four, and never slept with her bedroom window open in her life, not even on the hottest of summer days, and drew her drinkin' water regular from the churchyard well, which they tell you now is swarmin' with 'microbes,' or whatever they call 'em. i never saw any, though i've let my pail down in it many a time; and it was a deal sweeter and fresher, to my taste, than what you get laid on in lead pipes. jackson may go in for this new-fangled 'sanitation' if he likes, votin' for all kinds of improvements by the town council, which only adds to the rates. i'm an old-fashioned woman, and stick to old-fashioned country ways, and i think draughts is draughts, and gives folks colds and toothaches, call 'em by what high-soundin' names you will." judging the weather to be absolutely hopeless, and without the slightest intention of clearing up, isobel went back to the sitting-room, where polly had just taken away the breakfast things, and looked round for some means of amusing herself. "i don't believe the postman has been yet," she said. "what a terrible day for him to go round! i should think he feels as if he ought to come in a boat. why, there's his rap-tap now. i wonder if there are any letters for us?" "i don't expect there will be," said mrs. stewart; "my correspondence is not generally very large." "i think i shall go and see, just for something to do," said isobel; and running into the hall, she returned presently with a letter in her hand. "it's for you, mother," she said. "the people in the drawing-room had five, and the family in the dining-room had seven and two parcels. aren't they lucky? there was even one for polly, but mrs. jackson told her to put it in her pocket, and not to read it till she had got the beds made. i'm sure she'll take a peep at it, all the same. i wish some one would write to me. i haven't had even a picture post-card since i came." the appearance of the letter which had just arrived seemed to cause mrs. stewart an unusual amount of agitation. she turned it over in her hand, glanced at isobel, hesitated a moment, and finally took it unopened to her bedroom, that she might read it in private. "it is my long-expected reply at last!" she said to herself. "i thought he could surely not fail to send me an answer. i wonder what he has to say. i feel as though i scarcely dare to look." with trembling fingers she tore open the envelope, and unfolding the sheet of notepaper, read as follows:-- "the chase, silversands, _august th._ "dear madam,--i have delayed replying sooner to your communication, as i wished to thoroughly inform myself upon the question which you put before me. acting on your suggestion, i have, without her knowledge, noted the general disposition, demeanour, and tastes of your daughter, and finding they are of a nature such as would not make a closer intimacy congenial to either of us, i must beg to decline your proffered meeting. as i would wish, however, that my son's child should receive a fitting education, i am about to place to her credit the sum of £ per annum to defray her expenses at any good school that you may select from a list which will be submitted to you shortly by my solicitor. he has full instructions to conduct all further arrangements, and i should prefer any future communication from you to be only of a business character.--believe me to remain yours truly everard stewart." mrs. stewart flung down the letter with a cry of indignation. [illustration: mrs. stewart and isobel on the moor (page ).] "what does he mean?" she asked herself. "where can he have seen isobel? to my knowledge she has spoken to nobody except this old colonel smith and a few of the townspeople. how can he have 'noted her disposition, demeanour, and tastes'? and if so, what fault can he possibly find with my darling? is it mere prejudice, and a determination on his part to avoid any reconciliation? if i were not so wretchedly poor, i would not accept one farthing of this money for her. but i must! i must! it is not right that my pride should stand in the way of her education, and for this i must humble myself to take his charity. he is a stern man to have kept up the ill-feeling for so many years. every line of his letter shows that he is opposed to me still, though he has never seen me in his life; and instead of loving isobel for her father's sake, he is prepared to hate her for mine. we are so friendless and alone in the world that it seems hard the one relation who i thought might have taken an interest in my child should cast her off thus. well, it makes her doubly mine, and if she can never know her grandfather's beautiful home, my love must be compensation for what she has lost. my one little ewe lamb is everything to me; and though i would have given her up for the sake of seeing her recognized, it would have nearly broken my heart to part with her." she put the letter carefully away, and went down again to the sitting-room, where isobel was standing by the window, gazing disconsolately at the streaming rain, with just a suspicion of two rain-drops in her eyes, for she did not like to be left alone, and mrs. stewart had been long upstairs. "never mind, my sweet one," said her mother, stroking the pretty, smooth hair. "it is a disappointing day, but we will manage to enjoy ourselves together, you and i, in spite of rain or any other troubles. suppose we go through all your collections. you could write the names under the wild flowers you have pressed, arrange the shells in boxes, and float some of the sea-weeds on to pieces of writing-paper." isobel cheered up at once at the idea of something definite to do, and the table was very soon spread over with the various treasures she had gathered upon the beach. silversands was a good place for shells, and she had many rare and beautiful kinds, from pearly cowries to scallops and wentletraps. she sorted them out carefully, putting big, little, and middle-sized ones in separate heaps; she had great ideas of what she would do with them when she was at home again, intending to construct shell boxes, photo frames, and various other knickknacks in imitation of the wonderful things which were sold at the toy-shop near the railway station. "if i could make a very nice frame, mother," she said, "i should like to send it to mrs. jackson for a christmas present, to put emma jane's photo in. i believe she'd be quite pleased to hang it up in the kitchen with the funeral cards. i might manage a shell box for old biddy, too. it would scarcely do for a handkerchief box, because i don't believe she ever uses such a thing as a pocket handkerchief, but i dare say she would like it to put something in. do you think the shells would stick on to tin if we made the glue strong enough? i could do a tobacco-box then for mr. cass the coastguard, one that he could keep in the parlour for best." "i'm afraid you will have to collect more shells if you intend to make so many presents," said mrs. stewart. "i think, however, that we might manufacture some pretty pin-cushions out of these large fan shells by boring holes in the ends, fastening them together with bows of ribbon, and gluing a small velvet cushion in between." "that would be delightful!" cried isobel, "and something quite different to give people. i'm afraid they're rather tired of my needle books and stamp cases. i wish we could think of anything to do with the sea-weed." "we're going to float them on to pieces of paper, and when they are dry we will paste them in a large scrap album, and find out their names from a book which i think i can borrow from the free library at home." "i don't quite know how to float them." "you must watch me do this one, and then you will be able to manage the rest. first i'm going to fill this basin with clean water, and put this pretty pink piece to float in it. now, you see, i am slipping this sheet of notepaper underneath, and drawing it very carefully and gently from the water, so that the sea-weed remains spreads out upon the paper. i shall pin the sheet by its four corners on to this board, and when it is dry you'll find that the sea-weed has stuck to the paper as firmly as if it had been glued. it's not really difficult, but it needs a little skill to lift the sheet from the water without disarranging your sea-weed." "this one's lovely," said isobel. "i must try to do the green piece next. how jolly they'll look when they are all nicely pasted into a book! i wonder if it will be difficult to find out the names? it's rather hard to tell our flowers, isn't it?" "sometimes; but i think we are improving in our botany. how many different kinds have we pressed since we came here?" "forty; i counted them yesterday. and we have fifty-seven at home. we shall soon have the drawer quite full. do you think i might look at the scabious that i put under your big box last night?" "i'm afraid you will spoil it if you peep at it too soon. when i was a little girl my brother and i used sometimes to amuse ourselves by putting specimens to press under the leaves of an old folding-table, and pledging each other not to look at them for a year. it was rather hard sometimes to keep our vows, but the flowers were most beautifully dried when we took them out again. some day we will start a collection of pressed ferns; they are really easier to do than wild flowers, because they keep their colour, while the pretty blue of harebells or speedwells always seems to fade away." "i've done three sea-weeds already," said isobel, successfully arranging a delicate piece of pink coralline with the point of a hat pin. "i'm afraid this next white one will be very difficult, it's so thick." "you can't float that. it's a zoophyte, not a real sea-weed; and, indeed, not a vegetable at all, but the very lowest form of animal life. you must hang it up to dry, like you do the long pieces of oar-weed. we'll try to get the messy work done this morning, so that we can clear the table for polly to lay dinner, and in the afternoon i thought you might finish your tea-cosy for mr. binks. there is not much to be done to it now, and then i can make it up for you." "oh, that would be nice! when can we go and see him?" "i believe my foot will be strong enough by thursday, so you shall write a letter to him after dinner, and say so." "how jolly! i'm longing to see the white coppice, and the balk, and mrs. binks. i hope she won't forget to bake the cranberry cake. i shall have to write a very neat letter. i want to copy out the runic inscription, too, on to a fresh piece of paper." "yes, do, dear. if my ankle bears me safely as far as the white coppice, i shall certainly venture to the island afterwards, and take a sketch of the stone. it's a most interesting discovery." "colonel smith said he was going to have it raised up," said isobel; "half of it, you see, is buried in the ground. he wasn't sure whether he would leave it where it is, or take it to his house. he's so dreadfully afraid, if he lets it stay on the island, that horrid cheap trippers might come some time and carve their names on it. he says the brambles growing over it have kept it safe so far. i wish you knew him, mother, he's _so_ kind. belle says she doesn't like him at all, but i do." "i think it's very good of him to let you have the run of his island; it has made a most delightful playground, and you and the sea urchins will have spent an ideal holiday." "we have indeed. i'm so glad we came to silversands. i wish we could come every year, and always have the island to play on. it would be something to look forward to through the winter." "i'm afraid that isn't possible, dear," said mrs. stewart regretfully, thinking of what might have been if the hopes which prompted her visit had been fulfilled. "i doubt if we shall ever return here again. but we will have other happy times together; there are many sweet spots in the world where we shall be able to enjoy ourselves, and i have plans for the future which i will tell you about by-and-by." "i've had quite a jolly day in spite of the rain," declared isobel that evening, when, the deluge having ceased at last, the setting sun broke through the thick banks of clouds, and flooding the sea with a golden glory, brought out all the cooped-up visitors for an airing upon the parade. "i haven't!" said belle. "it was perfectly detestable. i had absolutely nothing to do except throw balls for micky, and even he got tired of that. mother said we made her head ache, and she went to lie down. it's never any fun talking to barton, she's so stupid; so i sat and watched the streaming rain through the window, and wished we'd never come to silversands. i think a wet day in lodgings is just about the horridest thing in the world, and i simply can't imagine how you can have enjoyed it." chapter xv. tea with mr. binks. "at many a statelier home we've had good cheer, but ne'er a kinder welcome found than here." the tea-cosy, when finished, was a thing of beauty, and isobel packed it up in sheets of white tissue paper with much pride and satisfaction. both the steaming teapot on the one side and the ecclesiastical-looking "b" on the other had given her a great deal of trouble, and she was not sorry that they were completed. "going to have tea with that vulgar old man we met in the train!" exclaimed belle, raising her eyebrows in astonishment when isobel told her of their plans. "you really do the _funniest_ things! i thought him dreadful. i suppose, since he asked you, you couldn't get out of it, but i'm sorry for you to have to go. i shouldn't have been able to come to the island in any case to-morrow, because mother wants to take me to see the oppenheims." "who are they?" asked isobel. "oh, they're a family mother knows in london. they're ever so rich. they've taken a lovely furnished house near the woods, with a tennis-court and a huge garden. they're to arrive this evening, and they're bringing their motor car and their chauffeur with them. the wilsons and the bardsleys are coming by the same train. blanche oppenheim is six months older than i am, and mother says she's sure i shall like her. it will be nice to have some more friends here; silversands is getting rather dull. there's so little to do in such a quiet place. there never seems to be anything going on." isobel thought there had been a great deal going on of the kind of fun she enjoyed, though it might not be altogether to belle's taste, and even her friend's depreciation of poor mr. binks could not spoil the pleasure with which she anticipated her visit to the white coppice. she was full of eagerness to start on thursday afternoon, and was ready fully half an hour too soon, though her mother assured her they could not with decency arrive before four o'clock. the white coppice lay opposite to silversands, at the other side of a narrow peninsula, and you could either reach it by going five miles round by the road, or by walking two miles across the hills. mrs. stewart and isobel naturally preferred the short cut, and leaving the little town behind them, were soon on the bare wind-swept heights, following a track which led over the heather-clad moor. it seemed no-man's land here, given up to the grouse and plovers, though now and then they passed a rough sheep-fold, and once a whitewashed farmstead, the thatched roof of which was bound down with ropes to resist the autumn storms, and the few trees that sheltered the doorway, all pointing their struggling branches in the same direction, served to show how strong was the force of the prevailing wind. from the crest of the hill they could see the sea on either hand, and at the far end of the promontory could catch a glimpse of the pier at ferndale, where a steamer was landing its cargo of excursionists to swell the already large crowd of cheap trippers, who seemed to swarm like ants upon the shore. "i'm glad we're not staying there," said isobel, who had been taken for an afternoon by mrs. chester in company with charlie and hilda; and though she had laughed at the niggers and the pierrots, and enjoyed watching the punch and judy and the acrobats on the shore, and had put pennies into the peep-shows on the pier, had returned thankfully from the crowded promenade and streets full of holiday-makers to the peace and quiet of silversands. "it's rather amusing just for a day, but the people are even noisier than those we met in the train; they were throwing confetti all about the sands, and shouting to one another at the top of their voices. i like a place where we can go walks and pick flowers, and not meet anybody else. we shouldn't have found a desert island at ferndale." "you certainly wouldn't," said mrs. stewart. "if 'rocky holme' were there it would be covered with swings and gingerbeer stalls, and your little hut might probably have been turned into an oyster room or a penny show. it is delightful to find a spot that is still unspoilt. luckily the trippers don't appear to go far afield; they seem quite content with the attractions of the pier and band, and have not yet invaded these beautiful moors. how quickly we seem to have come across! we're quite close to the sea again now, and i believe that gray old farmhouse nestling among the trees below will prove to be the end of our journey." the white coppice was so called because it stood on the borders of a birch wood that lay in a gorge between the hills. it was protected by a bold cliff from the strong north and west winds, sheltered by a slightly lower crag from the east, and open only towards the south, where the garden sloped down to a sandy cove and a narrow creek that made a natural harbour for mr. binks's boat, which was generally moored to a small jetty under the wall. it was an ancient stone farmhouse, with large mullioned windows and hospitable, ever-open door, over which two tamarisk bushes had been trained into a rustic porch. the garden was gay with such hardy flowers as would flourish so near to the sea, growing in patches between the rows of potatoes and beans, and interspersed here and there with the figureheads of vessels, while at the end was a summer-house, evidently made from an upturned boat, and covered thickly with traveller's joy. here mr. binks appeared to be taking an afternoon nap while awaiting the arrival of his visitors, but at the click of the opening gate he sprang up with a start, and advanced to meet them with brawny, outstretched hand. "i'm reet glad to see you, i am!" he exclaimed cordially. "it's royal weather, too, though a trifle hotter nor suits me.--missis!" (bawling through the doorway), "where iver are you a-gone? here's company come, and waitin' for you!" mrs. binks could not have been very far away, for she bustled into the front garden in a moment, her round, rosy, apple face smiling all over with welcome. she was a fine, tall, elderly woman, so stout that her figure reminded you of a large soft pillow tied in the middle. she wore an old-fashioned black silk dress, with a white muslin apron, and a black netted cap with purple ribbons over her smoothly parted gray hair. "well, now, i'm _that_ pleased!" she declared. "come in, and set you down. you'll be fair tired out, mum, with your walk over the moor, havin' had a bad foot and all. it's a nasty thing to strain your ankle, it is that.--come in, missy. binks has talked a deal about you, he has--thinks you're the very moral of our harriet's clara over at skegness; but, bless you, i don't see no likeness myself. the kettle's just on the boil, and you must take a cup of tea first thing to freshen you up like. it's a good step from silversands, and a bit close to-day to come so far." seated in a corner of the high-backed oak settle, isobel looked with eager curiosity round the old farm kitchen. its flagged stone floor, the sliding cupboards in the walls, the great beams of the ceiling covered with hooks from which were suspended flitches of bacon, bunches of dried herbs, strings of onions, and even mr. binks's fishing-boots--all were new to her interested gaze, and her quick eyes took in everything from the gun-rack over the dresser to the china dogs on the chimney-piece. the kitchen was so large that half of it seemed to be reserved as a parlour; there was a square of carpet laid down at one end, upon which stood a round table spread with mrs. binks's very best china tea-service, and a supply of dainties that would have feasted a dozen visitors at least. the long, low window was filled with scarlet geraniums, between the vivid blossoms of which you could catch a peep of the cove and the water beyond; and just outside hung a cage containing a pair of doves, which kept up an incessant cooing. mrs. binks made quite a picture, seated in a tall elbow chair, wielding her big teapot, and she pressed her muffins and currant tea-cakes upon her guests with true north-country hospitality. "you ought to be sharp set after a two-mile walk," she observed. "take it through, missy, take it through! you must have 'the bishop' with 'the curate,' as we say in these parts; the top piece is nought but the poor curate, for all the butter runs to the bottom, and that's the bishop! is your tea as you like it? you must taste our apple jelly, made of our own crabs as grows in the orchard out at back, unless you'd as lief try the damson cheese or the strawberry jam." mr. binks seemed much undecided whether his position as host required him to join the party, or whether his presence in such select company would be an intrusion, and in spite of mrs. stewart's kindly-expressed hope that he would occupy his own seat at the table, he finally compromised the matter by carrying his tea to the opposite end of the kitchen, and taking it on the dresser, from whence he fired off remarks every now and then whenever mrs. binks, who was a hard talker and monopolized the conversation, gave him a chance to put in a word. it was amusing talk, isobel thought, all about mrs. binks's children and grandchildren, and the many illnesses from which they had suffered, and the medicines they had tried, and the wonderful recoveries they had made, interspersed by offers of more tea and cake and jam, or lamentations over the small appetite of her visitors, whom she seemed to expect to clear the plates like locusts. "no more, missy? why, you are soon done! and you haven't tasted my cranberry cake! you must have a bit of it, if you have to put it in your pocket. it's made by a recipe as i got from my great-aunt as lived up in berwick, and a light hand she had, too, for a cake," laying a generous slice upon isobel's plate, and seeming quite hurt by her refusal. "you mustn't make her ill, mrs. binks," laughed mrs. stewart, "though she fully appreciates your kindness.--isobel, would you like to open the parcel we brought with us?" "you worked this for us, honey? well, i never did!" cried mrs. binks, touching the gorgeous tea-cosy gingerly, as if she feared her stout fingers might soil its beauty.--"peter, come hither and look at this.--use it for tea every day? nay! that would be a sin and a shame. it's a sight too pretty to use. i'll put it in the parlour, alongside of the cup binks won at last show for the black heifer. you shall see for yourself, missy, how nice it'll stand on the sideboard, on top of a daisy mat as harriet crocheted when she was down with a bad leg." mrs. binks opened a door at the farther side of the kitchen, and proudly led the way into her best sitting-room. it was a close little room, with a mouldy smell as if the chimney were stopped up and the window never opened. one end of it was entirely filled by a glass-backed mahogany sideboard; a large gilt mirror hung over the fireplace, carefully swathed in white muslin to keep off the flies; the walls were adorned with photographs of the binks family and its many ramifications, taken in their best clothes, which did not appear to sit easily upon them, to judge by the stiff unrest of their attitudes; and opposite the door hung a wonderful german oleograph depicting a scene that might either have been a sunrise on the alps or an eruption of vesuvius, according to the individual fancy of the spectator. the square table was covered with a magenta cloth, in the centre of which stood a glass shade containing wax fruit, while several gorgeously bound volumes of poems and sermons were placed at regular intervals each upon a separate green wool-work mat. it was so hot and airless in there that isobel was quite glad when mr. binks suggested they should adjourn to the garden, that he might show her the figureheads which stood among the flower-beds like a row of wooden statues. each one was the record of some good ship gone to pieces upon that treacherous coast, and as he walked along pointing them out with his stick, the old man gave the histories of the wrecks, at many of which he had played an active part in saving the lives of the crews. "that there's the _arizona_--her with the broken nose; smashed up like matchwood she was, on the cliffs beyond ferndale, and the captain drowned and the second mate. that there's the _neptune_. the trident's gone, but you can see the beard and the wreath. she went down of a sudden on a sunken rock, and never a man left to tell as how it happened. this un's the _admiral seymour_, wrecked outside silversands bay; but we had the lifeboat out, and took all off safe. and this here's the _polly jones_, a coastin' steamer from liverpool, as went clean in two amongst them crags by the lighthouse, and her cargo of oranges washed up along the shore next day till the beach turned yellow with 'em." "you know a great deal about ships," said isobel, to whom her host's reminiscences were as thrilling as a story-book. "i should that. i've been sailin' for the best part of fifty year--leastways when i wasn't farmin'. i've not forgot as i promised to row you over to the balk. if your ma's willin', we'd best make a start now, whilst the tide's handy. it's worth your while to go; you'd not see such a sight again, maybe, in a far day's journey." mrs. binks declined to join the expedition, so only mrs. stewart and isobel stepped into the boat which mr. binks rowed over the bay with swift and steady strokes. their destination was a narrow spit of land about a quarter of a mile distant, where the crumbling remains of an old abbey rose gray among the surrounding rocks. long years ago the monks had fashioned the balk to catch their fish, and it still stood, a survival of ancient days and ancient ways, close under the ruined wall of the disused chapel. it consisted of a circle of stout oak staves, driven into the sand, so as to enclose a space of about forty yards in diameter, the staves being connected by twisted withes, so that the whole resembled a gigantic basket. it was filled by the high tide, and the retreating water, running through the meshes, left the fish behind as in a trap, when they were very easily caught with the hands and collected in creels. "you wouldn't see more than a couple like it in all england," said mr. binks. "they calls it poachin' now, and no one mayn't make a fresh one; but this here's left, and goes with the white coppice, and i've rented the two for a matter of forty year." he drew up the boat under the old abbey wall, and helping his guests to land, led them down the beach to the enclosure, where the wet sand was covered with leaping shining fish, some gasping their last in the sunshine, and some seeking the temporary shelter of a deeper pool in the middle. bob, mr. binks's grandson, was busy collecting them and putting them into large baskets, assisted by a clever little irish terrier, which ran hither and thither catching the fish in its mouth, and carrying them to its master like a retriever, much to isobel's amusement, for she had certainly never seen a dog go fishing before. it was a pretty sight, and a much easier way, isobel thought, of earning your living than venturing out with nets and lines; and she resolved to tell the sea urchins about it, so that they might make a small balk for themselves on their desert island, if the colonel would allow them. she and her mother wandered round the old abbey, while mr. binks was engaged in giving some directions to bob; but there was nothing to be seen except a few tumble-down walls and a fragment of what might once have been part of an east window. they were lifting away the thick ivy which had covered a corner stone, when, looking up, isobel suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure coming towards them across the rough broken flags of the transept. "o mother," she whispered, "it's colonel smith!" and advancing rather shyly a step or two, she met him with a beaming face. "why, it's my little friend again!" cried the colonel. "hunting for more antiquities? i wish you would find them. this is surely your mother" (raising his hat).--"your daughter will, no doubt, have told you, madam, what an interesting discovery she made on my island. i feel i am very much indebted to her." "she was equally delighted," replied mrs. stewart. "she has talked continually about this wonderful stone and its runic inscription. i am hoping to be able to take a sketch of it before we leave. i hear there is carving on the lower portion, as well as the runes." "so there is, but it's half hidden by the soil. i'm taking some of my men to-morrow to dig it out of the ground and raise it up, and am sending for a photographer to take several views of it. it is of special value to me, owing to the particular norse dialect employed, which is similar to that on several monuments in the isle of man, and shows that the same race of invaders must have swept across the north, and probably penetrated as far as ireland." "i have seen runic crosses in ireland," said mrs. stewart. "there's a beautifully ornamented one near ballymoran, though the carving is more like celtic than teutonic work--those strange interlacing animals which you find in ancient erse manuscripts. i am very interested in old celtic remains, and have a good many sketches of them at home." "you couldn't take up a more fascinating study," said the colonel eagerly. "it's a very wide field, and one that has not been too much explored. i've done a little in that way myself, and i am collecting materials for a book on the subject of celtic and runic crosses, but it needs both time and patience to sort one's knowledge. it's worth the trouble, though, for the sake of the pleasure one gets out of it." "i am sure it is," replied mrs. stewart, with ready sympathy. "to love such things is a kind of 'better part' that cannot be taken away from us, however much the uninitiated may laugh at our enthusiasm." "you're right," said the colonel. "we can afford to let them laugh. we antiquarians have the best of it, after all. i should have liked to have seen your picture of the irish cross. i wish i could sketch. you are fortunate to have that talent at your disposal; it's a great help in such work, and one which i sadly lack. why, here's binks!--do you want anything, peter?" "no, sir," answered mr. binks, touching his cap. "only to say as how the tide's runnin' out fast, and we ought to be startin' back now, or i'll have to carry the boat down the sands; she's only in a foot of water as it is." "we must indeed go," said mrs. stewart, consulting her watch. "it's time we were walking home again.--thank you" (turning to the colonel) "for your kindness to my little girl and her companions in allowing them to play on your island. i hope they are careful and do no damage there." "not in the least. there's nothing to hurt. good-evening, madam. it has given me great pleasure to meet one with whom i have such a congenial subject in common. you must come, by all means, and sketch the stone, and i wish you every success in your study of both celtic and runic antiquities." "what an interesting old gentleman!" said mrs. stewart, when, having bid many farewells to mr. and mrs. binks, she and isobel at last turned their steps homeward over the moors. "it was, as he said, quite a pleasure to meet. i suppose there's a freemasonry between antiquarians. i should like to have a copy of his book when it's published. i wonder if he would find my sketches of the irish crosses useful. i think i must venture to send them to him when i return home. we don't know his address, but no doubt colonel smith, silversands, would find him. we've had a delightful afternoon, isobel, and not the least part of it, to me, has been to make the acquaintance of your friend of the desert island." chapter xvi. belle's new friend. "how soon the bitter follows on the sweet! could i not chain your fancy's flying feet? could i not hold your soul to make you play to-morrow in the key of yesterday?" isobel found belle on the parade next morning in the midst of quite a group of fashionable strangers. she was wearing one of her smartest frocks, and was hanging affectionately on the arm of a girl slightly taller than herself, a showy-looking child, with hazel eyes and a high colour, dressed in a very fantastic costume of red and white, with a scarlet fez on her thick frizzy brown hair, and a tall silver-knobbed cane, ornamented with ribbons, in her hand. belle appeared to find her company so entrancing that at first she did not notice isobel, and it was only when the latter spoke to her that she seemed to realize her presence, and said "good-morning." "we're just off to the island," said isobel. "charlie has got a fresh coil of rope, and the boys are going to try and make a new raft. the rokebys are bringing some eggs, and we mean to fry pancakes and toss them, as if it were shrove tuesday. are you coming?" "well, not this morning, i think," replied belle. "i've promised blanche to show her the old town. she doesn't know silversands at all." "would she like to go with us to the hut?" suggested isobel, looking towards the newcomer, who stood playing with the loops of ribbon on her cane, and humming a tune to herself in a jaunty, self-confident manner. "oh, i don't think so," replied belle. "it's too far. she hasn't seen the beach or the quay yet. we're going now to buy fruit in the market, and then we shall have a stroll round the shops. you can take micky with you to the island if you like. i'll put on his leash, so that he won't follow me." "no, thanks; i should be afraid of losing him," replied isobel. "i'd really rather not. shall i see you this afternoon?" "blanche has asked me to play tennis in their garden," said belle, drawing isobel aside. "but i shall be home about six, because the oppenheims dine at seven, and blanche always has to dress. i'll come for a walk then, if you'll call for me. i must go now; the others are waiting." isobel went away with a rather blank feeling of disappointment. she had grown so accustomed to belle that it seemed quite strange to be without her, and the morning passed slowly, in spite of the pancakes which she helped letty and winnie to mix and toss over the fire. she felt she was only giving half her attention to the raft that the boys kept calling her to admire, and that her thoughts were continually with belle, trying to imagine what she was doing, and wondering if she were enjoying herself. mrs. stewart had found the walk to the white coppice such a strain on her weak ankle that she would not dare to venture any great exertion for several days, so her intended expedition to the island to sketch the runic cross had perforce to be put off. she and isobel carried their tea to the beach close by that afternoon, and drank it under the shade of a rock; but though it was pleasant sitting close to the lapping waves, and mrs. stewart had brought a new book to read aloud, isobel's mind would wander away to the garden near the woods where belle was playing tennis, and she would recall herself with a start, realizing that she had not taken in a single word of the story. she went round, according to her promise, soon after six o'clock, to find mrs. stuart and her friend deep in patterns of dress materials, price lists, catalogues, and copies of the _queen_, and other ladies' newspapers. "the oppenheims are giving a garden-party next tuesday," explained belle. "they have a great many friends staying in the neighbourhood who will drive over. they've asked me, and i haven't a thing fit to go in. my white silk's too short, the pink crape's quite crushed, the blue muslin won't look nice after it's washed, and my merino's hardly smart enough. i must have a new dress somehow." "i don't generally like you in ready-made clothes, belle," said mrs. stuart, "but really this embroidered silk in the advertisement looks very pretty, and peter robinson's is a good shop. i think i shall risk it. there will be just time, if i catch this post. would you rather have the blue or the pink?" "the blue," said belle promptly, "because of my best hat. you'd better write for some more forget-me-nots at the same time; the ones in the front are rather dashed. i can wear my blue chain and the turquoise bracelet, and i have a pair of long white gloves not touched yet. but oh, mother, my parasol! it's dreadfully bleached with the sun. do, please, send for another. there's a picture of one here with little frills all round, just what i want." belle's mind was so absorbed by the arrangement of her costume for the coming party that, until the letters were written and finally dispatched to the post, she could give no attention to isobel, and in the short walk which they took afterwards on the beach her whole conversation was of the oppenheims and the delightful afternoon she had spent at their house. "blanche has five bracelets," she confided, "and four rings, and a dressing-case full of lockets and chains and brooches. she took me upstairs and showed them to me. she's brought her pony with her, and some morning she's promised to borrow her sister's riding-skirt for me, and the coachman is to take us on to the common to ride in turns. won't it be glorious? she's _such_ an amusing girl! she knows all the latest songs, and you should just hear her take people off: it makes you die with laughing. she's been a year at a jolly school near london, where the girls are taken to _matinées_ at the theatre, and have a splendid time. i mean to ask mother to send me there. it's dreadfully expensive, but i know she wouldn't mind that." "we missed you at the island to-day," said isobel. "the pancakes were delicious. we ate them with sugar and lemons." "did you?" said belle inattentively. "perhaps i may come to-morrow, if i have time." "to-morrow's the cricket match at the old playground," said isobel. "we always have it on saturday, you know. had you forgotten?" "i suppose i had," replied belle. "i'll bring blanche, if she cares about coming. i don't know whether she plays cricket." on saturday morning isobel called early at no. , only to find that belle had already gone to the oppenheims, and would not return until lunch. "i'm sorry she's not in, dear," said mrs. stuart kindly, noticing isobel's look of disappointment; "but she expects to see you in the afternoon, i'm sure. she told me she would be meeting all her friends upon the shore, so some of the others will no doubt know what has been arranged, if you ask them. i believe i saw the rokebys pass a moment ago; you could soon overtake them if you were to run." the matches on the small green common which had been their first playground were still an institution of the sea urchins' club, and isobel looked forward to them with considerable pleasure. she had not sufficient strength of arm to gain credit as a batsman, but she was a splendid fielder, and charlie declared that no one made a better long-stop. this afternoon both boys and girls had assembled in full force punctually at the appointed time, and the game was nearly halfway through before belle and her new friend came sauntering leisurely up to the pitch. "oh! we don't want to play, thank you," said belle, "only to look on. please don't stop on our account. we're just going to sit down and watch you." the pair retired to the old boat, where they settled themselves under the shade of blanche's parasol, and, to judge from their giggling mirth, found great entertainment in making merry at the expense of the others. isobel, who was fielding, had not a chance to speak to belle until the opposite side was out, but arthur wright having sent a catch at last, she was free until her own innings. she ran up with her accustomed eagerness, expecting her friend to kiss her as usual, and to make room for her upon the boat. to-day, however, belle did nothing of the sort. "that you, isobel?" she said carelessly. "i should think you're hot. i don't know how you can tear about so. blanche said your legs looked like a pair of compasses when you flew after the ball." "aren't you going to play?" asked isobel. "we want one more on each side." "no, thanks. i hate racing up and down in the sun. it takes one's hair out of curl." "oh, i don't think it would," replied isobel. "people with rats' tails can't judge," said blanche, twisting one of belle's light locks and her own dark ones together as she spoke, and looking at the combination with a critical eye. "if my brother were here, he'd be in fits over this cricket. i never saw such a game. that big boy holds his bat in the most clumsy way." "he's a very good player," said isobel. "he gets more runs than anybody else, and it's terribly hard to put him out." "jermyn would bowl him first ball!" returned blanche scornfully. "perhaps you've never seen eton boys play? i always go to lord's to watch the match with harrow: it's as different from this as a first-class theatre is from a troupe of niggers." "why, but this is only a children's mixed team," said isobel. "of course some of the little ones scarcely know how to play at all. we just send them very easy balls, and let them try.--you're surely not going, belle. tea will be ready in a quarter of an hour. mrs. rokeby's boiling the kettle on a spirit lamp over by the rocks." "we don't want any, thank you," said belle, rising from the boat and brushing some sand off her dress. "mrs. oppenheim is going to take us to tea at the new café. i hear they've capital ices and a band. the wilsons were telling me about it yesterday. they say you meet everybody there from four to five o'clock." "shall i see you on the parade this evening?" called isobel, as belle strolled away in the direction of silversands, her arm closely locked in blanche's. "i don't think so," replied belle, without turning her head, and saying something in a whisper to blanche, which evidently caused the latter much amusement, for she broke into a suppressed peal of laughter, and glancing round at isobel, went along shaking her shoulders with mirth. isobel stood looking after the retreating couple with a lump in her throat and a curious sick sensation in her heart. she could not yet quite realize that belle did not desire her companionship--only that somehow blanche had carried off her friend, and that everything was completely spoilt. between blanche and herself she recognized there was an instinctive hostility. blanche had been so openly rude, and had treated both her and the sea urchins with such evident contempt, that isobel, not usually a quarrelsome child, had felt all her spirit rise up within her in passionate indignation. "why does she come here to make fun of us?" she asked herself hotly. "we had such jolly times before. none of the others were ever nasty like this--not even aggie wright or hugh rokeby. why can't she keep with her own family? and why, oh, why does belle seem to like her so much?" next day being sunday, isobel only saw her friend at a distance in church, mrs. stewart, who had a suspicion of what was happening, suggesting that they should pass the afternoon with their books on the cliffs, thinking it would be better to leave belle severely alone, and give no opportunity for a meeting. on this account she spent monday in ferndale, asking hilda chester to accompany them, and taking the two children to hear the band play on the pier, and to an entertainment afterwards in the pavilion. the rokebys came on tuesday morning, inviting isobel to join them in a boating excursion, from which they did not return until late in the evening, so that for the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance the namesakes had not spoken to each other for three whole days. isobel had borne the separation as well as she could, but she longed to see belle again with the full force of her loving nature. she invented many excuses for the conduct of the latter, who, she thought, was no doubt regretting her coldness, and would be as delighted as ever to meet. if only she could get belle to herself, without blanche, all would surely be right between them, and the friendship as warm as it had been before. "may i ask her to tea, mother?" she begged, with so wistful a look in her gray eyes, and such a suspicious little quiver at the corners of her mouth, that mrs. stewart consented, somewhat against her better judgment. finding belle on the cricket-ground next morning, isobel broached the subject of the invitation at once. "to-day?" said belle. "i'm going to the oppenheims'. i haven't told you yet about their garden-party. it was _such_ a swell affair! they had waiters from the belle vue hotel at ferndale, and the grenadier band from the pier. i never saw lovelier dresses in my life. my blue silk came just in time, and it really looked very nice, and the parasol is sweet. you can't think how much i enjoyed myself." "would to-morrow do?" suggested isobel, "if you can't come to-day?" "to tea? at your lodgings?" replied belle, with a rather blank expression on her face. "yes, unless we carry the cups out on to the shore and have a picnic. perhaps that would be nicer." "mother wants to take me to call on the wilsons to-morrow." "then friday or saturday? it doesn't matter which to us." "really," said belle, looking rather embarrassed, "i expect i shall be going to the oppenheims both days. blanche likes me to make up the set at tennis, and it's so cool and nice in the garden under the trees. there she is now, coming along the beach and beckoning to me. i wonder what she wants. i think i shall have to go and see." and belle ran quickly off, as if glad to find an excuse for getting away; and meeting the oppenheims, she turned back with them towards the parade. left alone, isobel felt as though some great shock had passed over her. she saw only too plainly that belle did not want to come--did not care for her society or value her friendship; and the bitterness of the knowledge seemed almost greater than she could bear. she walked slowly to the cliff, and climbing part of the way up, sat down in a sheltered nook, hidden from sight of the beach; then putting her head on her hands, she let loose the flood-gates of her grief. god help us when we first find out that those we care for no longer respond to our love. the wound may heal, but it leaves a scar, and remains one of those silent milestones of the soul to which we look back in after years as having marked an epoch in our inner lives. at the time it appears as if all our affection had been wasted; but it is not so, for the very fact of loving even an unworthy object increases our power to love, and enlarges the heart, lifting us above self, and, as bread cast upon the waters, will return to us after many days in a greater capacity for sympathy with others, and a widening of our spiritual growth. to isobel it seemed as if the whole world had somehow changed. she had had few companions of her own age, and this was her first essay at friendship. those who enjoy very keenly suffer, alas! in like proportion, and hers was not a disposition to take things lightly. she stayed for a long, long time upon the cliffs, fighting a hard battle before she could get her tears under sufficient control to walk home along the shore, as she did not care to face any of the sea urchins with streaming eyes. perhaps a touch of pride came to her aid. she would, at any rate, not let belle know how greatly she cared, and when they met again she would behave as if she too were not anxious about the acquaintance. so much she felt she owed to her own self-respect, and she meant to carry it out, whatever it cost her. "i wouldn't break my heart, darling," said mrs. stewart, who, seeing isobel's red eyes, soon discovered the trouble, and offered what comfort she could. "belle isn't worth grieving for. i was afraid of this from the first, but you were so taken with her that it seemed of no use to warn you. i don't think she was ever half what you believed her to be, and she has proved herself a very fickle friend. never mind. we shall be going home soon, and you will have other interests to turn your thoughts. we shall see little more of her at silversands, and the best thing we can do is to forget her as speedily as we can." chapter xvii. the chase. "tones that i once used to know thrill in those accents of thine, eyes that i loved long ago gaze 'neath your lashes at mine." except by isobel, belle was scarcely missed at the desert island, where the sea urchins had so many interesting schemes on hand that they did not trouble to spare a thought to one who had not taken the pains to make herself a general favourite. for the last few days all the children had been absorbed in the construction of another hut upon the opposite end of the island. it was built with loose stones, after the fashion of an irish cabin, and they intended to roof it, when it was finished, with planks covered with pieces of turf. this new building was to surpass even the old one in beauty and ingenuity. it was to consist of several rooms, and both boys and girls toiled away at it with an ardour which would have caused the ordinary british workman to open his eyes in amazement. isobel worked as hard as any one, carrying stones, and mixing a crumbly kind of mortar made out of sand and crushed limpets, which charlie fondly imagined would resemble the famous cement with which mediæval castles were built, and would defy the combined effects of time and weather. since belle's desertion she had been much with the chesters. hilda, though several years younger than herself, was a dear little companion, and charlie was a staunch friend, standing up for her when necessary against the rokeby boys, whose teasing was sometimes apt to get beyond all bounds of endurance. on the following friday the whole party were busy upon the shore, collecting a fresh supply of shell-fish for their architecture, when isobel, who had left the others that she might carry her load of periwinkles to the already large heap under the rocks, spied her friend the colonel in the distance, and flinging down her basket, hurried along the beach to greet him. "well met, miss robinson crusoe!" cried the colonel. "i was just on the point of going up the cliff to take another look at the old stone. i'm like a child with a new toy. i find i can't tear myself away from it, and i want to keep going back to read the runes again, and to see that it is safe and uninjured. will you come with me to keep me company?" isobel was nothing loath--she much enjoyed a chat with the owner of the island; and they sat for a long time on a large boulder near the cross, while he wrote the runic alphabet for her on a leaf torn from his pocket-book. "now i should at least be able to make out the words of another inscription if i found it," she said triumphantly, "even if i didn't know what it meant. i shall copy these, and then write my name in runes inside all my books. i think they're ever so much prettier than modern letters." "with the slight disadvantage that very few people can decipher them," laughed the colonel. "you might as well sign your autograph in sanscrit. how fast the tide is rising! i think we should warn your playfellows that they ought to be running home. i'm always afraid lest they should be caught on these sands." he rose as he spoke, and walked to the verge of the cliff, where he could command a view of the shore below, just in time to see the last of the children hustled by charlotte wright (whose sensible practical head never forgot the state of the tide) up the beach at the silversands side of the channel, which was already beginning to fill so quickly as to render any further crossing impossible. "oh, look! what shall we do?" cried isobel, in some alarm. "we're quite cut off. we can't possibly get through that deep water even if we try to wade. we shall have to stay on the island all night." "and sleep in the hut like true pioneers?" said the colonel. "it would certainly be a new experience. no, little miss crusoe, i don't think we are driven to such a desperate extremity as that yet. i left my boat at the other side of the headland, and my man is only waiting my signal to row round. i will take you across with me to the chase, and land you in safety." mounting to the top of the hill, he waved his handkerchief, and a small row-boat which had been anchored in the bay put off immediately in their direction. "it's not nearly so romantic as if we had been obliged to spend a lonely night shivering in the hut," said the colonel. "we've missed rather an interesting adventure, but it's much more comfortable, after all. by-the-bye, will your mother feel anxious if she sees the other children return without you?" "she's gone to ferndale this afternoon to buy some more paints and drawing paper," replied isobel. "you can't get sketching materials in silversands. she won't be home until seven o'clock, because there isn't a train earlier. i shall have to take tea alone." "better have it with me," suggested her friend. "i feel i owe some return for the hospitality you exercised in the hut. i haven't forgotten the nice cup of tea you made. you must see my flowers, and i can send you home afterwards in the dog-cart." "that _would_ be nice!" cried isobel, her joy at the prospect showing itself in her beaming face. "we saw your garden from the top of the scar that day we went into your grounds, and i thought it looked _lovely_." "well, i believe i have as good a show as most people in the neighbourhood," admitted the colonel; "but you shall judge for yourself. here we are at the landing-place. take care! give me your hand, and i will help you out." the chase appeared to have a private wooden jetty of its own, which led on to a strip of shingly beach, at the other side of which an iron gate admitted them into a small plantation of fir trees, and through a shrubbery into the garden. isobel could not restrain a cry of pleasure at the sight of the flowers, which were now in the prime of their early autumn glory, and she did not know whether to admire more the little beds, gay with bright blossoms, which dotted the smoothly mown lawns, or the splendid herbaceous borders behind, full of dahlias, sunflowers, gladioli, hollyhocks, torch lilies, tall bell-flowers, and other beautiful plants. "i must show you all my treasures," said the colonel, pleased with her appreciation, as he took her to the pond where the pink water-lilies grew, and the bamboo and eucalyptus were flourishing in the open air. "you don't often find subtropical plants so far north," he explained, with a touch of pride as he pointed them out; "but this is a very sheltered situation, and we protect them with matting during the winter. you should see the irises in the spring and early summer; they are a mass of delicate colour, and thrive so well down by the water's edge." the rock garden, with its pretty alpine blossoms; the rosery, where the queen of flowers seemed represented by every variety, from the delicate yellow of the tea to the rich red of the damask; the fountain, where the water flowed from the pouting lips of a chubby cherub, astride on a dolphin, into a basin filled with gold and silver fish; the terraced walk, covered by a fine magnolia; and the summer-house on the wall, containing a fixed telescope through which you could look out over the sea--all were an equal delight to isobel's wondering eyes, for she had never before been in such beautiful grounds. nor was the kitchen-garden less of a surprise, with its peaches and apricots hanging on the red brick walls, carefully netted to preserve them from the birds; its beds of tall, feathery asparagus, and its ripe greengages and early apples. the trim neatness of the vegetable borders was enlivened by edgings of hardy annuals, and here and there a mass of sweet peas filled the air with a delicious fragrance, while in a corner stood a row of bee-hives, the buzzing occupants of which seemed busily at work among the scarlet runners. isobel thought no enchanted palace could rival the greenhouses, gay with geraniums and fuchsias and rare plants, the names of which she did not know, or the vinery with its countless bunches of black grapes hanging from the roof. it was so particularly nice to be taken round by the owner, who could pluck the flowers and fruit as he wished, and so different from the park at home, which was her usual playground, where you might not walk on the grass, and hardly dared to admire the flowers, for fear the policeman should suspect you of wanting to touch them. "you will be quite tired now, and hungry too, i expect," said her host, as he led the way on to a long glass-roofed veranda in front of the house, where two chairs and a round table spread for tea were awaiting them. "i must show you my horses and dogs afterwards. i have five little collie pups, which i am sure you will like to see, and a brown foal, only a fortnight old. my coachman has some fan-tail pigeons, too, and a hutch of rabbits." it seemed very strange to isobel to find herself sitting in the comfortable basket-chair, talking to the colonel while he poured the tea from the silver teapot into the pretty painted cups. she could scarcely believe that only three weeks ago she had trespassed in his grounds, and had almost expected him to send her to prison for the offence, while now she was chatting to him as freely as if she had known him all her life. that her holland frock was not improved by an afternoon's play on the island, that her sand shoes were the worse for wear and her sailor hat was her oldest, and that the wind had blown her long hair into elf locks, did not distress her in the least, though i fear mrs. stewart would hardly have considered her in visiting order. certainly the colonel did not seem to mind, and whatever he may have thought of the appearance of his young guest, her good manners and refined accent had shown him from the first that she was the child of cultured people. "mother means to sketch the runic cross on monday," volunteered isobel, as the talk turned on the subject of the island. "she went to ferndale to-day on purpose to buy a new block; her old one was too small, and not the right shape." "i shall hope to see her picture," replied the colonel. "i must show you the photos of the stone, which arrived this morning. they are in my study; so, if you really won't have any more tea, we will come indoors and look at them now." he led the way through an open french window into a large and pleasant drawing-room, which appeared so filled with beautiful cabinets of curiosities, old china, rare pictures and books, that isobel would have liked to linger and look at them if she had dared to ask; but the colonel strode on into the panelled hall, and passing the wide staircase with its carved balustrade and its statue of hebe, holding a lamp, at the foot, took her into a long low library at the farther side of the house. it was a cosy room. its four windows overlooked the rose garden, and had a peep of the cliffs and the sea; a large writing-table strewn with papers stood in a recess; and various padded morocco easy-chairs seemed to invite one to sit down and read the books which almost covered the walls from floor to ceiling. over the fine stone chimney-piece hung two portraits, the only pictures to be seen--one an enlarged photograph of a handsome young officer in a guards uniform; the other a small oil painting of a little girl with gray eyes and straight fair hair, parted smoothly in the middle of her forehead, and tied by a ribbon under her ears. "i only received the prints this morning," said the colonel, taking an envelope from his desk. "there are four views altogether, as you will see; but i think you will like this the best, for it shows the runes so plainly." he held out the photo of the ancient cross, but isobel did not notice it. she was standing with parted lips, her eyes fixed in amazement upon the two portraits over the fireplace. "why," she cried, in an eager voice, "that's father--my father!" "your father, my dear?" said the colonel, astonished in his turn. "impossible! this is a portrait of my son." "but it _is_ father!" returned isobel. "it's the same photo which we have at home, only larger. that's the v.c. he won in india, and his guards uniform. and the other picture is little aunt isobel!" "what do you mean?" asked the colonel hastily. "how could it be your aunt isobel?" "i don't know, but it _is_!" replied isobel. "i have a tiny painting exactly like it, done on ivory, inside a morocco case. it belonged to father, and he left it to me. she was his only sister, and she died when she was eleven years old--just the same age as i am." for answer the colonel took isobel by the shoulders, and holding her beneath the portrait, looked narrowly at her face. the evening sunshine, flooding through the window, fell on the fair hair, and lighted it up with the same golden gleam as that of the child in the picture above; the gray eyes of both seemed to meet him with the same half-wistful, half-trustful gaze. "the likeness is extraordinary," he murmured. "i wonder i have never noticed it before. is it possible i could have made so great a mistake? in what regiment was your father?" "he was in the fifth dragoon guards." "you have told me he is dead?" "yes; he was killed in the boer war." "how long ago?" "six years on my birthday." "was it near bloemfontein?" "yes, in a night skirmish. he is buried there, just where he fell." "had he any other relations besides yourself and your mother?" "only my grandfather, whom i have never seen." "and your name?--your name?" cried the colonel, white to the lips with an emotion he could not control. "isobel stewart." chapter xviii. good-bye. "we say it for an hour, or for years; we say it smiling, say it choked with tears; we say it coldly, say it with a kiss, and yet we have no other word than this-- good-bye!" colonel stewart's very natural mistake in confusing the namesakes, and isobel's equal error in believing her grandfather to be colonel smith, were soon explained. the former, full of relief at this unexpected turn of affairs, paid a visit to marine terrace that same evening, and in the interview with his daughter-in-law which followed he begged her pardon frankly and freely for his prejudice and injustice. "it seems late in life for a gray-haired old man to turn over a new leaf," he said, "but if you can overlook my misconception and neglect of you in the past, i trust we may prove firm friends in the future. and as for isobel, she is a granddaughter after my own heart. will you forget that miserable letter which i wrote (it was intended not for you, as i know you now, but for the mother of that other child), and show your forgiveness by coming to cheer my loneliness at the chase? now that we understand each other, i think we need have no fear of disagreements, and our mutual love for the one who is gone and the other who is left will make a bond of sympathy between us." isobel's joyful astonishment may be pictured when she discovered that her friend of the island was in very truth her own grandfather, and her happiness when she and her mother removed the next week from marine terrace to the chase can scarcely be described. "it's just like a fairy tale!" she declared. "i never thought when i sat on the top of the scar that afternoon, looking down at the lovely house and garden, and saying what i would do if i lived there, that it could ever really come to pass. it's almost too good to be true, and i shouldn't be in the least surprised if it were only a dream after all." it soon proved to be no dream, but a most satisfactory reality, when she saw herself installed as her grandfather's favourite companion in the very surroundings which she had so much admired. to colonel stewart she filled the vacant place of the little daughter he had lost in former years; and so keen was his pleasure in his newly-found grandchild, that if isobel had not been of a thoroughly sensible nature i fear she would have run a very great risk of becoming completely spoilt. her mother's influence and her own naturally unselfish disposition saved her from that, however, and the wholesome discipline of school life afterwards taught her to be able to take her grandfather's kindness without acquiring an undue idea of her own importance. she was very happy at the chase, and especially delighted when colonel stewart made her a formal present of the desert island. "it shall be yours, to do what you like with," he declared. "i promised to lease it to you when you found the runic cross, and i think you deserve to have it for your own. it shall be one of my presents to you on your eleventh birthday." that happy event was to take place in the course of a few days, and to celebrate the occasion all the sea urchins had been invited to a garden _fête_ at the chase, as a winding up of the club before the various children left silversands; for it was september now--governesses were returning, schools were reopening, and the holidays were over at last. it was a lovely autumn morning when isobel, with a bright birthday face, looked out of the open window of her pretty bedroom, to see her island shining in the early sunshine against the sea, and the shadows falling over the lawns and gardens of the beautiful spot which was now her home. "i'm the luckiest girl in the world!" she thought, as she ran down to the breakfast table, to find her plate filled with interesting-looking packages, and the prettiest white pony waiting for her outside the front steps, with a new side-saddle, quite ready for her to learn to ride. "i want you to be a good horsewoman," said the colonel. "i think you are plucky enough, and when you've had a little practice i hope you'll soon enjoy a canter with me across the moors. the skye terrier i spoke of will be coming next week; i had to send to scotland for him, so he could not arrive in time for your birthday, but you will be able to make his acquaintance later." to have a pony of her very own had always been one of isobel's castles in the air, and she spent the morning trying her new favourite in a state of rapture that was only equalled by her joy at receiving her friends in the afternoon. all the sea urchins were there, from tall hugh rokeby to the youngest wright; and though they seemed somewhat shy and on their best behaviour at first, their restraint soon wore off at the sight of the splendid cricket pitch, the archery, and the other games which the colonel had prepared for them. after some hesitation it had been decided to include belle in the invitation, and she appeared with the others dressed in one of her daintiest costumes and her most becoming hat, not in the least abashed by any remembrance of her former behaviour. "so you're really living at this splendid place, darling!" she cried, clasping isobel's arm close in hers, with quite her old clinging manner. "it's _ever_ so much nicer than the oppenheims', and i suppose it will all be yours some day, won't it? the pony is simply a beauty. i'm _so_ delighted to come this afternoon! somehow i haven't seemed to see very much of you lately, though i don't think it has been my fault. you always were my dearest friend, and always will be." "i am pleased to see all my friends here to-day," replied isobel quietly, then very gently she drew her arm away. she knew belle's affection now for what it was worth; the old love for her had died that day on the cliff, and however much she might regret the loss, nothing could ever bring it back to her again. other and truer friendships might follow, but this was as utterly gone as a beautiful iridescent bubble when it has burst. it was the first time that the rokebys had met colonel stewart since they had uprooted his cherished maidenhair, and with a good deal of blushing and poking at each other they blurted out an apology for their conduct on that occasion. "we won't speak of it," said the colonel. "you wouldn't do it again, i'm sure, nor shirk the matter afterwards. certainly" (with a twinkle in his eye) "you vanished like the wind, and i shall expect to have a wonderful exhibition of such running capabilities on the cricket-ground. it's an excellent pitch, and if you don't make a record i shall be surprised." with both charlie and hilda chester he was more than pleased, and hoped they might be frequent visitors at the chase if they returned to silversands, while he extended a hearty and kindly welcome to all the young guests, who echoed bertie rokeby's opinion that it was "the most ripping party that ever was given." the first half of the afternoon was devoted to cricket, which, i really believe, the colonel enjoyed as much as his visitors; it recalled his old school days, and he had many a tale to tell of matches played fifty years ago on the fields at eton by boys who had since made their mark in life. tea was served in the large dining-room, which looked cool with the light falling through the stained-glass window at the end on to the white marble statues which stood in recesses along the walls. it was "a real jolly tea--not one of those affairs where you get nothing but a cucumber sandwich and a square inch of cake, and have to stand about and wait on the girls!" as bertie rokeby ungallantly observed, but a sit-down meal of a character substantial enough to satisfy youthful appetites, and lavish in the matter of ripe fruit and cakes. mrs. stewart took care that ruth and edna barrington, who, for a wonder, had come unattended, were well looked after, and provided with such few dainties as they permitted themselves to indulge in, being under a solemn pledge to their mother to abstain from all doubtful dishes. there were crackers, although it was not christmas time, and a pretty box of bon-bons laid beside every plate; but i think the leading glory of the table was the birthday cake, which, according to charlotte wright, reminded one of a wedding or a christening, so elaborate were the designs of flowers and birds in white sugar and chocolate on its iced surface, while the letters of isobel's name were displayed on six little flags in red, white, and blue which adorned the summit. after tea came a variety of sports for prizes--archery, quoits, jumping, vaulting, and obstacle races, in the latter of which considerable ingenuity had been shown. it was an amusing sight to watch the boys clumsily trying to thread the requisite number of needles before they might make a start, and toilsomely sorting red and white beans in the little three-divisioned boxes supplied to them, or the girls picking up marbles and disentangling coloured ribbons with eager fingers. the potato races were voted great fun, for it was a difficult matter to run carrying a large and knobby potato balanced upon an egg spoon, and it was almost sure to be dropped just as the triumphant candidate was on the point of tipping it into the box at the end, giving the enemy an opportunity of making up arrears, and of proving the truth of the proverb that the race sometimes goes to the slow and sure instead of to the swift. three-legged races were popular among the boys, and bertie rokeby and eric wright, with their respective right and left legs firmly tied together, against charlie chester and arnold rokeby similarly handicapped, made quite an exciting struggle, the former couple winning in the end, owing to charlie's undue haste upsetting both himself and his partner. the jumping and vaulting were mostly appreciated by the older children, but both big and little exclaimed with delight when one of the gardeners brought out a famous "aunt sally," which he had been very busy making, with a turnip for her head, carved with a penknife into some representation of a human face, over which reposed an ancient bonnet, a shawl being wrapped round her shoulders, and a large pipe placed between her simpering lips. she was tied securely to the top of a post, and the children threw sticks at her, the game being to see who could first knock the pipe from her mouth, a feat which proved to be more difficult than they had at first supposed, and which caused much merriment, the prize being won in the end by letty rokeby, whose aim was as true as that of any of the boys. the sun had set, and the september twilight was just beginning to deepen into dark, when the young guests were arranged in rows on the terrace steps to witness the final treat--an exhibition of fireworks, which the colonel had sent a special telegram to london to obtain in time. it was a very pretty display of catherine wheels, roman candles, rockets, and golden rain, finishing with the royal arms in crimson fire; and it made such a splendid close to the day that twenty pairs of hands clapped loudly, and twenty voices joined in ringing cheers, as the little red stars winked themselves out into the darkness. the party was at an end, and an omnibus was in waiting to drive the visitors, all unwilling to go, back to their lodgings at silversands. isobel kissed belle with a feeling that it was a last farewell; their ways for the future lay apart; they had different ideals and different hopes in life. alike in name, they had been so unlike in character as to render any true friendship impossible, though their chance meeting had been fraught with such unforeseen consequences. it was little more than six weeks since isobel had first arrived at silversands, yet so much seemed to have happened in the time that, as she stood upon the steps holding her grandfather's hand, she could scarcely realize the strange things which had come to pass. "good-bye! good-bye!" sounded on all sides, as the reluctant sea urchins at length took their departure. to-morrow most of them would be scattered to their own homes, and the club would be a thing of the past. "i shall never forget any of you, never!" said isobel. "we've had glorious fun together, and it's been the very jolliest holiday i ever remember in my life. i can't tell you how much i've enjoyed your coming here to-day, and i wish every one of you as happy a birthday as mine. good-bye!" the end. printed in great britain at the press of this publishers. juvenile library. cloth, illustrated, s. d. net. _books suitable for boys, girls, or children are denoted by the letters (_b_), (_g_), and (_c_) respectively placed after the title._ girls of cromer hall (_g_). r. jacberns. olive roscoe (_g_). e. everett-green. doris hamlyn (_g_). r. o. chester. kitty trenire (_g_). mabel quiller-couch. bosom friends (_g_). angela brazil. waste castle (_g_). w. m. letts. little women (_g_). louisa m. alcott. a pair of red polls (_g_). mabel quiller-couch. the little heiress (_g_). margaret b. clarke. gladys or gwenyth (_g_). e. everett-green. star (_g_). mrs. l. b. walford. madamscourt (_g_). h. poynter. priscilla (_g_). e. everett-green. mother maud (_g_). mrs. arthur. ada and gerty (_g_). louisa gray. poppy (_g_). isla sitwell. vera's trust (_g_). e. everett-green. fallen fortunes (_g_). e. everett-green. sale's sharpshooters (_b_). harold avery. highway pirates (_b_). harold avery. prester john (_b_). john buchan. how we baffled the germans (_b_). eric wood. doing his bit (_b_). tom bevan. secret service submarine (_b_). guy thorne. highway dust (_b_). g. g. sellick. mobsley's mohicans (_b_). harold avery. diamond rock (_b_). j. m. oxley. the fellow who won (_b_). andrew home. frank's first term (_b_). harold avery. won in warfare (_b_). c. r. kenyon. adventurers all (_b_) k. m. eady. castaways of hope island (_b_). h. a. hinkson. in a hand of steel (_b_). paul creswick. knights of the road (_b_). e. everett-green. red dickon (_b_). tom bevan. the cabin in the clearing (_b_). e. s. ellis. the story of heather (_c_). may wynne. nellie o'neill (_c_). agnes c. maitland. squib and his friends (_c_). e. everett-green. six devonshire dumplings (_c_). m. batchelor. the green toby jug (_c_). mrs. e. hohler. tell me some more (_c_). mary few. when mother was in india (_c_). ursula temple. humpty dumpty and the princess (_c_). lilian timpson. golden fairy tales (_c_). the twins and sally (_c_). e. l. haverfield. daddy's lad (_c_). e. l. haverfield. the little rajah (_c_). e. hobart-hampden. captain mugford (_b_). w. h. g. kingston. the gun-runners (_b_). w. dingwall fordyce. beggars of the sea (_b_). tom bevan. the adventure league (_g_). hilda t. skae. peggy's last term (_g_). ethel talbot. a sea-queen's sailing (_g_). charles w. whistler. t. nelson & sons, ltd., london, edinburgh, & new york. established [illustration] t. nelson & sons, ltd. printers and publishers transcriber's note: punctuation has been standardised. variations in hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication. changes have been made as follows: page by no means an oncommon _changed to_ by no means an uncommon page daisy mat as harriet crotcheted _changed to_ daisy mat as harriet crocheted page torquoise bracelet, and i have _changed to_ turquoise bracelet, and i have mr. punch at the seaside [illustration] punch library of humour edited by j. a. hammerton designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "punch", from its beginning in to the present day. * * * * * [illustration: "by the silver sea" this is _not_ jones's dog.] * * * * * mr. punch at the seaside as pictured by charles keene, john leech, george du maurier, phil may, l. raven-hill, j. bernard partridge, gordon browne, e. t. reed, and others.... _with illustrations_ [illustration] published by arrangement with the proprietors of "punch" the educational book co. ltd. * * * * * the punch library of humour _twenty-five volumes, crown vo. pages fully illustrated_ life in london country life in the highlands scottish humour irish humour cockney humour in society after dinner stories in bohemia at the play mr. punch at home on the continong railway book at the seaside mr. punch afloat in the hunting field mr. punch on tour with rod and gun mr. punch awheel book of sports golf stories in wig and gown on the warpath book of love with the children [illustration] * * * * * editor's note [illustration] one of the leading characteristics of the nineteenth century was the tremendous change effected in the social life of great britain by the development of cheap railway travel. the annual holiday at the seaside speedily became as inevitable a part of the year's progress as the milkman's morning call is of the day's routine. what at first had been a rare and memorable event in a life-time developed into a habit, to which, with our british love for conventions, all of us conform. whether or not our french critics are justified in saying that we britishers take our pleasures sadly, these pages from the seaside chronicles of mr. punch will bear witness, and while at times they may seem to support the case of our critics, at others the evidence is eloquent against them. this at least is certain, that whatever the temperament of the british as displayed during the holiday season at our popular resorts, the point of view of our national jester, mr. punch, is unfailingly humorous, and such sadness as some of our countrymen may bring to their pleasures is but food for the mirth of merry mr. punch, who, we are persuaded, stands for the sum total of john bull's good humour in his outlook on the life of his countrymen. as the real abstract and brief chronicler of our time, mr. punch has mirrored in little the social history of the last sixty-five years, and apart from the genuine entertainment which this book presents, it is scarcely less instructive as a pictorial history of british manners during this period. one may here follow in the vivid sketches of the master-draughtsmen of the age the ceaseless and bewildering changes of fashion--the passing of the crinoline, the coming and going of the bustle, the chignon, and similar vanities, and the evolution of the present-day styles of dress both of men and women. it is also curious to notice how little seaside customs, amusements, troubles and delights, have varied in the last half-century. landladies are at the end what they were at the beginning; the same old type of bathing-machine is still in use; our forefathers and their womenfolk in the days when mr. punch was young behaved themselves by "the silver sea" just as their children's children do to-day. nothing has changed, except that the most select of seaside places is no longer so select as it was in the pre-railway days, and that the wealthier classes, preferring the attractions of continental resorts, are less in evidence at our own watering-places. the motto of this little work, as of all those in the series to which it belongs, is "our true intent is all for your delight", but if the book carry with it some measure of instruction, we trust that may not be the less to its credit. mr. punch at the seaside _mrs. dorset_ (_of "dorset's sugar and butter stores", mile end road_). "why on earth can't we go to a more _dressy_ place than this, 'enery? i'm sick of this dreary 'ole, year after year. it's nothing but sand and water, sand and water!" _mr. dorset._ "if it wasn't for sand and water, you wouldn't get no 'olerday." * * * * * [illustration: a fashionable watering place] * * * * * seaside mem.--the society recently started to abolish tied-houses will not include bathing machines within the scope of its operations. * * * * * "where's ramsgate?" [illustration: biddy-ford] [_mr. justice hawkins._ where is ramsgate? _mr. dickens._ it is in thanet, your lordship. _report of twyman v. bligh._] "where's ramsgate?" justice hawkins cried. "where on our earthly planet?" the learned dickens straight replied, "'tis in the isle of thanet. "ramsgate is where the purest air will make your head or leg well, will jaded appetite repair, with the shrimp cure of pegwell. "where's ramsgate? it is near the place where julius cæsar waded, and nearer still to where his grace augustine come one day did. "all barristers should ramsgate know: i speak of it with pleasure", quoth dickens. "there i often go when wanting a refresher. "where's ramsgate? where i've often seen. both s-mb-rne and du m-r-_er_, when i have gone by . granville express, victori_er_. "with thanet harriers, when you are well mounted on a pony, you'll say, for health who'd go so far as cannes, nice, or mentone? "with poland, of the treasury, recorder eke of dover, i oft go down for pleasurey. alack! 'tis too soon over! "o'er thanet's isle where'er you trudge, my lud, you'll find no land which----" "dickens take ramsgate!" quote the judge. "luncheon! i'm off to sandwich!" * * * * * [illustration: a judge by appearance _bathing guide._ "bless 'is 'art! i know'd he'd take to it kindly--by the werry looks on 'im!"] * * * * * the wonders of the sea-shore _contributed by_ "glaucus", _who is staying at a quiet watering-place, five miles from anywhere, and three miles from a railway station_. [illustration] _monday_(?) _after breakfast, lying on the beach._ wonder if it is monday, or tuesday? wonder what time it is? wonder if it will be a fine day? wonder what i shall do if it is? on second thoughts, wonder what i shall do if it isn't? wonder if there are any letters? wonder who that is in a white petticoat with her hair down? wonder if she came yesterday or the day before? wonder if she's pretty? wonder what i've been thinking about the last ten minutes? wonder how the boatmen here make a livelihood by lying all day at full length on the beach? wonder why every one who sits on the shore throws pebbles into the sea? wonder what there is for dinner? wonder what i shall do all the afternoon? * * * * * _same day, after lunch, lying on the beach._ wonder who in the house beside myself is partial to my dry sherry? wonder what there is for dinner? wonder what's in the paper to-day? wonder if it's hot in london? should say it was. wonder how i ever could live in london? wonder if there's any news from america? wonder what tooral looral means in a chorus? children playing near me, pretty, very? wonder if that little boy intended to hit me on the nose with a stone? wonder if he's going to do it again? hope not. wonder if i should like to be a shrimp? * * * * * _same day, after an early dinner, lying on the beach._ wonder why i can never get any fish? wonder why my landlady introduces cinders into the gravy? wonder more than ever who there is at my lodgings so partial to my dry sherry? wonder if that's the coast of france in the distance? feel inclined for a quiet conversation with my fellow-man. [illustration: exmouth] a boatman approaches. i wonder (to the boatman) if it will be a fine day tomorrow? he wonders too? we both wonder together? wonder (again to the boatman) if the rail will make much difference to the place? he shakes his head and says "ah! he wonders!" and leaves me. wonder what age i was last birthday? wonder if police inspectors are as a rule fond of bathing? wonder what gave me that idea? wonder what i shall do all this evening? [illustration: a high sea over the bar] _same day, after supper, moonlight, lying on the beach._ wonder if there ever was such a creature as a mermaid? wonder several times more than ever who it is that's so fond of my dry sherry? wonder if the pope can swim? wonder what made me think of that? wonder if i should like to go up in a balloon? wonder what speke and grant had for dinner to-day? wonder if the zoological gardens are open at sunrise? wonder what i shall do to-morrow? * * * * * fruit to be avoided by bathers.--currants. * * * * * [illustration: shopping _lady_ (_at seaside "emporium"_). "how much are those--ah--improvers?" _shopman._ "improv--hem!--they're not, ma'am"--(_confused_)--"not--not the article you require, ma'am. they're fencing-masks, ma'am!" [_tableau!_ ] * * * * * [illustration: dea ex machinÂ! (_a reminiscence_)] * * * * * [illustration: a large bump of caution _flora._ "oh, let us sit here, aunt, the breeze is so delightful." _aunt._ "yes--it's very nice, i dare say; but i won't come any nearer to the cliff, for i am always afraid of _slipping through those railings_!"] * * * * * [illustration: a boat for an hour _stout gentleman._ "what! is that the only boat you have in?"] * * * * * a seaside reverie [illustration] i think, as i sit at my ease on the shingle, and list to the musical voice of the sea, how gaily my landlady always will mingle from my little caddy her matutine tea. and vainly the bitter remembrance i banish of mutton just eaten, my heart is full sore, to think after one cut it's certain to vanish, and never be seen on my board any more. some small store of spirit to moisten my throttle i keep, and indulge in it once in a way; but, bless you, it seems to fly out of the bottle and swiftly decrease, though untouched all the day. my sugar and sardines, my bread and my butter, are eaten, and vainly i fret and i frown; my landlady, just like an Æsthete's too utter a fraud, and i vow that i'll go back to town. * * * * * [illustration: the morning papers sketch from our window, a.m., at sludgeborough ness.] * * * * * [illustration] the nursemaid's friend science has given us the baby-jumper, by which we are enabled to carry out the common exclamation of "hang those noisy children" without an act of infanticide, by suspending our youngsters in the air; and perhaps allowing them to have their full swing, without getting into mischief; but the apparatus for the nursery will not be complete until we have something in the shape of coops for our pretty little chickens, when they are "out with nurse", and she happens to have something better--or worse--to do than to look after them. how often, in a most interesting part of a novel, or in the midst of a love passage of real life, in which the nurse is herself the heroine, how often, alas! is she not liable to be disturbed by the howl of a brat, with a cow's horn in his eye, a dog's teeth in his heels, or in some other awkward dilemma, which could not have arisen had the domestic child-coop been an article of common use in the metropolitan parks, or on the sands at the seaside? [illustration: yarmouth] there is something very beautiful in the comparison of helpless infancy to a brood of young chickens, with its attendant imagery of "mother's wing", and all that sort of thing, but the allegory would be rendered much more complete by the application of the hencoop to domestic purposes. we intend buying one for our own stud of _piccoli_--which means little pickles--and we hope to see all heads of families taking it into their heads to follow our example. * * * * * midsummer madness.--going to the seaside in search of quiet. * * * * * [illustration: local intelligence "d'year as 'ow old bob osborne 'ave give up shrimpin' an took ter winklin'?" "well, i'm blest!"] * * * * * [illustration: the ingratitude of some servants you give them a change by taking them to the seaside--all they have to do is to look after the children--and yet they don't seem to appreciate it.] * * * * * [illustration: a native hoister] * * * * * [illustration: going down to a watering place] * * * * * on the spot shall we like pierpoint, to which favourite and healthy seaside resort we finally resolved to come, after a period of much indecision and uncertainty, and where we arrived, in heavy rain, in two cabs, with thirteen packages, on saturday? shall we be comfortable at , convolution street, dining-room floor, two guineas and a half a week, and all and perhaps rather more than the usual extras? shall we like mrs. kittlespark? shall we find kate all that a kate ought to be? shall we lock everything up, or repose a noble confidence in mrs. kittlespark and kate? shall we get to know the people in the drawing-room? shall we subscribe to the pier, or pay each time we go on it? shall we subscribe to that most accommodating circulating library, pigram's, where we can exchange our books at pleasure, _but not oftener than once a day_? shall we relax our minds with the newest novels, or give our intellects a bracing course of the best standard works? shall we dine late or early? shall we call on the denbigh flints, who, according to the _pierpoint pioneer_, are staying at , ocean crescent? shall we carefully avoid the wilkiesons, whom the same unerring guide reports at , blue lion street? shall we be satisfied with our first weekly bill? shall we find in it any unexpected and novel extras, such as knife-cleaning, proportion of the water-rate, loan of latch-key, &c.? shall we get our meat at round's, who displays the prince of wales's feathers over his shop door, and plumes himself on being "purveyor" to his royal highness; or at cleaver's, who boasts of the patronage of the hereditary grand duke of seltersland? shall we find everything dearer here than it is at home? shall we be happy in our laundress? shall we be photographed? shall we, as mrs. kittlespark has a spare bed-room, invite our cousin amelia staythorp, from whom we have expectations, and who is constance edith amelia's godmother, to come down and stay a week with us? shall we be praiseworthily economical, and determine not to spend a single unnecessary sixpence; or shall we, as we _have_ come to pierpoint, enjoy ourselves to the utmost, go in for all the amusements of the place--pier, public gardens, theatre, concerts, oceanarium, bathing, boating, fishing, driving, riding, and rinking--make excursions, be ostentatiously liberal to the town band, and buy everything that is offered to us on the beach? a month hence, shall we be glad or sorry to leave pierpoint, and go back to paddington? * * * * * [illustration: going to brighton] * * * * * [illustration: what we could bear a good deal of] * * * * * [illustration: a view of cowes] * * * * * [illustration: scene at sandbath the female blondin outdone! grand morning performance on the narrow plank by the darling ----] * * * * * [illustration: a little family breeze _mrs. t._ "what a wretch you must be, t.; why don't you take me off? don't you see i'm overtook with the tide, and i shall be drownded!" _t._ "well, then--will you promise not to kick up such a row when i stop out late of a saturday?"] * * * * * postscript to a seaside letter.--"the sea is as smooth, and clear, as a looking-glass. the oysters might see to shave in it." * * * * * [illustration: all in the day's work "and look here! i want you to take my friend here and myself just far enough to be up to our chins, you know, and no further!"] * * * * * [illustration: bangor] * * * * * what the wild waves are saying that the lodging-house keepers are on the look out for the weary londoners and their boxes. that the sea breezes will attract all the world from the metropolis to the coast. that britons should prefer ramsgate, eastbourne, scarborough, and the like, to dieppe, dinard, and boulogne. that paterfamilias should remember, when paying the bill, that a two months' letting barely compensates for an empty house during the remainder of the year. that the shore is a place of recreation for all but the bathing-machine horse. that the circulating libraries are stocked with superfluous copies of unknown novels waiting to be read. that, finally, during the excursion season, 'arry will have to be tolerated, if not exactly loved. * * * * * [illustration: [_the "lancet" advocates taking holidays in midwinter instead of midsummer._] view of the sands of anywhere-on-sea if the suggestion is adopted. time--december or january.] * * * * * [illustration: _mrs. fydgetts_ (_screaming_). "my child! my child!" _mr. fydgetts._ "what's the use of making that noise? can't you be quiet?" _mrs. f._ "you're a brute, sir." _mr. f._ "i wish i were; for then i should be able to swim." _mrs. f._ "mr. fydgetts! ain't you a-coming to help me?" _mr. f._ "no! it serves you right for bringing me down to this stupid place." _mrs. f._ "_i_, indeed. why, i wanted to go to brighton and you would come to margate--you said it was cheaper." _mr. f._ "it's false; i said no such thing." _mrs. f._ "you did, you did!" _mr. f._ "o, woman! woman! where do you expect to go to?" _mrs. f._ "to the bottom; unless you come and help me!" _mr. f._ "help yourself. i'm s-i-n-k-i-n-g"-- _mrs. f._ "my child! my child!" _mr. f._ (_rising from the water_). "be quiet, can't you! woo-o-m--" (_the rest is inaudible, but the watery pair are saved just in time, and renew their dispute in the boat as soon as they are rescued from their perilous position_).] * * * * * [illustration: _mabel_ (_soliloquising_). "dear me, this relaxing climate makes even one's parasol seem too heavy to hold!"] * * * * * holiday haunts _by jingle junior on the jaunt_ i.--great yarmouth [illustration: puffins] why great?--where's little yarmouth?--or mid-sized yarmouth?--give it up--don't know--hate people who ask conundrums--feel well cured directly you get here--good trademark for dried-fish sellers, "the perfect cure"--if you stay a fortnight, get quite kipperish--stay a month, talk kipperish! principal attractions--bloaters and rows--first eat--second see--song, "_speak gently of the herring_"--"long shore" ones splendid--kippers delicious--song, "_what's a' the steer, kipper?_"--song, "_nobody's rows like our rows_"--more they are--varied--picturesque--tumbledown--paradise for painters--very narrow--capital support for native bloater going home after dinner--odd names--ramp, kitty witches--gallon can, conge! fancy oneself quite the honest toiler of the sea--ought to go about in dried haddock suit--feel inclined to emulate _mr. peggotty_--run into quiet taverns--thump tables violently--say "gormed!" whole neighbourhood recalls _ham_ and _little em'ly_--_david, steerforth, mrs. gummidge_--recall ham myself--if well broiled--lunch--pleasant promenades on piers--plenty of amusement in watching the bloateric commerce--fresh water fishing in adjacent broads, if you like--if not, let it alone--broad as it's long! the denes--not sardines--nor rural deans--good places for exercise--plenty of antiquities--old customs--quaint traditions! picturesque ancient taverns--capital modern hotels--stopping in one of the latter--polite waiter just appeared--dinner served--soup'll get cold--mustn't wait--never insult good cook by being unpunctual--rather let editor go short than hurt cook's feelings[ ]--so no more at present--from yours truly. [illustration] [footnote :] don't like this sentiment. is j. j. a cook's tourist?--ed. ii.--littlehampton. [illustration] emphatically the sea on the strict q t--no bustle at railway-station--train glides in noiselessly--passengers ooze away--porters good-tempered and easy-going--like suffragan bishops in corduroys--bless boxes--read pastorals on portmanteaux--no one in a hurry--locomotive coos softly in an undertone--fly-drivers suggest possibility of your requiring their services in a whisper! place full--no lodgings to be had--visitors manage to efface themselves--no one about--all having early dinners--or gone to bed--or pretending to be somewhere else--a one-sided game of hide and seek--everybody hiding, nobody seeking! seems always afternoon--dreamy gleamy sunshine--a dense quietude that you might cut in slices--no braying brass-bands--no raucous niggers--no seaside harpies--honfleur packet only excitement--no one goes to see it start--visitors don't like to be excited! chief amusements, common, sands, and pony-chaises--first, good to roll on--second, good to stroll on--first two, gratuitous and breezy--third, inexpensive and easy--might be driven out of your mind for three-and-six--notwithstanding this, everybody presumably sane. capital place for children--cricket for boys--shrimping for girls--bare legs--picturesque dress--not much caught--salt water good for ankles--excellent bathing--rows of bathing-tents--admirable notion! interesting excursions--arundel castle--bramber--bognor--chichester --petworth house! good things to eat--arundel mullet--amberley trout --tarring figs! delightful air--omnipotent ozone--uninterrupted quiet--just the place to recover your balance, either mental or monetary--i wish to recover both--that's the reason i'm here--send cheque at once to complete cure.[ ] [footnote :] we have sent him the price of a third-class fare to town, with orders to return instantly: possibly this is hardly the sort of check that our friend "j. j." expected.--ed. [illustration: ramsgate] iii.--scarborough. long way from london--no matter--fast train--soon here--once here don't wish to leave--palatial hotels--every luxury--good _tables d'hôte_--pleasant balls--lively society! exhilarating air--good as champagne without "morning after"--up early--go to bed late--authorities provide something better than a broken-down pier, a circulating library, and a rickety bathing-machine--authorities disburse large sums for benefit of visitors--visitors spend lots of money in town--mutual satisfaction--place crowded--capital bands--excellent theatricals --varied entertainments--right way to do it! the spa--first discovered --people been discovering it ever since--some drink it--more walk on it--lounge on it--smoke on it--flirt on it--wonderful costumes in the morning--more wonderful in the afternoon--most wonderful in the evening! north sands--south sands--fine old castle well placed--picturesque old town--well-built modern terraces, squares and streets--pony-chaises--riding-horses--lift for lazy ones! capital excursions--oliver's mount--carnelian bay--scalby mill--hackness--wykeham--filey! delightful gardens--secluded seats --hidden nooks--shady bowers--well-screened corners--northern belles--bright eyes--soft nothings--eloquent sighs--squozen hands--before you know where you are--ask papa--all up--dangerous very! overcome by feelings--can't write any more--friend asks me to drink waters--query north chalybeate or south salt well--wonder which--if in doubt try soda qualified with brandy--good people scarce--better run no risk! [illustration: a cutter making for the peer head] * * * * * costume in keeping.--"of all sweet things", said bertha, "for the seaside, give me a serge." the ancient mariner shook his head. he didn't see the joke. * * * * * board and lodging!--_landlady._ "yes, sir, the board were certingly to be a guinea a week, but i didn't know as you was a-going to bathe in the sea before breakfast and take bottles of tonic during the day!" * * * * * [illustration: the donkeys' holiday with compliments to the s.p.c.a.] * * * * * [illustration: labelled!] * * * * * [illustration: naughtical? _yachting friend_ (_playfully_). "have you any experience of squalls, brown?" _brown._ "squalls!" (_seriously._) "my dear sir, i've brought up ten in family!"] * * * * * [illustration: social beings wearied by london dissipation, the marjoribanks browns go, for the sake of perfect quiet, to that picturesque little watering-place, shrimpington-super-mare, where they trust that they will not meet a single soul they know. oddly enough, the cholmondeley joneses go to the same spot with the same purpose. now, these joneses and browns cordially detest each other in london, and are not even on speaking terms; yet such is the depressing effect of "perfect quiet" that, as soon as they meet at shrimpington-super-mare, they rush into each other's arms with a wild sense of relief!] * * * * * [illustration: hearts of oak _angelina_ (_who has never seen a revolving light before_). "how patient and persevering those sailors must be, edwin! the wind has blown that light out six times since they first lit it, and they've lighted it again each time!"] * * * * * [illustration: shanklin] * * * * * [illustration: scilly] * * * * * [illustration: hayling island] * * * * * [illustration: mumbles] * * * * * [illustration: "now, mind, if any of those nasty people with cameras come near, you're to send them away!"] * * * * * seaside solitude highburybarn-on-sea (_from our special commissioner_) [illustration: a cutter rounding the buoy] dear mr. punch,--this is a spot, which, according to your instructions, i reached last evening. in these same instructions you described it as "a growing place." i fancy it must be of the asparagus order, that vegetable, as you are well aware, taking three years in which to develop itself to perfection. highburybarn-on-sea is, i regret to say, in the first stage--judged from an asparagus point of view. i cannot entertain the enthusiastic description of the candid correspondent (i refer to the cutting forwarded by you from an eminent daily paper under the heading, "by the golden ocean.") he describes it as "an oasis on the desert coast of great britain." far be it from me to deny the desert--all i object to is the oasis. [illustration: limpets] i ask you, sir, if you ever, in the course of the travels in which you have out-rivalled stanley, cameron, livingstone, harry de windt, and, may i add, de rougemont, ever came across an oasis, consisting of two score villas, built with scarcely baked bricks, reposing on an arid waste amid a number of tumbled-down cottages, and surmounted by a mighty workhouse-like hotel looking down on a pre-adamite beershop? the sky was blue, the air was fresh, the waves had retreated to sea when i arrived in a jolting omnibus at highburybarn-on-sea, and deposited myself and luggage at the metropolitan hotel. a page-boy was playing airs on a jew's-harp when i alighted on the sand-driven steps of the hostelry. he seemed surprised at my arrival, but in most respectful fashion placed his organ of minstrelsy in his jacket pocket, the while he conveyed my gladstone bag to my apartment, secured by an interview with an elderly dame, who gave an intelligent but very wan smile when i suggested dinner. she referred me to the head waiter. this functionary pointed in grandiose fashion to the coffee-room, wherein some artistic wall-papering wag had committed atrocities on which it would be libel to comment. [illustration: taking a dip and getting a blow] there was only one occupant, a short clean-shaven gentleman with white hair and a red nose, who was apparently chasing space. this turned out to be a militant blue-bottle. meantime, the head-waiter produced his bill of fare, or rather the remains of it. nearly every dish had apparently been consumed, for the most tempting _plats_ were removed from the _menu_ by a liberal application of red pencil. finally, i decided on a fried sole and a steak. the white-haired man still pursued the blue-bottle. i went up to my room, and after washing with no soap i returned to the coffee-room. the blue-bottle still had the best of it. the head-waiter, after the lapse of an hour, informed me that the sole would not be long. when it arrived, i found that he spoke the truth. if you have any recollection of the repast which _porthos_ endured when entertained by _madame coquenard_, you will have some notion of my feast. the head-waiter told me that some bare-legged persons who had waded into the water were shrimp-catchers. i only wished that i were one of them, for at least they found food. [illustration: birchington] later on i retired to rest. i was visited in the hours of darkness, to which i had consigned myself, by a horde of mosquitoes, imported, so i was informed in the morning, by american travellers, who never tipped the waiters. i fulfilled their obligations, still gazing on the auburn sand-drift, still looking on the sea, still feeling hungry and murmuring to myself, "highburybarn-on-sea would be a capital place for children, if i could only see any cows." a melancholy cocoa-nut shy by the station appeared to afford all the milk in the place. yours despondently, nibblethorpe nobbs. * * * * * embarrassment of riches: margate.--_mother._ "now, tommy, which would you rather do--have a donkey ride or watch father bathe?" * * * * * [illustration: _bathing woman._ "master franky wouldn't cry! no! not he!--he'll come to his martha, and bathe like a man!"] * * * * * [illustration: the bathing question master tommy is emphatically of the opinion that the sexes ought not to bathe together.] * * * * * [illustration: whitborough. low tide. arrival of the scarby steamer] * * * * * [illustration: "denudation" _niece_ (_after a header_). "oh, aunt, you're not coming in with your spectacles on?" _aunt clarissa_ (_who is not used to bathe in the "open"_). "my dear, i positively won't take off anything more, i'm determined!!"] * * * * * to the first bathing-machine (_after wordsworth_) [illustration: moorings] o blank new-comer! i have seen, i see thee with a start: so gentle looking a machine, infernal one thou art! when first the sun feels rather hot, or even rather warm, from some dim, hibernating spot rolls forth thy clumsy form. perhaps thou babblest to the sea of sunshine and of flowers; thou bringest but a thought to me of such bad quarter hours. i, grasping tightly, pale with fear, thy very narrow bench, thou, bounding on in wild career, all shake, and jolt, and wrench. till comes an unexpected stop; my forehead hits the door, and i, with cataclysmic flop, lie on thy sandy floor. then, dressed in nature's simplest style, i, blushing, venture out; and find the sea is still a mile away, or thereabout. blithe little children on the sand laugh out with childish glee; their nurses, sitting near at hand, all giggling, stare at me. unnerved, unwashed, i rush again within thy tranquil shade, and wait until the rising main shall banish child and maid. thy doors i dare not open now, thy windows give no view; 'tis late; i will not bathe, i vow; i dress myself anew. * * * * * [illustration: "thalatta! thalatta!" _general chorus_ (_as the children's excursion nears its destination_). "oh, i say! there's the sea! 'ooray!!" _small boy._ "i'll be in fust!"] * * * * * how to enjoy a holiday _a social contrast_ [illustration: ile of man] i.--the wrong way _pater._ here at last! a nice reward for a long and tedious journey! _mater._ well, you were always complaining in town. _pater._ broken chairs, rickety table, and a hideous wall-paper! _mater._ well, i didn't buy the chairs, make the table, or choose the wall-paper. discontent is your strong point. _pater._ and is likely to remain so. really, that german band is unbearable! _mater._ my dear, you have no ear for music. why, you don't even care for my songs! you used to say you liked them once. _pater._ so i did--thirty years ago! _mater._ before our marriage! and i have survived thirty years! _pater._ eh? what do you mean by that, madam? _mater._ anything you please. but come--dinner's ready. _pater._ dinner! the usual thing, i suppose--underdone fish and overdone meat! _mater._ well, i see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear! _pater._ i am glad you think so, my darling! [_and so they sit down to dinner._ ii.--the right way. _pater._ here at last! what a charming spot! a fitting sequel to a very pleasant journey! _mater._ and yet you are very fond of town! _pater._ this room reminds me of my own cozy study. venerable chairs, a strange old table, and a quaintly-designed wall-paper. _mater._ well, i think if i had had to furnish the house, i should have chosen the same things myself. but had they been ever so ugly, i feel sure that you would have liked them. you know, sir, that content is your strong point. _pater._ i am sure that i shall find no opportunity of getting any merit (after the fashion of _mark tapley_) for being contented in this pleasant spot. what a capital german band! _mater._ i don't believe that you understand anything about music, sir. why, you even pretend that you like my old songs! _pater._ and so i do. every day i live i like them better and better. and yet i heard them for the first time thirty years ago! _mater._ when we were married! and so i have survived thirty years! _pater._ eh? what do you mean by that, madam? _mater._ that i am a living proof that kindness never kills. how happy we have been! but come--dinner's ready. _pater._ dinner! the usual thing, i suppose--a nice piece of fish and a juicy joint. now, that's just what i like. so much better than our pretentious london dinners! not that a london dinner is not very good in its proper place. _mater._ well, i see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear. _pater._ i am glad you think so, my darling! [_and so they sit down to dinner._ * * * * * [illustration: a goat and two kids] * * * * * [illustration: awful scene on the chain pier, brighton _nursemaid._ "lawk! there goes charley, and he's took his mar's parasol. what _will_ missus say?"] * * * * * [illustration: _temperance enthusiast._ "look at the beautiful lives our first parents led. do you suppose _they_ ever gave way to strong drink?" _the reprobate._ "i 'xpect eve must 'a' done. she saw snakes!"] * * * * * [illustration: a powerful quartet (at all events it looks and sounds like one)] * * * * * [illustration] sweets of the seaside. _shingleton, near dulborough._ sympathising mr. punch, with the desire of enjoying a few days of tranquillity and a few dips in the sea, i have arrived and taken lodgings at this "salubrious watering-place" (as the guide-books choose to call it), having heard that it was quiet, and possessed of a steep, cleanly, and bathe-inviting beach. as to the latter point, i find that fame has not belied it; but surely with a view to tempt me into suicide, some demon must have coupled the term "quiet" with this place. quiet! gracious powers of darkness! if this be your idea of a quiet spot to live in, i wonder what, according to your notion, need be added to its tumult to make a noisy town. here is a list of aural tortures wherewith we are tormented, which may serve by way of time-table to advertise the musical attractions of the place:-- a.m.--voices of the night. revellers returning home. . a.m.--duet, "_io t'amo_", squealed upon the tiles, by the famous feline vocalists mademoiselle minette and signor catterwaulini. a.m.--barc-arole and chorus, "_bow wow wow_" (bach), by the bayers of the moon. a.m.--song without words, by the early village cock. . a.m.--chorus by his neighbours, high and low, mingling the treble of the bantam with the brahma's thorough bass. [illustration: enjoying the height of the seas-on] a.m.--twittering of swallows, and chirping of early birds, before they go to catch their worms. . a.m.--meeting of two natives, of course _just_ under your window, who converse in a stage-whisper at the tip-top of their voices. a.m.--stampede of fishermen, returning from their night's work in their heavy boots. a.m.--start of shrimpers, barefooted, but occasionally bawling. a.m.--shutters taken down, and small boys sally forth and shout to one another from the two ends of the street. . a.m.--"so-holes! fine fresh so-holes!" . a.m.--"mack'reel! fower a shillun! ma-a-ack'reel!" a.m.--piano play begins, and goes on until midnight. . a.m.--barrel-organ at the corner. banjo in the distance. a.m.--german band to right of you. ophicleide out of time, clarionette out of tune. . a.m.--"pa-aper, mornin' pa-aper! _daily telegraft!_" . a.m.--german band to left of you. clarionette and cornet both out of time and tune. . a.m.--a key-bugler and a bag-piper a dozen yards apart. a.m.--performance of punch and toby, who barks more than is good for him. . a.m.--bellowing black-faced ballad-bawlers, with their banjoes and their bones. such is our daily programme of music until noon, and such, with sundry variations, it continues until midnight. small wonder that i have so little relish for my meals, and that, in spite of the sea air, i can hardly sleep a wink. i shall return to town to-morrow, for surely all the street tormentors must be out of it, judging by the numbers that now plague the sad seaside. miserrimus. * * * * * [illustration: redcar] * * * * * [illustration: meeting of the old and new peers at brighton] * * * * * [illustration: walton on the naze] * * * * * [illustration: "the meat supply" _bathing-man._ "yes, mum, he's a good old 'orse yet. and he's been in the salt water so long, he'll make capital biled beef when we're done with him!!!"] * * * * * _our poetess._ "do not talk to me of dinner, edwin. i must stay by this beautiful sea, and _drink it all in_!" _bill the boatman._ "lor! she's a thirsty one too!" * * * * * [illustration: how to kill time at the seaside hire bath-chairs, put the bath-chairmen inside, and drag them as fast as you can up and down the parade.] * * * * * [illustration: inopportune _enthusiast of the "no hat brigade"_ (_to elderly gentleman, who has just lost his hat_). "fine idea this, sir, for the hair, eh?"] * * * * * [illustration: _jones._ "hullo, brown, what's the matter with you and mrs. brown?" _brown._ "matter? why, do you know what they call us down here? they call us beauty and the beast! now i should like to know what my poor wife has done to get such a name as that!"] * * * * * the treacherous tide [illustration] i sat on a slippery rock, in the grey cliff's opal shade, and the wanton waves went curvetting by like a roystering cavalcade. and they doffed their crested plumes, as they kissed the blushing sand, till her rosy face dimpled over with smiles at the tricks of the frolicsome band. then the kittywake laughed, "ha! ha!" and the sea-mew wailed with pain, as she sailed away on the shivering wind to her home o'er the surging main. and the jelly-fish quivered with rage, while the dog-crabs stood by to gaze, and the star-fish spread all her fingers abroad, and sighed for her grandmothers' days. and the curlew screamed, "fie! fie!" and the great gull groaned at the sight, and the albatross rose and fled with a shriek to her nest on the perilous height. * * * * * good gracious! the place where i sat with sea-water was rapidly filling, and a hoarse voice cried, "sir, you're caught by the tide! and i'll carry ye off for a shilling!" * * * * * [illustration] * * * * * [illustration: a sail over the bay] * * * * * "local colour."--place: south parade, cheapenham-on-sea.--_edith._ "mabel dear, would you get me _baedeker's switzerland_ and the last number of the _world_." _mabel._ "what do you want _them_ for?" _edith._ "oh, i'm writing letters, and we're in the engadine, you know, and i just want to describe some of our favourite haunts, and mention a few of the people who are staying there--here, i mean." * * * * * [illustration: scent bees] * * * * * the lay of the last lodger [illustration] i. oh dreary, dreary, dreary me! my jaw is sore with yawning-- i'm weary of the dreary sea, with its roaring beach where sea-gulls screech, and shrimpers shrimp, and limpets limp, and winkles wink, and trousers shrink; and the groaning, moaning, droning tide goes splashing and dashing from side to side, with all its might, from morn to night, and from night to morning's dawning. ii. the shore's a flood of puddly mud, and the rocks are limy and slimy-- and i've tumbled down with a thud--good lud!-- and i fear i swore, for something tore; and my shoes are full of the stagnant pool; and hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs have got in my socks with star-fish and dabs; and my pockets are swarming with polypes and prawns, and noisome beasts with shells and horns, that scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape, are up my sleeve, i firmly believe-- and i'm horribly rimy and grimy. iii. i'm sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band, and the niggers and jiggers and dodgers; and the cigars of rather doubtful brand; and my landlady's "rights", and the frequent fights on wretched points of ends of joints, which disappear, with my brandy and beer, in a way that, to say the least, is queer. and to mingle among the throng i long, and to poke my joke and warble my song-- but there's no one near on sands or pier, for everyone's gone and i'm left alone, the last of the seaside lodgers! * * * * * [illustration: filey] * * * * * note by our man out of town--watering places--resorts where the visitor is pumped dry. * * * * * [illustration: a startling proposition _seedy individual_ (_suddenly and with startling vigour_)-- "aoh! floy with me ercross ther sea, ercross ther dork lergoon!!" ] * * * * * [illustration: crowded state of lodging houses _lodging-house keeper._ "on'y this room to let, mem. a four-post--a tent--and a very comfortable double-bedded chest of drawers for the young gentlemen."] * * * * * a wet day at the seaside why does not some benefactor to his species discover and publish to a grateful world some rational way of spending a wet day at the seaside? why should it be something so unutterably miserable and depressing that its mere recollection afterwards makes one shudder? this is the first really wet day that we have had for a fortnight, but what a day! from morn to dewy eve, a summer's day, and far into the black night, the pitiless rain has poured and poured and poured. i broke the unendurable monotony of gazing from the weeping windows of my seaside lodging, by rushing out wildly and plunging madly into the rainy sea, and got drenched to the skin both going and returning. after changing everything, as people say but don't mean, and thinking i saw something like a break in the dull leaden clouds, i again rushed out, and called on jones, who has rooms in an adjacent terrace, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him to accompany me to the only billiard table in the miserable place. we both got gloriously wet on our way to this haven of amusement, and were received with the pleasing intelligence that it was engaged by a private party of two, who had taken it until the rain ceased, and, when that most improbable event happened, two other despairing lodgers had secured the reversion. another rush home, another drenching, another change of everything, except the weather, brought the welcome sight of dinner, over which we fondly lingered for nearly two mortal hours. but one cannot eat all day long, even at the seaside on a wet day, and accordingly at four o'clock i was again cast upon my own resources. i received, i confess, a certain amount of grim satisfaction at seeing brown--bumptious brown, as we call him in the city, he being a common councilman, or a liveryman, or something of that kind--pass by in a fly, with heaps of luggage and children, all looking so depressingly wet,--and if he had not the meanness to bring with him, in a half-dozen hamper, six bottles of his abominable gladstone claret! he grinned at me as he passed, like a chester cat, i think they call that remarkable animal, and i afterwards learnt the reason. he had been speculating for a rise in wheat, and, as he vulgarly said, the rain suited his book, and he only hoped it would last for a week or two! ah! the selfishness of some men! what cared he about my getting wet through twice in one day, so long as it raised the price of his wretched wheat? my wife coolly recommended me to read the second volume of a new novel she had got from the library, called, i think, _east glynne_, or some such name, but how can a man read in a room with four stout healthy boys and a baby, especially when the said baby is evidently very uncomfortable, and the four boys are playing at leap-frog? women have this wonderful faculty, my wife to a remarkable extent. i have often, with unfeigned astonishment, seen her apparently lost in the sentimental troubles of some imaginary heroine, while the noisy domestic realities around her have gone on unheeded. i again took my place at the window, and gazed upon the melancholy sea, and remembered, with a smile of bitter irony, how i had agreed to pay an extra guinea a week for the privilege of facing the sea!--and such a sea! it was, of course, very low water--it generally is at this charming place; and the sea had retired to its extremest distance, as if utterly ashamed of its dull, damp, melancholy appearance. and there stood that ridiculous apology for a pier, with its long, lanky, bandy legs, on which i have been dragged every evening to hear the band play. such a band! the poor wheezy cornet was bad enough, but the trombone, with its two notes that it jerked out like the snorts of a starting train, was a caution. oh! that poor "_sweetheart_", with which we were favoured every evening! i always pictured her to myself sitting at a window listening, enraptured, to a serenade from that trombone! but there's no band to-night, not a solitary promenader on the bandy-legged pier, i even doubt if the pier master is sitting as usual at the receipt of custom, and i pull down the blind, to shut out the miserable prospect, with such an energetic jerk that i bring down the whole complicated machinery, and nearly frighten baby into a fit, while the four irreverent boys indulge in a loud guffaw. thank goodness, on saturday i exchange our miserable, wheezy, asthmatic band for the grand orchestra of the covent garden promenade concerts, and the awful perfume of rotten seaweed for the bracing atmosphere of glorious london. an outsider. * * * * * [illustration: boatman securing a lively-hood] * * * * * [illustration: on his honeymoon too! _man with sand ponies._ "now then, mister, you an' the young lady, a pony apiece? 'ere y'are!" _snobley_ (_loftily_). "aw--i'm not accustomed to that class of animal." _man_ (_readily_). "ain't yer, sir? ne' mind." (_to boy._) "'ere, bill, look sharp! gent'll have a donkey!"] * * * * * seaside splitters [illustration: low-tied rocks see-weed muscle gatherers a knaw wester high tied] * * * * * [illustration: life would be pleasant, but for its "pleasures."--_sir cornewall lewis_ in consequence of the english watering-places being crowded, people are glad to find sleeping accommodation in the bathing-machines. _boots_ (_from jones's hotel_). "i've brought your shaving water, sir; and you'll please to take care of your boots on the steps, gents: the tide's just a comin' in!"] * * * * * [illustration: returning home from the seaside all the family have colds, except the under-nurse, who has a face-ache. poor materfamilias, who originated the trip, is in despair at all the money spent for nothing, and gives way to tears. paterfamilias endeavours to console her with the reflection that "_he_ knew how it would be, but that, after all, st. john's wood, where they live, is such a healthy place that, with care and doctoring, they _will soon be nearly as well as if they had never left it_!" [_two gay bachelors may be seen contemplating paterfamilias and his little group. their interest is totally untinged with envy._ ] * * * * * [illustration: overheard at scarborough "do you know anything good for a cold?" "yes." "what is it?" "have you got the price of two scotch whiskies on you?" "no." "then it's no use my telling you."] * * * * * [illustration: _snobson_ (_to inhabitant of out-of-way seaside resort_). "what sort of people do you get down here in the summer?" _inhabitant._ "oh, all sorts, zur. there be fine people an' common people, an' some just half-an'-half, like yourself, zur."] * * * * * [illustration: the oysters at whitstable frozen in their beds! (_see daily papers_)] * * * * * [illustration: a delicious dip. _bathing attendant._ "here, bill! the gent wants to be took out deep--take 'im _into the drain_!!"] * * * * * [illustration: _she._ "how much was old mr. baskerville's estate sworn at by his next-of-kin?" _he._ "oh--a pretty good lot." _she._ "really? why, i heard he died worth hardly anything!" _he._ "yes, so he did--that's just it."] * * * * * [illustration: evidence olfactory _angelina_ (_scientific_). "do you smell the iodine from the sea, edwin? isn't it refreshing?" _old salt_ (_overhearing_). "what you smell ain't the sea, miss. it's the town drains as flows out just 'ere!"] * * * * * [illustration: obliging. _excursionist_ (_to himself_). "ullo! 'ere's one o' them artists. 'dessay 'e'll want a genteel figger for 'is foreground. i'll _stand for 'im_!!!"] * * * * * true dipsomania.--overbathing at the seaside. * * * * * an idle holiday. when the days are bright and hot, in the month of august, when the sunny hours are not marred by any raw gust, then i turn from toil with glee, sing a careless canto, and to somewhere by the sea carry my portmanteau. shall i, dreaming on the sand, pleased with all things finite, envy jones who travels and climbs an apennine height-- climbs a rugged peak with pain, literally speaking, only to descend again fagged with pleasure-seeking? smith, who, worn with labour, went off for rest and leisure, races round the continent in pursuit of pleasure: having lunched at bâle, he will at lucerne his tea take, riding till he's faint and ill, tramping till his feet ache. shall i, dreaming thus at home, left ashore behind here, envy restless men who roam seeking what i find here? since beside my native sea, where i sit to woo it, pleasure always comes to me, why should i pursue it? * * * * * [illustration: the murmur of the tied] * * * * * extra special.--_paterfamilias_ (_inspecting bill, to landlady_). i thought you said, mrs. buggins, when i took these apartments, that there were no extras, but here i find boots, lights, cruets, fire, table-linen, sheets, blankets and kitchen fire charged. _mrs. buggins._ lor' bless you, sir, they're not extras, but necessaries. _paterfamilias._ what, then, do you consider extras? _mrs. buggins._ well, sir, that's a difficult question to answer, but i should suggest salad oil, fly-papers, and turtle soup. [_paterfamilias drops the subject and pays his account._ * * * * * [illustration: suspicion _stout visitor_ (_on discovering that, during his usual nap after luncheon, he has been subjected to a grossly personal practical joke_). "it's one o' those dashed artists that are staying at the 'lord nelson' 'a' done this, i know!"] * * * * * [illustration: _aunt jane._ "it's wonderful how this wireless telegraphy is coming into use!"] * * * * * [illustration: a dream of the sea ethel, who is not to have a seaside trip this year, dreams every night that she and her mamma and aunt and sisters spread their sash-bows and panniers and fly away to the yellow sands.] * * * * * the margate bathing-woman's lament it nearly broke my widowed art, when first i tuk the notion, that parties didn't as they used, take reglar to the ocean. the hinfants, darling little soles, still cum quite frequent, bless 'em! but they is only sixpence each, which hardly pays to dress 'em. the reason struck me all at once, says i, "it's my opinion, the grown-up folks no longer bathes because of them vile sheenions." the last as cum drest in that style, says, as she tuk it horf her, "i'm sure i shall not know the way to re-arrange my quoffur!" by which she ment the ed of air, which call it wot they will, sir; cum doubtless off a convict at millbank or pentonville, sir. the parliament should pass a law, which there's sufficient reason; that folks as wear the sheenions should bathe reg'lar in the season. * * * * * [illustration: a lancashire watering-place] * * * * * "merry margit" (_another communication from the side of the dear sea waves_) i was told it was greatly improved--that there were alterations in the sea-front suggestive of the best moments of the thames embankment--that quite "smart" people daily paraded the pier. so having had enough of "urn-bye", i moved on. the improvements scarcely made themselves felt at the railway station. seemingly they had not attracted what mr. jeames would call "the upper suckles." there were the customary british middle-class matron from peckham, looking her sixty summers to the full in a sailor hat; the seaside warrior first cousin to the billiard-marker captain with flashy rings, beefy hands, and a stick of pantomime proportions, and the theatrical lady whose connection with the stage i imagine was confined to capering before the footlights. however, they all were there, as i had seen them any summer these twenty years. but i had been told to go to the pier, and so to the pier i went, glancing on my way at the entertainers on the sands, many of whom i found to be old friends. amongst them was the "h"-less phrenologist, whose insight into character apparently satisfied the parents of any child whose head he selected to examine. thus, if he said that a particularly stupid-looking little boy would make a good architect, schoolmaster, or traveller for fancy goods, a gentleman in an alpaca-coat and a wide-awake hat would bow gratified acquiescence, a demonstration that would also be evoked from a lady in a dust cloak, when the lecturer insisted that a giggling little girl would make a "first-rate dressmaker and cutter-out." arrived at the pier, i found there was twopence to pay for the privilege of using the extension, which included a restaurant, a band, some talented fleas, and a shop with a window partly devoted to the display of glass tumblers, engraved with legends of an amusing character, such as "good old mother-in-law", "jack's night cap", "aunt julia's half pint", and so on. there were a number of seats and shelters, and below the level of the shops was a landing-stage, at which twice a day two steamers from or to london removed or landed passengers. during the rest of the four-and-twenty hours it seemed to be occupied by a solitary angler, catching chiefly seaweed. the band, in spite of its uniform, was not nearly so military as that at "urn bye." it contained a pianoforte--an instrument upon which i found the young gentleman who sold the programmes practising during a pause between the morning's selection and the afternoon's performances. but still the band was a very tuneful one, and increased the pleasure that the presence of so many delightful promenaders was bound to produce. many of the ladies who walked round and round, talking courteously to 'arry in all his varieties, wore men's _habits_, _pur et simple_ (giving them the semblance of appearing in their shirt-sleeves), while their heads were adorned with fair wigs and sailor hats, apparently fixed on together. these free-and-easy-looking damsels did not seem to find favour in the eyes of certain other ladies of a sedater type, who regarded them (over their novels) with undisguised contempt. these other ladies, i should think, from their conversation and appearance, must have been the very flowers of the flock of brixton rise, and the _crème de la crême_ of peckham rye society. of course there were a number of more or less known actors and actresses from london, some of them enjoying a brief holiday, and others engaged in the less lucrative occupation of "resting." however, the dropping of "h's", even to the accompaniment of sweet music, sooner or later becomes monotonous, and so, after awhile, i was glad to leave the pier for the attractions of the upper cliff. on my way i passed a palace of pleasure or varieties, or something wherein a twopenny wax-work show seemed at the moment to be one of its greatest attractions. this show contained a chamber of horrors, a scene full of quiet humour of napoleon the third lying in state, and an old effigy of george the third. the collection included the waxen head of a nonconformist minister, who, according to the lecturer, had been "wery good to the poor", preserved in a small deal-box. there was also the "key-dyevie" of egypt, general gordon, and mrs. maybrick. tearing myself away from these miscellaneous memories of the past, i ascended to the east cliff, which had still the "apartments-furnished" look that was wont to distinguish it of yore. there was no change there; and as i walked through the town, which once, as a watering-place, was second only in importance to bath,--which a century ago had for its m.c. a rival of beau nash,--i could not help thinking how astonished the ghosts of the fine ladies and gentlemen who visited "meregate" in must be, if they are able to see their successors of to-day--"good old chawlie cadd", and miss topsie stuart plantagenet, _née_ tompkins. * * * * * [illustration: deal] * * * * * [illustration: "nice for the visitors" (sketch outside a fashionable hotel)] * * * * * [illustration: _boy_ (_to brown, who is exceedingly proud of his sporting appearance_). "want a donkey, mister?"] * * * * * [illustration: incorrigible _visitor._ "well, my man, i expect it must have cost you a lot of money to paint your nose that colour!" _reprobate._ "ah, an' if oi cud affoord it, oi'd have it _varnished_ now!"] * * * * * [illustration: "no accounting for taste" _materfamilias_ (_just arrived at shrimpville--the children had been down a month before_). "well, jane, have you found it dull?" _nurse._ "it was at fust, m'm. there was nothink to improve the mind, m'm, till the niggers come down!!"] * * * * * [illustration: by the sad sea waves "but, are you sure?" "yus, lady. 'e's strong as an 'orse!" "but how am i to get on?" "oh, _i'll lift yer_!"] * * * * * [illustration: delicate attention _confiding spinster._ "i'm afraid the sea is too cold for me this morning, mr. swabber." _bathing man._ "cold, miss! lor' bless yer, i just took and powered a kittle o' bilin' water in to take the chill off when i see you a comin'!"] * * * * * [illustration: holiday pleasures _injured individual._ "heigho! i _did_ think i should find some refuge from the miseries of the seaside in the comforts of a bed! just look where my feet are, maria!" _his wife._ "_well_, john! it's _only_ for a _month_, you know!"] * * * * * [illustration: blighted hopes _extract of letter from laura to lillie_:--"i declare, dear, i never gave the absurd creature the slightest encouragement. i did say, one evening, i thought the little sandy coves about wobbleswick were charming, especially one. _the idea!_--of his thinking i was alluding to him!"----&c., &c.] * * * * * [illustration: sensitive "i think i told you, in my letter of the first of october, of his absurd interpretation of an innocent remark of mine about the sandy shores of wobbleswick. well, would you believe it, dear! we were strolling on the esplanade, the other day, when he suddenly left kate and me, and took himself off in a tremendous huff because we said we liked walking _with an object_!!" [_extract from a later letter of laura's to lillie._ ] * * * * * [illustration: prehistoric peeps "no bathing to-day!"] * * * * * [illustration: prehistoric peeps a nocturne which would seem to show that "residential flats" were not wholly unknown even in primeval times!] * * * * * [illustration: _blinks._ "the sun 'll be over the yard-arm in ten minutes. _then_ we'll have a drink!" _jinks._ "i think i'll have one while i'm waiting!"] * * * * * [illustration: trials of a convalescent _tompkins_ (_in a feeble voice, for the fourth or fifth time, with no result_). "chairman!!! chairman!!!" _that awful boy._ "lydies and gentlemen----!!"] * * * * * seaside asides (_paterfamilias in north cornwall_) [illustration] oh! how delightful now at last to come away from town--its dirt, its degradation, its never-ending whirl, its ceaseless hum. (a long chalks better, though, than sheer stagnation.) for what could mortal man or maid want more than breezy downs to stroll on, rocks to climb up, weird labyrinthine caverns to explore? (there's nothing else to do to fill the time up.) your honest face here earns an honest brown, you ramble on for miles 'mid gorse and heather, sheep hold athletic sports upon the down (which makes the mutton taste as tough as leather). the place is guiltless, too, of horrid piers. and likewise is not christy-minstrel tooney; no soul-distressing strains disturb your ears. (a german band has just played "_annie rooney_".) the eggs as fresh as paint, the cornish cream the boys from school all say is "simply ripping." the butter, so the girls declare, "a dream." (the only baccy you can buy quite dripping.) a happiness of resting after strife, where one forgets all worldly pain and sorrow, and one contentedly could pass one's life. (a telegram will take _me_ home to-morrow.) * * * * * scene: margate beach on easter monday.--_first lady._ "oh, here comes a steamer. how high she is out of the water." _second lady._ "yes, dear, but don't you see? it's because the tide's so low." * * * * * [illustration: awkward _the aristocratic jones_ (_rather ashamed of his loud acquaintance, brown_). "you must excuse me, but if there's one thing in the world i particularly object to, it's to having anybody take my arm!" _brown._ "all right, old fellow!--_you_ take _mine_!"] * * * * * the seaside visitor's vade mecum. _question._ is it your intention to leave london at once to benefit by the ocean breezes on the english coast? _answer._ certainly, with the bulk of my neighbours. _q._ then the metropolis will become empty? _a._ practically, for only about three and a half millions out of the four millions will be left behind. _q._ what do you consider the remaining residuum? _a._ from a west end point of view a negligible quantity. _q._ do not some of the eastenders visit the seaside? _a._ yes, at an earlier period in the year, when they pay rather more for their accommodation than their neighbours of the west. _q._ how can this be, if it be assumed that the east is poorer than the west? _a._ the length of the visit is governed by the weight of the purse. belgravia stays a couple of months at eastbourne, while three days at margate is enough for shoreditch. _q._ has a sojourn by the sea waves any disadvantages? _a._ several. in the first instance, lodgings are frequently expensive and uncomfortable. then there is always a chance that the last lodgers may have occupied their rooms as convalescents. lastly, it is not invariably the case that the climate agrees with himself and his family. _q._ and what becomes of the house in town? _a._ if abandoned to a caretaker, the reception rooms may be used by her own family as best chambers, and if let to strangers, the furniture may be injured irretrievably. _q._ but surely in the last case there would be the certainty of pecuniary indemnity? _a._ cherished relics cannot be restored by their commonplace value in money. _q._ then, taking one thing with another, the benefit of a visit to the seaside is questionable? _a._ assuredly; and an expression of heartfelt delight at the termination of the outing and the consequent return home is the customary finish to the, styled by courtesy, holiday. _q._ but has not the seaside visit a compensating advantage? _a._ the seaside visit has a compensating advantage of overwhelming proportions, which completely swallows up and effaces all suggestions of discomfort--it is the fashion. * * * * * [illustration: paris? "not if i know it! give me a quiet month at the seaside, and leave me alone, please!"] * * * * * [illustration: conversational pitfalls _irene._ "do you remember kitty fowler?" _her friend._ "no, i don't." _irene._ "oh, you _must_ remember kitty. she was the plainest girl in torquay. but i forgot--that was after you left!"] * * * * * [illustration: _visitor._ "have you ever seen the sea-serpent?" _boatman._ "no, sir. i'm a temperance man."] * * * * * [illustration: separate interests _husband._ "hi! maria! take care of the paint!" _painter._ "it don't matter, ma'am. it'll all 'ave to be painted again!"] * * * * * [illustration: caution to young ladies who ride in crinoline on donkeys] * * * * * [illustration: margate _chatty visitor._ "i like the place. i always come here. 'worst of it is, it's a little too dressy!"] * * * * * [illustration: unlucky compliments _shy but susceptible youth._ "er--_could_ you tell me who that young lady is--sketching?" _affable stranger._ "she has the misfortune to be my wife!" _shy but susceptible one_ (_desperately anxious to please, and losing all presence of mind_). "oh--the misfortune's entirely _yours_, i'm _sure_!"] * * * * * brilliant suggestion (_overheard at the seaside_).--_she._ "so much nicer now that all the visitors have gone. don't you think so?" _he._ "yes, by jove! so jolly nice and quiet! often wonder that _everybody_ doesn't come now when there's nobody here, don't you know!" * * * * * [illustration: a nuisance. _miss priscilla._ "yes; it's a beautiful view. but tourists are in the habit of bathing on the opposite shore, and that's rather a drawback." _fair visitor._ "dear me! but at such a distance as that--surely----" _miss priscilla._ "ah, but with a _telescope_, you know!"] * * * * * the seaside photographer [illustration] i do not mean the kodak fiend, who takes snap-shots of ladies dipping, and gloats o'er sundry views he's gleaned of amatory couples "tripping." no, not these playful amateurs i sing of, but the serious artist, who spreads upon the beach his lures, what time the season's at its smartest. his tongue is glib, his terms are cheap, for ninepence while you wait he'll take you; posterity shall, marv'lling, keep the "tin-type" masterpiece he'll make you. what though his camera be antique, his dark-room just a nose-bag humble, what if his tripod legs are weak, and threaten constantly to tumble. no swain nor maiden can withstand his invitation arch, insidious, to pose _al fresco_ on the strand-- his _clientèle_ are not fastidious. "you are so lovely", says the wretch, "your picture will be quite entrancing!" and to the lady in the sketch i overheard him thus romancing. * * * * * [illustration: the ruling passion _sir talbot howard vere de vere._ "ah! good morning, mrs. jones! dreadful accident just occurred. poor young lady riding along the king's road--horse took fright--reared, and fell back upon her--dreadfully injured, i'm sorry to say!" _mrs. woodbee swellington jones._ "_quite_ too shocking, dear sir talbot! was she--er--a person of position?" _sir talbot howard vere de vere._ "position, by george!! dooced uncomfortable position, too, i should say!"] * * * * * [illustration: for the public good _bertie._ "gertie, do just go back to the beach and fetch me a baby (you'll find a lot about), and i'll show you all the different ways of saving it from drowning!"] * * * * * annals of a watering-place that has "seen its day" [illustration: tynemouth] the weather which, in mr. dunstable's varied experience of five-and-twenty years, he assures me, has never been so bad, having at length afforded some indications of "breaking", i make the acquaintance, through mrs. cobbler, of mr. wisterwhistle, proprietor of the one bath-chair available for the invalid of torsington-on-sea, who, like myself, stands in need of the salubrious air of that health-giving resort, but who is ordered by his medical adviser to secure it with the least possible expenditure of physical strength. both mr. wisterwhistle and his chair are peculiar in their respective ways, and each has a decided history. mr. wisterwhistle, growing confidential over his antecedents, says, "you see, sir, i wasn't brought up to the bath-chair business, so to speak, for i began in the royal navy, under his majesty king william the fourth. then i took to the coastguard business, and having put by a matter of thirty pound odd, and hearing 'she' was in the market,"--mr. wisterwhistle always referred to his bath-chair as 'she,' evidently regarding it from the nautical stand-point as of the feminine gender,--"and knowing, saving your presence, sir, that old bloxer, of whom i bought her, had such a good crop of cripples the last season or two, that he often touched two-and-forty shillings a week with 'em, i dropped her majesty's service, and took to this 'ere. but, lor, sir, the business ain't wot it wos. things is changed woeful at torsington since i took her up. then from o'clock, as you might say, to p.m., every hour was took up; and, mind you, by real downright 'aristocracy,'--real live noblemen, with gout on 'em, as thought nothink of a two hours' stretch, and didn't 'aggle, savin' your presence, over a extra sixpence for the job either way. but, bless you, wot's it come to now? why, she might as well lay up in a dry dock arf the week, for wot's come of the downright genuine invalid, savin' your presence, blow'd if i knows. one can see, of course, sir, in arf a jiffy, as you is touched in the legs with the rheumatics, or summat like it; but besides you and a old gent on crutches from portland buildings, there ain't no real invalid public 'ere at all, and one can't expect to make a livin' out of you two; for if you mean to do the thing ever so 'ansome, it ain't reasonable to expect you and the old gent i was a referring to, to stand seven hours a day goin' up and down the esplanade between you, and you see even that at a bob an hour ain't no great shakes when you come to pay for 'ousing her and keepin' her lookin' spic and span, with all her brass knobs a shining and her leather apron fresh polished with patent carriage blackin': and lor, sir, you'd not b'lieve me if i was to tell you what a deal of show some parties expects for their one bob an hour. why, it was only the other day that lady glumpley (a old party with a front of black curls and yaller bows in her bonnet, as i dare say you've noticed me a haulin' up and down the parade when the band's a playin'), says to me, says she, 'it ain't so much the easygoin' of your chair, mr. wisterwhistle, as makes me patronise it, as its general genteel appearance. for there's many a chair at brighton that can't hold a candle to it!'" but at this point he was interrupted by the appearance of a dense crowd that half filled the street, and drew up in silent expectation opposite my front door. dear me, i had quite forgotten i had sent for him. but the boy who cleans the boots and knives has returned, and brought with him _the one policeman_! [illustration: indiaman going into port] * * * * * query at some fashionable seaside resort.--do the unpleasant odours noticeable at certain times arise from the fact of the tide being high? if so, is the tide sometimes higher than usual, as the--ahem!--odours certainly are? * * * * * [illustration: peril! _gruff voice_ (_behind her--she thought she heard her own name_). "she's a gettin' old, bill, and she sartain'y ain't no beauty! but you and i'll smarten her up! give her a good tarrin' up to the waist, and a streak o' paint, and they 'ont know her again when the folks come down a' whitsun'. come along, and let's ketch 'old of her, and shove her into the water fust of all!!" _miss isabella._ "oh! the horrid wretches! no policeman in sight! nothing for it but flight!" [is off like a bird! ] * * * * * [illustration: prehistoric peeps there were even then quiet spots by the sea where one could be alone with nature undisturbed] * * * * * [illustration: a sense of property _botanical old gent_ (_in the brighton gardens_). "can you tell me, my good man, if this plant belongs to the 'arbutus' family?" _gardener_ (_curtly_). "no, sir, it doan't. it b'longs to the corporation!"] * * * * * [illustration: the minor ills of life portrait of a gentleman attempting to regain his tent after the morning bath] * * * * * [illustration: mermaids' toilets in ' _blanche._ "i say, some of you, call after aunty! she has taken my _chignon_, and left me her horrid black one!"] * * * * * [illustration: low tide on scarborough sands--bathing under difficulties the captain, who is well up in his classics, translates, for his fanny's benefit, a celebrated latin poem (by one lucretius) to the effect that it is sweet to gaze from the cliff at the bathing machines vainly struggling to take the unfortunate bathers into deep water.] * * * * * [illustration: seaside puzzle to find your bathing-machine if you've forgotten the number] * * * * * [illustration: venus (anno domini ) rises from the sea!!] * * * * * seaside drama.--_mrs. de tomkyns_ (_sotto voce, to mr. de t._). "ludovic, dear, there's algernon playing with a strange child! _do_ prevent it!" _mr. de t._ (_ditto, to mrs. de t._). "how on earth am i to prevent it, my love?" _mrs. de t._ "tell its parents algernon is just recovering from scarlet fever, or something!" _mr. de t._ "but it isn't true!" _mrs. de t._ "oh, never mind! tell them, all the same!" _mr. de t._ (_aloud_). "ahem! sir, you'd better not let your little girl play with my little boy. he's only just recovering from--er--_scarlet fever_!" _mr. and mrs. jenkins_ (_together_). "it's all right, sir!--_so's our little gal!_" * * * * * [illustration: mixed bathing _fussy landlady_ (_to new lodger_). "well, sir, if you'll only tell me when you want a bath, _i'll see you have it_."] * * * * * by the seaside (_a gasp and a growl from paterfamilias fogey_) [illustration] in for it here, six weeks or more, once every year (yah, what a bore!) daughters and wife force me to bide mad to "see life" by the seaside! go out of town what if we do? hither comes down all the world too; vanity fair, fashion and pride, seeking fresh air by the seaside. drest up all hands-- raiment how dear!-- down on the sands, out on the pier, pace to and fro, see, as at ryde, off how they show by the seaside! fops and fine girls, swarm, brisk as bees; ribbons and curls float on the breeze; females and males eye and are eyed; ogling prevails by the seaside! daughters may see some fun in that. wife, how can she, grown old and fat? scene i survey but to deride, idle display by the seaside. views within reach, picturesque scenes, rocks on the beach, bathing machines, shingle and pools, left by the tide, youth, far from schools, by the seaside. artists may sketch, draw and design, pencil, or etch; not in my line. money, no end, whilst i am tied here, i must spend, by the seaside! * * * * * [illustration: _snooks_ (_to new acquaintance_). "tell yer what, look in one evenin' and 'ave a bit of supper, if you don't mind 'avin it in the kitchen. yer see, we're plain people, and don't put on no side. of course, i know as a toff like you 'ud 'ave it in the _drawing-room_!"] * * * * * [illustration: torquay (talkey)] * * * * * [illustration: hastings] * * * * * [illustration: gentility in greens _mrs. brown finds sandymouth a very different place from what she remembers it years ago._ _greengrocer._ "cabbage, mum!? we don't keep no second-class vegetables, mum. you'll get it at the lower end o' the town!"] * * * * * seaside views [illustration: kingswear] _tom jones_ (_in love_). the most heavenly place i ever was in. the sun is warmer, the sky bluer, the sea the calmest i ever knew. joy sparkles on every pebble; art spreads its welcome arms through every spray of seaweed. true happiness encircles me on every breeze, and beauty is by my side. _old jones._ beastly slow. all sea and sky, and ugly round stones. you can't bask in the sun because there is none--it's always raining--and because the flints worry your back. confound the children, scraping up the wet sand and smelling seaweeds! it must be time for them to go to bed or to lessons or something. wherever you sit there is sure to be a draught, and such heaps of old women you can't put your legs up on the seat. hang it all, there isn't a young girl in the place, let alone pretty ones. [illustration: o-shun shells!] _young brown_ (_waiting for a commission_). awfully dull. quite too excessively detestable. not a fellow to talk to, you know, who knows anything about the leger, or draw-poker, or modern education, you know. can't get introduced to lady tom peeper. nobody to do it. wish my moustache would curl. pull it all day, you know, but it won't come. lady tom smiled, on the parade to-day. got very red, but i shall smile too to-morrow. a man must do something in this dreadful place. _major brown_ (_heavies_). not half bad kind of diggings. quite in clover. found lydia here--i mean lady tom peeper. horribly satirical woman, though. keeps one up to the mark. i shall have to read up to keep pace with her. i shouldn't like to be chaffed by her. better friend than enemy. poor tom peeper! he must have a bad time of it! can't say "bo" to a gosling. and she knows it. that's why he never comes down here. coast clear. fancy she's rather sweet on me. by jove! we had a forty-mile-an-hour-express flirtation before her marriage! must take care what i'm about now. mustn't have a collision with tom--good old man, after all, if he is a fool. take this note round, charles, to the same place. [illustration: a cutter on the beech] _mrs. robinson_ (_materfamilias_). scarcely room to swing a cot, for baby. thank goodness, all the children are on the beach. i hope mary ann won't let out to the other nurses that totty had the scarlet fever. he's quite well now, poor little man, and no one will be any the worse for it. horrid! of course. no, it is not a colorado beetle, robinson. they infest the curtains; we did not bring them with us in our trunks. do go out and buy some insect-powder, instead of looking stupid behind that nasty cigar. oh, and get some soap and some tooth-powder, and order baby's tonic, and jane's iron--mind, sesqui-sulphate of iron (i suppose i must find the prescription), and a box of--what's that stuff for sore throats? and do hire a perambulator with a hood. and we have no dessert for to-morrow--you know, or you ought to know, it's sunday. some fruit, and what you like. oh! and don't forget some biscuits for the dog. what has become of tiny? tiny! tiny! i know he did not go with the children. i dare say he has eaten something horrid, and is dying under a chair. dear! dear! who would be mother of a family with such a careless, thoughtless, quite too utterly selfish husband as you are. of course you never remembered to-day was my birthday. i ought never to have been born. a bracelet or a pair of ear-rings--or, by the way, i saw a lovely châtelaine on the parade. you might find enough to give me one pleasure since our wedding. _robinson_ (_paterfamilias_). i like the seaside, i do. when will it be over? * * * * * [illustration: a sandy cove] * * * * * [illustration: a fragment augustus knows a certain snug retreat-- a little rocky cavern by the sea-- where, sheltered from the rain (and every eye), he fondly hopes to breathe his tale of love into his artless arabella's ear!...] * * * * * [illustration: longing for a new sensation _jack_ (_a naughty boy, who is always in disgrace, and most deservedly_). "i say, effie, do you know what i should like? i should like to be accused of something i'd never done!"] * * * * * [illustration: a lament _dowager._ "it's been the worst season i can remember, sir james! all the men seem to have got married, and none of the girls!"] * * * * * [illustration: joys of the seaside _brown._ "what beastly weather! and the glass is going steadily down!" _local tradesman._ "oh, that's nothing, sir. the glass has no effect whatever on _our_ part of the coast!"] * * * * * the better the day, the better the talk! [illustration: broad-stares] scene--_any fashionable watering-place where "church parade" is a recognised institution._ time--_sunday_, p.m. _enter_ brown _and_ mrs. brown, _who take chairs_. _mrs. brown._ good gracious! look another way! those odious people, the stiggingses, are coming towards us! _brown._ why odious? i think the girls rather nice. _mrs. b._ (_contemptuously_). oh, _you_ would, because men are so easily taken in! nice, indeed! why, here's major buttons. _b._ (_moving his head sharply to the right_). don't see him! can't stand the fellow! i always avoid him at the club! _mrs. b._ why? soldiers are always such pleasant men. _b._ (_contemptuously_). buttons a soldier! years ago he was a lieutenant in a marching regiment, and now holds honorary rank in the volunteers! soldier, indeed! bless me! here's mrs. fitz-flummery--mind you don't cut her. _mrs. b._ yes, i shall; the woman is unsupportable. did you ever see _such_ a dress. and she has changed the colour of her hair--again! _b._ whether she has or hasn't, she looks particularly pleasing. _mrs. b._ (_drily_). you were always a little eccentric in your taste! why, surely there must be mr. pennyfather robson. how smart he looks! where _can_ he have come from? _b._ the bankruptcy court! (_drily._) you were never particularly famous for discrimination. as i live, the plantagenet smiths! [_he bows with effusion._ _mrs. b._ and the stuart joneses. (_she kisses her hand gushingly_). by the way, dear, didn't you say that the plantagenet smiths were suspected of murdering their uncle before they inherited his property? _b._ so it is reported, darling. and didn't you tell me, my own, that the parents of mr. stuart jones were convicts before they became millionaires? _mrs. b._ so i have heard, loved one. (_starting up._) come, charley, we must be off at once! the goldharts! if they catch us, _she_ is sure to ask me to visit some of her sick poor! _b._ and _he_ to beg me to subscribe to an orphanage or a hospital! here, take your prayer-book, or people won't know that we have come from church! [_exeunt hurriedly._ * * * * * [illustration: row me o!] * * * * * [illustration: curlew] * * * * * at scarborough.--_miss araminta dove._ why do they call this the spa? _mr. rhino-ceros._ oh! i believe the place was once devoted to boxing exhibitions. [_miss a.d. as wise as ever._ * * * * * [illustration: "by the sad sea waves" _landlady_ (_who has just presented her weekly bill_). "i 'ope, ma'am, as you find the bracing hair agree with you, ma'am, and your good gentleman, ma'am!" _lady._ "oh, yes, our appetites are wonderfully improved! for instance, at home we only eat two loaves a day, and i find, from your account, that we can manage eight!" [_landlady feels uncomfortable._ ] * * * * * [illustration: rather difficult "oh, i say, here comes that dismal bore, bulkley! let's pretend _we don't see him_!"] * * * * * [illustration: pessimism _artist_ (_irritated by the preliminaries of composition and the too close proximity of an uninteresting native_). "i think you needn't wait any longer. there's really nothing to look at just now." _native._ "ay, an' i doot there'll _never_ be muckle to look at there!"] * * * * * the donkey-boys of england (_a song for the seaside_) [illustration] the donkey-boys of england, how merrily they fly, with pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye. and oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand, high on the heath of hampstead, or down on ramsgate's sand. the donkey-boys of england, how sternly they reprove the brute that won't "come over", with an impressive shove; and oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve from side to side, but won't advance to spoil true beauty's curve. the donkey-boys of england, how manfully they fight, when a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight; from nurse's arms the babies are clutch'd with fury wild, and on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child. the donkey-boys of england, how sternly they defy the pleadings of a parent's shriek, the infant's piercing cry; as a four-year-old mazeppa is hurried from the spot, exposed to all the tortures of a donkey's fitful trot. the donkey-boys of england, how lustily they scream, when they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team; and the riders who are anxious to be class'd among genteels, have a crowd of ragged donkey-boys "hallooing" at their heels. the donkey-boys of england, how well they comprehend the animal to whom they act as master, guide, and friend; the understanding that exists between them who'll dispute-- or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute? * * * * * [illustration: the jetty] * * * * * seaside acquaintances (scene--the shady side of pall mall).--_snob._ my lord, you seem to forget me. don't you recollect our meeting this summer at harrogate? _swell._ my dear fellow, i do not forget it in the least. i recollect vividly we swore eternal friendship at harrogate, and should it be my fate to meet you at harrogate next year, i shall only be too happy to swear it again. [_lifts his chapeau, and leaves snob in a state of the most speechless amazement._ * * * * * [illustration: portrait of a gentleman who sent his wife and family to the seaside, followed by a later train, and left their address behind. [_sketched after five hours' futile search for them._ ] * * * * * [illustration: a voice from the sea "o let me kiss him for his mother!"] * * * * * reasons for going to brighton (_by the cynic who stays in london_) [illustration: "ha! rich!"] because "everybody" is there, and it is consequently so pleasant to see st. john's wood, bayswater, and even belgravia, so well represented on the esplanade. because the shops in the king's road are _nearly_ as good as those to be found in regent street. because the sea does not _always_ look like the thames at greenwich in a fog. because some of the perambulating bands play very nearly in tune. because the drive from the aquarium to the new pier is quite a mile in length, and only grows monotonous after the tenth turn. because watching fish confined in tanks is such rollicking fun. because the hebrews are so numerously represented on the green. because the clubs are so inexpensive and select. because the management of the grand is so very admirable. because it is so pleasant to follow the harriers on a hired hack in company with other hired hacks. because the half-deserted skating rinks are so very amusing. because it is so nice to hear second-rate scandal about third-rate people. because the place is not always being visited by the scarlet fever. because it is so cheerful to see the poor invalids taking their morning airing in their bath-chairs. because the streets are paraded by so many young gentlemen from the city. because the brighton belles look so ladylike in their quiet ulsters and unpretending hats. because the suburbs are so very cheerful in the winter, particularly when it snows or rains. because on every holiday the railway company brings down such a very nice assortment of excursionists to fill the streets. because brighton in november is so very like margate in july. because, if you did not visit brighton, you might so very easily go farther and fare worse. * * * * * [illustration: weston-super-mare] * * * * * [illustration: scene--by the sad sea waves _tomkins, disconsolate on a rock, traces some characters upon the sand._ _to him, mrs. tomkins_ (_whose name is martha_). _mrs. t._ "well, mr. tomkins, and pray who may henrietta be?" [_tomkins utters a yell of despair, and falls prostrate._ ] * * * * * [illustration: a viking on modern fashion "what does t'lass want wi' yon _boostle_ for? it aren't big enough to _smoggle_ things, and she can't _steer_ herself wi' it!"] * * * * * the tripper (_by a resident_) what does he come for? what does he want? why does he wander thus careworn and gaunt? up street and down street with dull vacant stare, hither and thither, it don't matter where? what does he mean by it? why does he come hundreds of miles to prowl, weary and glum, blinking at kosmos with lack-lustre eye? he doesn't enjoy it, he don't even try! sunny or soaking, it's all one to him, wandering painfully-- curious whim! gazing at china-shops. gaping at sea, guzzling at beer-shops, or gorging at tea. why don't he stay at home, save his train fare, soak at his native beer, sunday clothes wear? no one would grudge it him, no one would jeer. why does he come away? why is he here? * * * * * [illustration: blackpool] * * * * * [illustration: brighton] * * * * * [illustration: margate] * * * * * [illustration: a slight misunderstanding _landlady._ "i hope you slept well, sir?" _new boarder._ "no, i didn't. i've been troubled with insomnia." _landlady._ "look here, young man. i'll give you a sovereign for every one you find in that bed!"] * * * * * [illustration: touching appeal _testy old gent._ (_wearied by the importunities of the brighton boatmen_). "confound it, man! do i _look_ as if i wanted a boat?"] * * * * * robert at the seaside i've bin spending my long wacation of a fortnite at northgate. northgate's a nice quiet place, northgate is, tho' it quite fails in most things that constitoots reel injoyment at the seaside, such as bands and niggers and minstrels and all that. it's a grand place for weather, for it generally blows hard at northgate, and wen it doesn't blow hard it rains hard, which makes a nice change, and a change is wot we all goes to the seaside for. it seems a werry favrite place for inwaleeds, for the place is full on 'em, bath cheers is in great demand and all the seats on the prade is allus occypied by 'em. dr. scratchem too sends most of his favrite cases there, and you can't walk on the peer without facing lots on 'em. brown says the place makes him as sollem as a common cryer, and he hasn't had a good hearty larf since he came here, but then brown isn't quite sattisfied with his lodgings, and has acshally recommended his land lady to turn her house into the norfolk howard hotel, _unlimited_, so perhaps she may account for his want of spirits. northgate's rather a rum place as regards the tide. wen it's eye it comes all over the place and makes such a jolly mess, and wen it's low it runs right out to sea and you can't see it. brown tried to persuade me as how as one werry eye tide was a spring tide, but as it was in september i wasn't so green as to beleeve that rubbish. it seems quite a pet place for artists, i mean sculpchers, at least i s'pose they must be sculpchers, and that they brings their moddels with 'em, for the bathing machines is stuck close to the peer, so dreckly after breakfast the moddels goes and bathes in the sea, and the sculpchers goes on the peer, and there's nothink to divert their attention from their interesting studdys, and many on 'em passes ours there quietly meditating among the bathing machines. brown says, in his sarcastic way, it's the poor sculpchers as comes here, who can't afford to pay for their moddels, so they comes here and gets 'em free gratis for nothink. there's sum werry nice walks in the nayberhood but i never walks 'em, for it seems to me that the grate joke of every buysicler and trysicler, and the place swarms with 'em, is to cum quietly behind you and see how close he can go by you without nocking you down. i'm sure the jumps and the starts and the frites as i had the fust day or too kep my art in my mouth till i thort it would have choked me. how ladys, reel ladys too, can expose theirselves on such things i can't make out. i herd a young swell say that wot with them and what with the bathing moddels it was as good as a burlesk! we've got werry cumferrabel lodgings, we have, just opposite the gas works and near a brick field. when the wind is south or west we smells the bricks and when its east we smells the gas, but when its doo north we don't smell nuffen excep just a trifle from the dranes, and so long as we keeps quite at the end of the werry long peer we don't smell nuffen at all excep the sea weed. our landlord's a werry respeckabel man and the stoker on our little railway, and so werry fond of nussing our little children that they are allus as black as young sweeps. their gratest treat is to go with him to the stashun and stand on the ingin when they are shuntin, so preshus little they gits of the sea breezes. we've had a fust rate company staying here. i've seen no less than aldermen, and warden of a city compny, but they didn't stay long. i don't think the living was good enuff for 'em. it must be a werry trying change, from every luxery that isn't in season, to meer beef and mutton and shrimps! and those rayther course. i think our boatmen is about the lazyest set of fellows as ever i seed. so far from begging on you to have a soft roe with the tide, or a hard roe against it, they makes all sorts of egscewses for not taking you, says they're just a going to dinner, or they thinks the wind's a gitting up, or there ain't enough water! not enuff water in the sea to flote a bote! wen any one could see as there was thousands of galluns there. i saw some on 'em this mornin bringin in sum fish, and asked the price of a pair of souls, but they axshally said they didn't dare sell one, for every man jack of 'em must be sent to billingsgate! but werry likely sum on 'em might be sent back again in the arternoon, and then i could get some at the fishmonger's! what a nice derangemunt! there was the butiful fresh fish reddy for eating, there was me and my family reddy to eat 'em, but no, they must be packed in boxes and carried to the station and then sent by rale to london, and then sent by wan to billingsgate, and that takes i'm told ever so many hours, and then carried back to the london stashun, and then sent by rale to northgate, and then carried from the stashun to the fishmonger's, and then i'm allowed to buy 'em! well if that isn't a butiful business like arrangement, my lord mare, i should like to know what is. however, as i wunce herd a deputy say, when things cums to their wust, things is sure to mend, and i don't think that things can be much wusser than that. (_signed_) robert. * * * * * [illustration: light puffs raised a little swell] * * * * * [illustration: heavy swell on the bar] * * * * * [illustration: the bell buoy] * * * * * the spirit of the thing.--_landlady_ (_to shivering lodger_). no, sir, i don't object to your dining at a restorong, nor to your taking an 'apenny paper, but i must resent your constant 'abit of locking up your whiskey, thereby himplying that me, a clergyman's daughter, is prone to larceny. [_lodger immediately hands her the key as a guarantee of good faith._ * * * * * [illustration: the bores of the beach so! as it's a fine day, you'll sit on the beach and read the paper comfortably, will you? very good! then we recommend you to get what guinea-pigs, brandy-balls, boats, and children's socks, to say nothing of shell-workboxes, lace collars, and the like you may want, before you settle down.] * * * * * [illustration: "excuse me, sir. i seem to have met you before. are you not a relative of mr. dan briggs?" "no, madam. i _am_ mr. dan briggs himself." "ah, then that explains the remarkable resemblance!"] * * * * * [illustration: accommodating _lodger._ "and then, there's that cold pheasant, mrs. bilkes"---- _landlady._ "yes'm, and if you should have enough without it, lor', mr. bilkes wouldn't mind a eatin' of it for his supper, if that's all."] * * * * * [illustration: _mrs. brown._ "might i ask how much you gave that nigger?" _mr. brown_ (_first day down_). "sixpence." _mrs. b._ "oh, indeed! perhaps, sir, you are not aware that your wife and family have listened to those same niggers for the last ten days for a _penny_!"] * * * * * [illustration: pleasures of the seaside _mermaiden._ "i am told you keep a circulating library?" _librarian._ "yes, miss. _there_ it is! subscription, two shillings a-week; one volume at a time; change as often as you please! would you like to see a catalogue?"] * * * * * [illustration: an informal introduction _polite little girl_ (_suddenly_). "this is my mamma, sir. will you please sing her, 'it's the seasoning wot does it!'"] * * * * * [illustration: out of town (unfashionable intelligence) _visitor._ "what a roaring trade the hotels will be doing, with all these holiday folk!" _head waiter at the george._ "lor bless yer, sir, no! they all bring their nosebags with 'em!"] * * * * * [illustration: seaside studies _wandering minstrel._ "gurls! i'm a doocid fine cha-appie!" &c., &c.] * * * * * [illustration: wiggles and sprott prefer bathing from the beach to having a stuffy machine. they are much pleased with the delicate little attention indicated above!] * * * * * [illustration: a quiet drive by the sea a brighton bath-chairman's idea of a suitable route for an invalid lady] * * * * * a seaside roundel on the sands as loitering i stand where my point of view the scene commands, i survey the prospect fair and grand on the sands. niggers, half a dozen german bands, photographic touts, persistent, bland, chiromancers reading dirty hands, nursemaids, children, preachers, skiffs that land trippers with cigars of fearful brands, donkeys--everything, in short, but sand-- on the sands. * * * * * [illustration: the letter but not the spirit old mr. de cramwell, being bilious and out of sorts, is ordered to go to the sea, and take plenty of exercise in the open air. (he begins at once.)] * * * * * common objects of the seashore. [illustration: taking a row] the "disguised minstrel", believed by the public to be a peer of the realm collecting coin for a charity, but who is in reality the sentimental singer from a perambulating troop of nigger banjoists, "working on his own." the preacher whose appreciation of the value of logic and the aspirate is on a par. the intensely military young man whose occupation during eleven months in the year is the keeping of ledgers in a small city office. the artist who guarantees a pleasing group of lovers for sixpence, frame included. the band that consists of a cornet, a trombone, a clarionet, some bass, and a big drum, which is quite as effective (thanks to the trombone) when all the principals have deserted in search of coppers. and last (and commonest of all) the cockney who, after a week's experience of the discomforts of the seaside, is weary of them, and wants to go home. * * * * * a windy corner at brighton (_by an impressionist_) old lady first, with hair like winter snows, makes moan. and struggles. then, with cheeks too richly rose, a crone, gold hair, new teeth, white powder on her nose; all bone and skin; an "ancient mystery", like those of hone. then comes a girl; sweet face that freshly glows! well grown. the neat cloth gown her supple figure shows now thrown in lines of beauty. last, in graceless pose, half prone, a luckless lout, caught by the blast, one knows his tone means oaths; his hat, straight as fly crows, has flown. i laugh at him, and----hi! by jove, there goes my own! * * * * * on the sands (_a sketch at margate_) _close under the parade wall a large circle has been formed, consisting chiefly of women on chairs and camp-stools, with an inner ring of small children, who are all patiently awaiting the arrival of a troupe of niggers. at the head of one of the flights of steps leading up to the parade, a small and shrewish child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture a pair of prodigal younger brothers, who have given her the slip._ _sarah_ (_to herself_). wherever can them two plegs have got to? (_aloud; drawing a bow at a venture._) albert! 'enery! come up 'ere this minnit. _i_ see yer! _'enery_ (_under the steps--to albert_). i say--d'ye think she _do_?--'cos if---- _albert._ not she! set tight. [_they sit tight._ _sarah_ (_as before_). 'enery! albert! you've bin and 'alf killed little georgie between yer! _'enery_ (_moved, to albert_). did you 'ear that, bert? it wasn't _me_ upset him--was it now? _albert_ (_impenitent_). 'oo cares? the niggers'll be back direckly. _sarah._ al-bert! 'enery! your father's bin down 'ere once after you. you'll _ketch_ it! _albert_ (_sotto voce_). not till father ketches _us_, we shan't. keep still, 'enery--we're all right under 'ere! _sarah_ (_more diplomatically_). 'enery! albert! father's bin and left a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. ain't yer comin' up for it? if yer don't want it, why, stay where you are, that's all! _albert_ (_to 'enery_). i _knoo_ we 'adn't done nothin'. an' i'm goin' up to git that 'ap'ny, i am. _'enery._ so 'm i. [_they emerge, and ascend the steps--to be pounced upon immediately by the ingenious sarah._ _sarah._ 'ap'ny, indeed! you won't git no 'apence _'ere_, i can tell yer--so jest you come along 'ome with me! [_exeunt albert and 'enery, in captivity, as the niggers enter the circle._ _bones._ we shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our grand annual weekly singing competition, for the discouragement of youthful talent. now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal? (_the children giggle, but remain seated._) not one? now i arsk _you_--what _is_ the use o' me comin' 'ere throwin' away thousands and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the trouble to stand up and sing for them? oh, you'll make me so wild, i shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly--i _know_ i shall! (_a little girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward._) ah, 'ere's a young lady who's bustin' with melody, _i_ can see. your name, my dear? ladies and gentlemen, i have the pleasure to announce that miss connie cockle will now appear. don't curtsey till the orchestra gives the chord. (_chord from the harmonium--the child advances, and curtsies with much aplomb._) oh, lor! call _that_ a curtsey--that's a _cramp_, that is! do it all over again! (_the child obeys, disconcerted._) that's _worse_! i can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper bags! now see me do it. (_bones executes a caricature of a curtsey, which the little girl copies with terrible fidelity._) that's _ladylike_--that's genteel. now sing _out_! (_the child sings the first verse of a popular music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice._) talk about nightingales! come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished incapacity. on your knees! (_the little girl kneels before him while a tin medal is fastened upon her frock._) rise, sir connie cockle! oh, you _lucky_ girl! [_the child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions, several of whom come out, and go through the same performance, with more or less squeakiness and self-possession._ _first admiring matron_ (_in audience_). i do like to see the children kep' out o' mischief like this, instead o' goin' paddling and messing about the sands! _second ad. mat._ just what _i_ say, my dear--they're amused and edjucated 'ow to beyave at the same time! _first politician_ (_with the "standard"_). no, but look here--when gladstone was asked in the house whether he proposed to give the dublin parliament the control of the police, what was his answer. why.... _the niggers_ (_striking up chorus_). "'rum-tumty diddly-umty doodah-dey! rum-tumty-diddly-um was all that he could say. and the members and the speaker joined together in the lay. of 'rum-tumty-diddly-umty doodah-dey!'" _second pol._ (_with the "star"_). well, and what more would you have _'ad_ him say? come, now! _alf_ (_who has had quite enough ale at dinner--to his fiancée_). these niggers ain't up to much loo. can't sing for _nuts_! _chorley_ (_his friend, perfidiously_). you'd better go in and show 'em how, old man. me and miss serge'll stay and see you take the shine out of 'em! _alf._ p'raps you think i can't. but, if i was to go upon the 'alls now, i should make my fortune in no time! loo's 'eard me when i've been in form, and she'll tell you---- _miss serge._ well, i will say there's many a professional might learn a lesson from alf--whether mr. perkins believes it or not. [_cuttingly, to "chorley"._ _chorley._ now reelly, miss loo, don't come down on a feller like that. i want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't 'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself--now _could_ he? _miss serge._ _i'm_ not preventing him. but i don't know--these niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it. _alf._ i'll soon square _them_. you keep your eye on me, and i'll make things a bit livelier! [_he enters the circle._ _miss serge_ (_admiringly_). he has got a cheek, i must say! look at him, dancing there along with those two niggers--they don't hardly know what to make of him yet! _chorley._ do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly like? i wonder he puts up with it! _miss s._ he'll be even with them presently--you see if he isn't. [_alf attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets it fall; derision from audience; bones pats him on the head and takes the tambourine away--at which alf only smiles feebly._ _chorley._ it's a pity he gets so 'ot dancing, and he don't seem to keep in step with the others. _miss s._ (_secretly disappointed_). he isn't used to doing the double-shuffle on sand, that's all. _the conductor._ bones, i observe we have a recent addition to our company. perhaps he'll favour us with a solo. (_aside to bones._) 'oo _is_ he? 'oo let him in 'ere--_you_? _bones._ _i_ dunno. i thought _you_ did. ain't he stood nothing? _conductor._ not a brass farden! _bones_ (_outraged_). all right, you leave him to me. (_to alf._) kin it be? that necktie! them familiar coat-buttons! that paper-dicky! you are--you _are_ my long-lost convick son, 'ome from portland! come to these legs! (_he embraces alf, and smothers him with kisses._) oh, you've been and rubbed off some of your cheek on my complexion--you _dirty_ boy! (_he playfully "bashes" alf's hat in._) now show the comp'ny how pretty you can sing. (_alf attempts a music-hall ditty, in which he, not unnaturally, breaks down._) it ain't my son's fault, ladies and gentlemen, it's all this little gal in front here, lookin' at him and makin' him shy! (_to a small child, severely._) you oughter know _worse_, you ought! (_clumps of seaweed and paper-balls are thrown at alf who by this time is looking deplorably warm and foolish._) oh, what a popilar fav'rite he is, to be sure! _chorley_ (_to miss s._). poor fellow, he ain't no match for those niggers--not like he is now! hadn't i better go to the rescue, miss loo? _miss s._ (_pettishly_). i'm sure i don't care _what_ you do. [_"chorley" succeeds, after some persuasion, in removing the unfortunate alf._ _alf_ (_rejoining his fiancée with a grimy face, a smashed hat, and a pathetic attempt at a grin_). well? i _done_ it, you see! _miss s._ (_crushingly_). yes, you _have_ done it! and the best thing you can do now, is to go home and wash your face. _i_ don't care to be seen about with a _laughing-stock_, i can assure you! i've had my dignity lowered quite enough as it is! _alf._ but look 'ere, my dear girl, i can't leave you here all by yourself you know! _miss s._ i dare say mr. perkins will take care of me. [_mr. p. assents, with effusion._ _alf_ (_watching them move away--with bitterness_). i wish all niggers were put down by act of parliament, i do! downright noosances--that's what _they_ are! * * * * * [illustration: stopping at a watering place] * * * * * [illustration: east-born] * * * * * [illustration: west-born] * * * * * [illustration] * * * * * [illustration: taking in sail] * * * * * delays are dangerous.--_young housekeeper._ "i'm afraid those soles i bought of you yesterday were not fresh. my husband said they were not nice at all!" _brighton fisherman._ "well, marm, that be your fault--it bean't mine. i've offered 'em yer every day this week, and you might a' 'ad 'em o' monday if you'd a loiked!" * * * * * at margate.--_angelina_ (_very poetical, surveying the rolling ocean_). "water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." _edwin_ (_very practical_). no drink! now, hang it all, angy, if i've asked you once i've asked you three times within the last five minutes to come and do a split soda and whiskey! and _i_ can do with it! * * * * * [illustration: the last day at the seaside--packing up _maid_ (_to paterfamilias_). "please, sir, missus say you're to come in, and sit on the boxes; because we can't get 'em to, and they wants to be corded."] * * * * * [illustration: _the general._ "and what are you going to be when you grow up, young man?" _bobbie._ "well, i can't quite make up my mind. i don't know which would be nicest--a soldier, like you, or a sailor, like mr. smithers."] * * * * * [illustration: "them artises!" _lady artist._ "do you belong to that ship over there?" _sailor._ "yes, miss." _lady artist._ "then would you mind loosening all those ropes? they are much too tight, and, besides, i can't draw straight lines!"] * * * * * [illustration: the disorder of the bath] how belinda brown appeared with "waves all over her hair" before taking a bath in the sea--and how she looked after having some more "waves all over it."] * * * * * [illustration: caution to bathers don't let them jolt you up the beach till you are dressed. _jones_ (_obliged to hold fast_). "hullo! hi! somebody stop my boots!"] * * * * * [illustration: a fix _separated husband._ "fetch him out, sir!" _proprietor of moke._ "why, if i went near her, she'd lie down; she always goes in just before high water; nothing'll fetch her out till the tide turns!"] * * * * * the husbands' boat, a margate melody see! what craft margate harbour displays, there are luggers and cutters and yawls, they sail upon sunshiny days, for land-sailors arn't partial to squalls. there's paterfamilias takes out the lot of the progeny he may own, but the saturday evening boat has got a freight that is hers alone. by far the most precious of craft afloat, is the saturday evening "husbands' boat". there are husbands with luggage, and husbands with none, there are husbands with parcels in hand, they bring down to wives whom they lately have won, who pretty attentions command. there are husbands who know whate'er time it may be their wives on the jetty will wait for that hymeneal argosy, with its matrimonial freight. oh! the most precious of craft afloat is the saturday evening "husbands' boat". but the monday morning is "monday black", that when at school we knew, for the husbands to business must all go back, and the wives look monstrous blue; so loud the bell rings, and the steamer starts on her way to thames haven again, and amid those who leave are as many sad hearts, as there are amid those who remain. coming or going of craft afloat, the most prized one is the "husbands' boat". * * * * * [illustration: finis! (the end of the season.)] * * * * * [illustration: finis] * * * * * bradbury, agnew & co. ld., printers, london and tonbridge. =by e. boyd smith= the early life of mr. man. illustrated in color. the story of noah's ark. illustrated in color. the story of pocahontas and captain john smith. illustrated in color. the railroad book. illustrated in color. the seashore book. illustrated in color. the farm book. illustrated in color. books specially illustrated in color by e. boyd smith ivanhoe. by sir walter scott. two years before the mast. by richard henry dana, jr. robinson crusoe. by daniel defoe. houghton mifflin company boston and new york the seashore book bob and betty's summer with captain hawes story and pictures by e. boyd smith houghton mifflin company boston and new york [illustration] copyright, , by e. boyd smith all rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form _published september _ the riverside press cambridge massachusetts printed in the u. s. a. the seashore book [illustration] the first row now i will tell you how bob and betty spent the summer at the seashore with captain ben hawes. captain hawes was an old sailor. after forty years' service on the high seas he had settled down ashore at quohaug. [illustration] bluff and hearty, and with no end of sea yarns and stories of strange adventures, and of foreign ports and peoples, he was more interesting to the children than the most fascinating fairy book. his home was a little museum of odds and ends brought from different far-away lands, with everything arranged in shipshape order. the big green parrot, who could call "ship ahoy!" "all aboard!" delighted the boy and girl. and the seashells, which gave the murmuring echo of the ocean when you put them to your ear. and the curiosities of strange sorts and shapes, from outlandish countries. as their first day was fine and the bay smooth, captain hawes took the children out for a row in his "sharpey." how delightful it was, skimming so easily over the shining water. the shore, the docks, and the vessels at the wharves were all so interesting from this view. [illustration] he told them all about the different craft they passed, the fishermen, the coal barges, the tramp steamers, how they sailed and where they went to, and now, finding them such good listeners, for the captain liked to tell about ships and the sea, he launched forth into a general history of things connected with sea life, from the first men, long, long ago, who began poling about on rafts, to the coracle, and the dugout. the dugouts were canoes hollowed out of tree trunks. "down in the south seas the savages still make them; i've seen them many a time," he explained; "and of course you've heard of our indians' birchbark canoes." by and by the use of sails had developed, and boats and ships grew bigger, and now the day of the steamboat had come. "now, i want you to know all about boats and ships," he added; "i'll take you to the yards to-morrow, if it's fine, and show you how they make them, so that when you go back home, where they don't know much about such things, you can just tell them." [illustration] the shipyard the next day captain ben, true to his promise, took the children around to stewart's boat shop where a fishing-boat was being built, and showed them just how the frame was made, the keel, the ribs, the stem, and sternpost, and how the planking was laid on. how everything was made as stiff and strong as possible so that the boat could stand the strain of being tossed about by heavy seas. bob followed it all with enthusiasm, for he was fond of carpentering and working with tools. he made up his mind that he would build a boat some day. and now the captain, having made everything clear with this small example which they could readily understand, proposed a visit to the shipyard, where a real life-sized ship was being built. here they found a busy gang of men hard at work, some with "broad axes" cutting down the planks to a line, "scoring" and "beating off"; others with "adzes" "dubbing," and even whipsawyers ripping logs. [illustration] on stagings about the great ship, which towered up as high as a house, more men were at work planking. the planks, hot from the steam boxes, carried up the "brow" staging on men's shoulders, to be clamped into place and bolted fast. [illustration] and how big it all was! this made the children open their eyes in wonder. they had already seen such vessels in the water, but had never appreciated how huge the hulls were, almost like a block of houses, or so it seemed to them. captain hawes then showed them how this great ship was built on the same principle as the small boat they had just seen. and now if the children didn't really understand everything it wasn't the captain's fault; the subject was rather a big one for beginners. but it was a great sight, and it wasn't everybody who had seen a ship being built, they knew that. on the way home they rowed past sloops with a strange contrivance out on the end of the bowsprit; this captain hawes said was called a "pulpit." these boats went sword-fishing, and in the pulpit a man was stationed with lance in hand, while aloft in the rigging a "lookout" sighted the fish. when the boat was near enough, the man with the lance stood ready, and speared the fish as it passed. he promised to show them these big fish the next time a catch was brought in. [illustration] digging clams though there were so many interesting things to see and learn by the seashore, it was also an ideal place for play, and just now it seemed to our boy and girl as though nothing else could compare with it. clam-digging was such sport. captain hawes took them down at low tide to the soft mud and showed them how to dig the clams. and then the fun of roasting them in the driftwood fire, and the picnic clam-bakes, with the delicious chowder! it was here the children met a future playmate, patsey quinn. captain hawes jokingly called him a little water-rat, for patsey had been brought up along the shore and knew all about things. he proved to be a most valuable companion to bob and betty, and the captain could trust him to look after them, for of course he knew just what was safe and what wasn't. [illustration] [illustration] he took them on many expeditions along the beach, knew just where the best clams and mussels were to be found, and where the crabs lived, and how to catch them. wading among the seaweed-covered rocks they had lively times, occasionally getting their toes or fingers nipped, for crabs object to being caught. patsey taught his new friends how to fish, though they never got to be as good fishermen as he was. they seemed to catch more sculpins than anything else, and though sculpins were wonderful looking creatures they were not, patsey explained, very good eating; flounders and eels were better. but betty was afraid of eels. they squirmed so. the seaweeds and shells interested the children, and the many-colored pebbles, so nice and round, from being rolled by the sea, patsey knowingly explained. he showed them how to throw flat stones along the surface of the water, until they, too, could make them skip a number of times before sinking. there was no end to the variety of amusements; every day seemed to bring forth new ones, and the sunburned, healthy children enjoyed it all to the full. [illustration] the sail loft nights, especially dark nights, the children watched with unfailing interest the great flash-light from the lighthouse out on the point. captain hawes had explained the uses of lighthouses, how they showed the way to ships at night, like signs on street corners or crossroads, and also warned them to keep away from the rocks. one day he rowed them out, and the light-keeper took them up in the tower and proudly showed them the powerful lamp with its complicated reflectors, and explained it all. betty admired the bright, shining appearance of things, and was surprised to learn that the man himself looked after all this: she had thought that only a housekeeper could keep up such a polish. [illustration] another time captain hawes took the children to barry's sail loft, where the sails for the new ship were being made. he had already told them something about sailmaking, but knew they would understand better by seeing the real things. the sail loft, like everything connected with ships, proved interesting,--the broad clean floor, the men on their low benches sewing the seams of the heavy canvas, forcing the needles through with the stout leather "palms," instead of thimbles. and all their neat tools, the "heavers," "stickers," "fids," "grummet stamps," and such odd-named things. [illustration] on the wall in one corner of the loft was a varied collection of bright "clew irons" and "rings," "thimbles" and "cringles," which aroused the children's curiosity. these, it was explained, were to be sewed into the corners of the sails to hold the ropes for rigging. here and there compact, heavy rolls of canvas, sails completed, were lying by, ready to be taken away and rigged to the tall masts and broad yards of the ship; sails which later would look so light and graceful when carrying the ship along. the summer days were passing quickly to the children, and captain hawes insisted that they must hurry and learn to swim, and with patsey's help they were at it daily. after the first cautious wadings and splashing they enjoyed it immensely, and before the summer was really over they had learned to keep their heads above water: not to swim far, that would come with time and greater strength, but they had made a beginning, and felt justly proud of the accomplishment. [illustration] the log boom the two children, under the captain's instruction, learned to row, after a fashion, though the oars of the sharpey were rather heavy for them, and sometimes would catch in the water with disconcerting results. the captain called it "catching a crab." but it was all great fun, in spite of this. often captain hawes took them sailing in his catboat, the mary ann, and one day ran up close to the log "boom" which belonged to the shipyard, and showed them where the lumber came from, for the building of the ship. he explained how it had been cut far up in the back forests and rafted down the rivers to the sea. the great raft was now held in place by a frame of logs outside the others fastened together with "dogs" and chains. here the children saw the men picking out the special logs they needed, and doing various stunts, paddling and balancing with boathooks. some would even paddle off to the shipyard on a log, balancing much like a tight-rope walker. but once in a while accidents would happen, and they would get more than wet feet, to the great glee of their comrades. [illustration] [illustration] when the logs reached the shipyard they were sawed into planks by the "whipsawyers," or the machine saws, cut into shape, as they had already seen, by axes and adzes, and fitted to their places in the building of the ship. you may be sure the children had to try this game of logging, and they built themselves a raft, of loose boards lying along the beach, and while betty was the passenger bob vigorously poled his raft about in the shallows. patsey quinn, more ambitious, and used to frequent wettings, boldly imitated the log-men in their balancing feats, not without coming to grief occasionally, though it worried him but little; being in the water to him was much the same as being out of it. these were busy, happy days for the children; there was always plenty to see or do. patsey was curious to know about the things of the city, but bob and betty felt perfectly sure, at least just now, that the seashore was a much more interesting place. [illustration] the launching the children were always hearing about lobster fishing, for that was an important industry at quohaug, so captain hawes took them out in his boat to see the fishermen at work hauling in their traps. the fishing-beds were dotted with little buoys, each fisherman having his own, with his private mark. to each buoy a trap was attached by a long line. down on the bottom the lobsters would crawl into the traps after the bait, and then could not get out. but bob and betty were disappointed to find these lobsters as they came out of the water a dull green instead of the beautiful bright red they expected. captain hawes explained that they would come out red after they were boiled. to-day was the day set for the launching of one of the new ships the children had seen almost finished in the shipyard on their first visit. high tide was the time set, and the whole village turned out to see the event. captain hawes had told them that they would soon see the ship floating out in the bay; but this was hard to believe; how would it be possible to move that big mass? "just you wait and you'll see," the captain assured them. [illustration] [illustration] at the yard everybody was eager and excited. captain hawes put the children up on a tall wooden "horse" where they could get a good view. the ship, all decked with gay, fluttering flags, had been wedged into her "cradle." the ways down which she was to slide were well greased, and the builder was waiting for the tide to be at its highest. at last the moment had come. the signal was given. busy workmen with sledges, under the ship struck blow on blow, setting up the lifting wedges, and knocking away the few remaining props; then scampered back out of danger. slowly at first, the great ship "came to life," then began to move. slowly but steadily gaining speed, she began to slide down the ways. fast and faster, gaining momentum, she rushed, as though really alive, gracefully sliding, into the sea. then sped far out into the deep water, where she floated on an even keel. from being a mass of planks and beams she now seemed to be a great living creature, and the lookers-on cheered her and waved their hats, as she proudly took her place on the sea, where she would pass the rest of her life. bob and betty were so impressed that even the yacht race they saw that afternoon, though a fine sight, seemed tame after the launching. [illustration] the wreck to the children the restless sea with its many changes was a new sight. one day it would be flat and calm and shiny, like a big mirror. again quickly changing with a breeze to blues of various shades. again it would be broken with white-caps and spray, as the wind grew stronger. and it was so big! and captain hawes assured them that it was even bigger than it looked, telling them that if they went away out there to the distant edge by the sky, they would still see another just as far off, and so on for many, many days before they would get to the other side of the ocean. when the winds blew high and the waves dashed against the rocks and tossed up the white spray, he would take them down to the beach to watch the storm, and see the surf roll in. of course this was a time for rubber boots, "oilskins," and "sou'westers," such as the seafaring people wear. [illustration] one day during a gale, a "nor'easter," when they could hardly stand alone, they saw a schooner wrecked out on the rocks. everybody on shore was greatly excited. and the life-boat with its hardy crew put off to the rescue of the sailors, who could be seen clinging to the rigging, waiting for help. they were all saved, but the vessel was lost, and dashed high up against the rocks. [illustration] a few days later, when the storm had passed and the sea became calm again, captain hawes rowed the children out to the rocky point to see the wreck. here the stranded schooner lay firmly wedged among the rocks. her masts were gone, her back was broken, and her bow splintered in pieces, rigging and tatters of sails hung about in confusion. and the good craft, which such a short time before had been sailing so proudly, was now but a worthless hulk. such was often the end of a good many stout vessels, the captain told the children; this was the chance of the sea. and then, once started, he told them long and thrilling tales of his different voyages and adventures, and the wrecks he had known, and been in. [illustration] the riggers this life by the sea made an endless appeal to the children's imagination, and offered a never-failing amount of wonderful things to see and learn about. "now," said captain hawes one day, "we'll go over to the wharf and see the riggers fitting up the new ship we saw launched." you may be sure the children were willing. captain hawes, who knew everybody and was welcome everywhere, took them on board and showed them everything, from the bow to the stern. and all about the ship was so neat and well made it was a constant marvel to the children. high up in the rigging men were swarming, "reeving" on "stays" and "shrouds," and no end of "running" rigging, doing the most wonderful circus stunts in the most matter-of-fact way, far up on dizzy heights. the children fairly held their breath to watch them. [illustration] out on the yards sailors were "bending on" the new sails, the sails bob and betty had seen being made at the sail loft. the whole work seemed to them a wonderful confusion of lines and ropes and pulleys and tackle. captain hawes tried to explain what each rope meant and how it was used. but there were too many; it was all too confusing. each rope, he told them, had its own name; every sailor had to know them to be able to do his work. [illustration] the riggers built trim little rope ladders from the rail to the crosstrees by lashing small "ratlines" to the heavy "shrouds." the "stays" and "shrouds," of course, were to hold the great masts in place. the children wondered at it all, but didn't pretend to understand it, though bob was especially interested, for climbing he understood, and such climbing was far ahead of anything the biggest boy in his school could do. they delighted in the cook's kitchen, the "galley." such a compact, neat little room, where the most ingenious shelves and lockers were arranged, in which to hold everything needed in the way of dishes and pots and pans. the stove was chained down solidly so that no storm might upset it and cause fire, the cook explained. to betty, the "galley" was the most interesting thing about the ship; it pleased her housekeeping instincts, though it did seem strange to see a sailor cook. [illustration] whaling the city children never wearied of captain hawes's stories of his voyages, and the captain, with such good listeners, never wearied telling of them,--a perfect combination. he told of how when a young man he used to go whaling. "of course you know what whales are, big sea animals, you couldn't call them fish, often sixty or seventy feet long, 'as long as a big house,' huge creatures who lived in the northern or southern seas, though once in a while a stray one had been known to come into the sound, not far from here." now the children were really excited. "oh, if only one should happen to come this summer!" the captain said that would be just a chance; it was hardly a thing you could count on. [illustration] when the ship reached the far-away seas where whales were to be found, "lookouts" were stationed aloft at the masthead to watch for them. when one was sighted the lookout shouted, "there she blows"; for the whales have a habit of blowing up spray when they come to the surface to breathe, then the boats were lowered and away the sailors went after the whale. when they came up with him they rowed as close as they dared, and the harpooner in the bow of the boat hurled his harpoon into the big creature's side. [illustration] the whale at once made a great commotion, slashing about and beating up the water, then diving deep down. the sailors "paid out" the rope attached to the harpoon as the whale went down. sometimes they had to cut it to keep from being dragged under. but when this didn't happen the whale would come up after a while and start away dragging the boat along at a terrific speed. in time he would get tired and the boat would again be rowed near, and a lance thrust into his side until he was quite dead. it was all exciting and dangerous work, for sometimes the whale would attack the boat and splinter it to pieces with a blow of his tail, and the men, often badly hurt, be thrown into the sea, and sometimes lost. the dead whale was towed off to the ship, here he was moored to the side, and the body cut up. the great pieces of fat blubber "tried out," that is, melted in pots over the fire on the deck, and the oil run off into barrels and stowed away in the hold. [illustration] loading the ship captain hawes made the children a little toy schooner which they sailed in the coves along the beach. he showed them just how to "trim" the sails and set the rudder, so that the boat would "tack" and sail against the wind, "on the wind," he called it. about this time they heard that the new ship, now all rigged and with all sails in place, had been taken to the neighboring port and was taking on her cargo for a long voyage. as they wanted to see the ship again, the captain took them on this little journey to see the work being done at the docks. loading a ship is always a strenuous and hurly-burly affair, with much bustle, shouting, hauling, pushing, and pulling. the children, under patsey's lead, found a good point of vantage on top of some boxes, and watched the work. [illustration] busy "stevedores," who had charge, were hurrying the "longshoremen," who rolled barrels, and carried bags up the gangplank into the ship, to be snugly stowed away between decks. bales and boxes were being hoisted over the rail, to be lowered through the hatches into the hold. the donkey engine buzzed, the mate shouted orders, and everything, to the children, seemed confusion, but it was orderly confusion, for the work was rapidly going ahead. the great quantity of goods which went aboard astonished bob and betty; they had never seen so many boxes, barrels, bales, and bags before. and yet this was only the beginning, for the captain told them that even at this rate it would still take many days to load the ship. [illustration] when the first of the cargo went aboard, the vessel sat high out of the water, but when all should be in and stowed safely away, she would settle deep down to her "water line." this was where the green and black paint met. all this had been planned before she was built, captain hawes explained; the ship designer knew just how she should sit in the water when loaded; there was no guesswork about it. the ship was to go on an eastern voyage. he had often been out there, away off in the china seas, where strange craft came about you: junks with their odd, high sails, their yellow sailors with "pigtails" down their backs, everything so different from our part of the world. [illustration] burned at sea in the evenings, as captain hawes sat smoking his pipe, he would tell the children of strange lands he had visited in his voyages, and then suggest that they look up these places in their geographies, and this study, which before was a task, took on a new interest for bob and betty. china and greenland now meant so much more. telling about iceland and greenland, he said that up there in those parts, where almost everything that wasn't snow was ice, certain animals lived which couldn't be found anywhere else, like the big white polar bear, and the walrus. "why, we know a polar bear," betty broke in. why, of course, he was an old acquaintance. they had often seen him in central park. "well, now, that's good," said the captain; "now you'll remember where he came from. i've been up his way more than once." often whalers chased the "right" whale away up there; dangerous seas to work in, as icebergs were plenty and the risk of striking them in the fog was great. [illustration] [illustration] but the thing which sailors dreaded most was fire at sea. this seldom happened, but when it did it was bad. once his ship was burned at night among the icebergs. there was nothing to do but take to the boats and escape to shore, which luckily was near. they lost everything but the clothes they wore, and a small amount of provisions. and there, while they looked on, the ship went up in a sheet of flame, and that was the last of her. the captain said they felt pretty blue and lonely out there far away from the rest of the world, with no means to get away but the small boats. fortunately they soon managed to reach an eskimo village. these eskimos are the natives who live there always, short people, dressed all in heavy, warm furs, who build themselves snow houses, where in the coldest weather they keep comfortably warm. they live by hunting and fishing. they spear seals from their skin canoes,--"kayaks,"--and fish through holes in the ice. these are the people you hear the explorers tell about when they go on expeditions to the north pole. captain hawes thought they were the strangest people he had ever met. as whalers often put in up in these parts, the captain and his mates did not have too hard a time, and were picked up by a passing ship and brought home. [illustration] the ship sails away summer was passing quickly now, and it would soon be time for the "long vacation" to come to an end. before they had to go the sachem--that was the name of the new ship--was ready to put to sea. the children had admired her "figure-head," an indian chief, gilded and painted in bright colors. the ship had taken on her whole cargo, the hatches were closed, and everything made tight and taut for her long voyage. she was bound for the far east, the captain told them. first she would touch at some south american ports, then go across the ocean to africa, stopping at cape town, and other less important ports, then around the cape and up the indian ocean to india; then to china and japan. with the goods she had taken aboard she would trade with the different ports, either selling or exchanging what she had for the things made or raised in those far-away countries, which she would bring back home to sell in our markets. this was the way, captain hawes explained, that we got many good things that we couldn't raise in our own country. [illustration] the day the ship sailed, everybody turned out to wish her a good voyage. [illustration] with all sails set she was a beautiful sight; a gentle land breeze filled her sails and slowly and gracefully she drew away, headed for the open sea. the steamers and the tugs in the bay whistled salutes. captain hawes, with a sigh, told the children that probably that was the last square-rigged ship they were likely to see leaving this port, as the old-style ship was now almost a thing of the past. the "fore-and-aft" rig was more practical and generally used where sailing vessels were still employed. but even they were all giving way before steam. nowadays steamers, freighters, did nearly all the carrying trade. they watched the ship till far, far away, as the sun was setting, she showed as a small black spot on the horizon. and now it was time to leave quohaug, for this summer vacation was ended. at home again they were just in time to see the review of the country's war fleet on the hudson. this was the latest development of sea power, great, massive steel vessels, with no sails, driven by steam. they were grandly impressive, but just wait till you hear bob and betty tell of quohaug and then you will know what ships with sails mean. [illustration] [illustration] bessie at the sea-side _books by joanna h. mathews._ i. the bessie books. vols. in a box. $ . . seaside $ . city . friends . mountains . school . travels . ii. the flowerets a series of stories on the commandments. vols. in a box. $ . . violet's idol. daisy's work. rose's temptation. lily's lesson. hyacinthe and her brothers. pinkie and the rabbits. iii. little sunbeams. vols. in a box. $ . . belle powers' locket. dora's motto. mo. lily norris' enemy. jessie's parrot. mamie's watchword. nellie's housekeeping. iv. kitty and lulu books. vols. in a box. $ . . toutou and pussy. kitty's robins. the white rabbit. rudie's goat. kitty's visit. kitty's scrap-book. v. miss ashton's girls. . fanny's birthday $ . . the new scholars . . rosalie's pet . . eleanor's visit . . mabel walton . vi. haps and mishaps. vols. in a box. $ . . . little friends $ . . the broken mallet . . blackberry jam . . milly's whims . . lilies and thistledown . . uncle joe's thanksgiving . robert carter and brothers, _new york_. [illustration: frontispiece. bessie at sea side.] _bessie at the sea-side._ _by_ _joanna h. mathews_ "and a little child shall lead them." _new york: robert carter & brothers_, broadway. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by robert carter and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. to my dear mother, _whose "children arise up and call her blessed,"_ is this little volume _lovingly and gratefully dedicated_ contents. page _i. the sea-shore_, _ii. old friends and new_, _iii. the letter_, _iv. the quarrel_, _v. tom's sunday-school_, _vi. the post-office_, _vii. a new friend_, _viii. bessie's little sermon_, _ix. faith_, _x. the sick baby_, _xi. the happy circumstance_, _xii. miss adams_, _xiii. bessie's repentance_, _xiv. who is a lady?_ _xv. uncle john_, _xvi. the birthday presents_, _xvii. the birthday party_, _xviii. the adventure_, _xix. soul and instinct_, _xx. nurse taken by surprise_, _xxi. the colonel in trouble_, _xxii. the broken nose_, _xxiii. jesus' soldier_, _bessie at the sea-side._ i. _the sea-shore._ the hotel carriage rolled away from mr. bradford's door with papa and mamma, the two nurses and four little children inside, and such a lot of trunks and baskets on the top; all on their way to quam beach. harry and fred, the two elder boys, were to stay with grandmamma until their school was over; and then they also were to go to the sea-side. the great coach carried them across the ferry, and then they all jumped out and took their seats in the cars. it was a long, long ride, and after they left the cars there were still three or four miles to go in the stage, so that it was quite dark night when they reached mrs. jones's house. poor little sick bessie was tired out, and even maggie, who had enjoyed the journey very much, thought that she should be glad to go to bed as soon as she had had her supper. it was so dark that the children could not see the ocean, of which they had talked and thought so much; but they could hear the sound of the waves as they rolled up on the beach. there was a large hotel at quam, but mrs. bradford did not choose to go there with her little children; and so she had hired all the rooms that mrs. jones could spare in her house. the rooms were neat and clean, but very plain, and not very large, and so different from those at home that maggie thought she should not like them at all. in that which was to be the nursery was a large, four-post bedstead in which nurse and franky were to sleep; and beside it stood an old-fashioned trundle-bed, which was for maggie and bessie. bessie was only too glad to be put into it at once, but maggie looked at it with great displeasure. "i sha'n't sleep in that nasty bed," she said. "bessie, don't do it." "indeed," said nurse, "it's a very nice bed; and if you are going to be a naughty child, better than you deserve. that's a great way you have of calling every thing that don't just suit you, 'nasty.' i'd like to know where you mean to sleep, if you don't sleep there." "i'm going to ask mamma to make mrs. jones give us a better one," said maggie; and away she ran to the other room where mamma was undressing the baby. "mamma," she said, "won't you make mrs. jones give us a better bed? that's just a kind of make-believe bed that nurse pulled out of the big one, and i know i can't sleep a wink in it." "i do not believe that mrs. jones has another one to give us, dear," said her mother. "i know it is not so pretty as your little bed at home, but i think you will find it very comfortable. when i was a little girl, i always slept in a trundle-bed, and i never rested better. if you do not sleep a wink, we will see what mrs. jones can do for us to-morrow; but for to-night i think you must be contented with that bed; and if my little girl is as tired as her mother, she will be glad to lie down anywhere." maggie had felt like fretting a little; but when she saw how pale and tired her dear mother looked, she thought she would not trouble her by being naughty, so she put up her face for another good-night kiss, and ran back to the nursery. "o, maggie," said bessie, "this bed is yeal nice and comf'able; come and feel it." so maggie popped in between the clean white sheets, and in two minutes she had forgotten all about the trundle-bed and everything else. when bessie woke up the next morning, she saw maggie standing by the open window, in her night-gown, with no shoes or stockings on. "o, maggie," she said, "mamma told us not to go bare-feeted, and you are." "i forgot," said maggie; and she ran back to the bed and jumped in beside bessie. "bessie, there's such lots and lots of water out there! you never saw so much, not even in the reservoir at the central park." "i guess it's the sea," said bessie; "don't you know mamma said we would see water and water ever so far, and we couldn't see the end of it?" "but i do see the end of it," said maggie; "mamma was mistaken. i saw where the sky came down and stopped the sea; and, bessie, i saw such a wonderful thing,--the sun came right up out of the water." "o, maggie, it couldn't; _you_ was mistaken. if it went in the water it would be put out." "i don't care," said maggie, "it _was_ the sun, and it is shining right there now. it isn't put out a bit. i woke up and i heard that noise mamma told us was the waves, and i wanted to see them, so i went to look, and over there in the sky was a beautiful red light; and in a minute i saw something bright coming out of the water away off; and it came higher and higher, and got so bright i could not look at it, and it was the sun, i know it was." "but, maggie, how didn't it get put out if it went in the water?" "i don't know," said maggie, "i'm going to ask papa." just then nurse and jane came in with water for the children's bath, and before they were dressed, there was papa at the door asking if there were any little girls ready to go on the beach and find an appetite for breakfast. after that, nurse could scarcely dress them fast enough, and in a few moments they were ready to run down to the front porch where papa was waiting for them. "o, papa, what a great, great water the sea is!" said bessie. "yes, dear; and what a great and wise god must he be who made this wide sea and holds it in its place, and lets it come no farther than he wills." "papa," said maggie, "i saw the wonderfulest thing this morning." "the most wonderful," said her father. "the most wonderful," repeated maggie. "it was indeed, papa, and you need not think i was mistaken, for i am quite, quite sure i saw it." "and what was this most wonderful thing you are so very sure you saw, maggie?" "it was the sun, papa, coming right up out of the water, and it was not put out a bit. it came up, up, away off there, where the sky touches the water. mamma said we could not see the end of the ocean, but i see it quite well. do not you see it, too, papa?" "i see what appears to be the end of the ocean, but these great waters stretch away for many hundred miles farther. if you were to get on a ship and sail away as far as you can see from here, you would still see just as much water before you, and the sea and the sky would still appear to touch each other: and however far you went it would always be so, until you came where the land bounds the ocean on the other side. the place where the sky and water seem to meet, is called the horizon; and it is because they do seem to touch, that the sun appeared to you to come out of the water. it is rather a difficult thing for such little girls as you and bessie to understand, but i will try to make it plain to you. you know that the earth is round, like a ball, do you not, maggie?" "yes, papa." "and i suppose that you think that the sun is moving when it seems to come up in the morning, and goes on and on, till it is quite over our heads, and then goes down on the other side of the sky until we can see it no more, do you not?" "yes, papa." "but it is really the earth on which we live, and not the sun, which is moving. once in twenty-four hours, which makes one day and one night, the earth turns entirely round, so that a part of the time one side is turned to the sun, and a part of the time the other side. see if you can find me a small, round stone, maggie." maggie looked around till she found such a stone as her father wanted, and brought it to him. "now," he said, "this stone shall be our earth, and this scratch the place where we live. we will take off bessie's hat and have that for the sun. now i will hold the mark which stands for our home, directly in front of our make-believe sun. if a bright light were coming from the sun and shining on our mark here, it would be the middle of the day or noon, while it would be dark on the other side. then, as our earth moved slowly around in this way, and we turned from the sun it would become afternoon; and as we turned farther yet till we were quite away from the sun, it would be night. but we do not stay there in the dark, for we still go moving slowly round until our side of the earth comes towards the light again, and the darkness begins to pass away. the nearer we come to the sun the lighter it grows, until, if some little girl who lives on our scratch is up early enough and looks out at the horizon, or place where the earth and sky seem to meet, she sees the sun showing himself little by little; and it looks to her as if he were coming up out of the sea, while all the time the sun is standing still, and the earth on which we live is moving round so as to bring her once more opposite to him." "and is it night on the other side of the world?" asked maggie. "yes, there is no sun there now, and it is dark night for the little children who live there." "and are they going to have their supper while we have our brefix?" asked bessie. "just about so, i suppose," said papa. "but, papa," said maggie with very wide open eyes, "do you mean that the world is going to turn way over on the other side tonight?" "yes, dear." "then we will fall off," said maggie. "did you fall off last night?" asked papa. "no, sir." "and you have been living for nearly seven years, and every day of your life the earth has turned around in the same way, and you have never yet fallen off, have you?" "no, papa." "nor will you to-night, my little girl. the good and wise god who has made our earth to move in such a way as to give us both light and darkness as we need them, has also given to it a power to draw towards itself, all things that live or grow upon its surface. do you know what surface means?" "yes, papa,--the top." "yes, or the outside. suppose you were to fall off the top of the house, maggie, where would you fall to?" "down in the street and be killed," said maggie. "yes, down to the street or ground, and probably you would be killed. and it is because of this power which the earth has of drawing to itself all things that are upon it, that you would not fly off into the air and keep on falling, falling, for no one knows how many miles. it is too hard a thing for you to understand much about now, but when you are older you shall learn more. but we have had a long enough lesson for this morning. we will walk about a little, and see if we can find some shells before we go in to breakfast." they found a good many shells: some little black ones which maggie called curlecues, and some white on the outside and pink inside. then there were a few which were fluted, which the children said were the prettiest of all. they thought the beach was the best playground they had ever seen, and they were about right. first, there was the strip of smooth, white sand, on which the waves were breaking into beautiful snowy foam, with such a pleasant sound; then came another space full of pebbles and stones and sea-weed, with a few shells and here and there a great rock; then more rocks and stones with a coarse kind of grass growing between them; and beyond these, a few rough fir trees which looked as if they found it hard work to grow there. last of all was a long, sloping bank, on top of which stood mr. jones's house and two or three others; and farther down the shore, the great hotel. and the air was so fresh and cool, with such a pleasant smell of the salt water. maggie was full of fun and spirits, and raced about till her cheeks were as red as roses. there were several other people on the beach, and among them were some little boys and girls. two or three of these, when they saw maggie running about in such glee began to race with her, but the moment she noticed them she became shy and ran away from them to her father and bessie who were walking quietly along. "papa," said bessie "isn't it delicious?" "is not what delicious, my darling." "i don't know," said bessie. "_it._ i like quam beach, papa. i wish new york was just like this." "it is this cool, fresh sea-breeze that you like so much, bessie." "and i like to see the water, papa, and to hear the nice noise it makes." "yes, it's so pleasant here," said maggie. "let's stay here always, papa, and never go home." "what! and sleep in the trundle-bed all your lives?" said papa. "oh, no," said maggie, "i hate that bed. i believe i _did_ sleep a little bit last night, because i was so tired; but i know i can't sleep in it to-night." "well," said papa, "i think we will try it for a night or two longer." and then they all went in to breakfast. ii. old friends and new. after breakfast they went out again. mr. bradford and his little girls were standing in the porch waiting for mamma who was going with them, when mr. jones came up from the shore. he had been fishing, and looked rather rough and dirty, but he had a pleasant, good-natured face. "mornin' sir," he said to mr. bradford; "folks pretty spry?" "pretty well, thank you," said mr. bradford; "you have been out early this morning." "yes, i'm generally stirrin' round pretty early; been out since afore day-light. s'pose these are your little girls. how are you, miss bradford?" he said, holding out his hand. but shy maggie hung her head and drew a little away behind her father. "why, maggie," said mr. bradford, "you are not polite; shake hands with mr. jones, my daughter." "not if she hain't a mind to," said mr. jones. "i see she's a bashful puss, but she'll feel better acquainted one of these days." "yes, she will;" said bessie, "and then she won't be shy with you; but i'm not shy now, and i'll shake hands with you." mr. jones took the tiny little hand she offered him with a smile. "no, i see you ain't shy, and i don't want you to be; you, nor your sister neither. goin' down to the shore, eh?" "yes, when mamma comes," said bessie. "well, you see that big barn out there; when you come back you both come out there. you'll find me inside, and i'll show you something will soon cure all shyness; that is, if you like it as much as most young folks do." "what is it?" asked bessie. "it's a scup." "will it bite?" said bessie. "bite! don't you know what a scup is?" "she knows it by the name of a swing," said mr. bradford. "oh, yes! i know a swing; and i like it too. we'll come, mr. jones." "is it quite safe for them?" asked mr. bradford. "quite safe, sir. i put it up last summer for some little people who were staying here; and sam, he's my eldest son, he made a seat with back and arms, and a rung along the front to keep them in,--a fall on the barn floor wouldn't feel good, that's a fact; but it's as safe as strong ropes and good work can make it. i'll take care they don't get into no mischief with it; but come along with the little ones and see for yourself." and then with a nod to maggie, who was peeping at him out of the corners of her eyes, mr. jones took up his basket of fish and walked away to the kitchen. "bessie," said maggie, as they went down to the beach, "do you like that man?" "yes, i do," said bessie; "don't you?" "no, not much. but, bessie, did you hear what he called me?" "no," said bessie, "i did not hear him call you anything." "he called me miss bradford," said maggie, holding up her head and looking very grand. "well," said bessie, "i suppose he was mad because you wouldn't shake hands with him." "no," said maggie, "it was before that; he said, 'how do you do, miss bradford;' and, bessie, i like to be called miss bradford; and i guess i'll like him because he did it, even if he _does_ smell of fish. i think he only wanted to be _respectable_ to me." they found a good many people upon the beach now, and among them were some ladies and gentlemen whom mr. and mrs. bradford knew, and while they stopped to speak to them, maggie and bessie wandered off a little way, picking up shells and sea-weed and putting them into a basket which their mother had given them. presently a boy and girl came up to them. they were the children of one of the ladies who was talking to mrs. bradford, and their mother had sent them to make acquaintance with maggie and bessie. "what's your name," said the boy, coming right up to maggie. maggie looked at him without speaking, and, putting both hands behind her, began slowly backing away from him. "i say," said the boy, "what's your name? my mother sent us to make friends with you; but we can't do it, if you won't tell us what your name is." "her name is miss bradford," said bessie, who wanted to please her sister, and who herself thought it rather fine for maggie to be called miss bradford. "oh! and you're another miss bradford, i suppose," said the boy, laughing. "why! so i am," said bessie; "i didn't think about that before. maggie we're two miss bradfords." "well, two miss bradfords, i hope we find you pretty well this morning. my name is mr. stone, and my sister's is miss stone." "'tain't," said the little girl, crossly, "it's nothing but mary." "sure enough," said her brother; "she's just miss mary, quite contrary; whatever you say, she'll say just the other thing; that's her way." "now, walter, you stop," said mary in a whining, fretful voice. "now, mamie, you stop," mimicked her brother. "i think we wont be acquainted with you," said bessie. "i am afraid you are not very good children." "what makes you think so," asked walter. "'cause you quarrel," said bessie; "good children don't quarrel, and jesus won't love you if you do." "what a funny little tot you are," said walter. "i won't quarrel with you, but mamie is so cross i can't help quarrelling with her. i like girls, and i want to play with you, and your sister, too, if she'll speak. i have a splendid wagon up at the hotel and i'll bring it and give you a first-rate ride if you like. come, let us make friends, and tell me your first name, miss bradford, no. ." "it's bessie, and my sister's is maggie." "and don't you and maggie ever quarrel?" "why, no," said maggie, coming out of her shy fit when she heard this, "bessie is my own little sister." "well, and mamie is my own sister, and you see we quarrel for all that. but never mind that now. i'll go for my wagon and give you a ride; will you like it?" "i will," said bessie. in a few minutes walter came back with his wagon. maggie and bessie thought he was quite right when he called it splendid. they told him it was the prettiest wagon they had ever seen. he said he would give bessie the first ride, and he lifted her in and told maggie and mamie to push behind. "i sha'n't," said mamie; "i want a ride, too; there's plenty of room, bessie's so little." "no, it will make it too heavy," said walter. "you shall ride when your turn comes." mamie began to cry, and bessie said she would get out and let her ride first; but walter said she should not. "there comes tom," said mamie; "he'll help you pull." the children looked around, and there was a boy rather larger than walter coming towards them. "why, it's tom norris!" said maggie; "do you know him?" and sure enough it was their own tom norris, whom they loved so much. he ran up to them and kissed maggie and bessie, as if he were very glad to see them. "why, tom," said bessie, "i didn't know you came here." "i came night before last, with father," said tom. "we came to take rooms at the hotel, and i wanted to stay; so father left me with mrs. stone, and he has gone home for mother and lily, and the whole lot and scot of them; they're all coming to-morrow." "oh! i am so glad," said maggie. "tom! can't i ride?" asked mamie. "you must ask walter," said tom; "the wagon is his; what are you crying about, mamie?" walter told what the trouble was. "come, now, mamie, be good, and you shall ride with bessie, and i will help walter pull." mamie was put into the seat by bessie, and then tom said they must find room for maggie, too. so he made her sit on the bottom of the wagon, and off they started. of course they were crowded, but the two children who were good-natured did not mind that at all, and would have been quite happy had it not been for mamie. she fretted and complained so much that at last the boys were out of patience and took her out of the wagon. "you see," said walter, as the cross, selfish child went off screaming to her mother, "mamie is the only girl, and the youngest, and she has been so spoiled there is no living with her." they were all happier when she had gone, and had a nice long play together. tom norris was twelve years old, but he did not think himself too large to play with or amuse such little girls as maggie and bessie, who were only seven and five; and as he was always kind and good to them, they loved him dearly. grown people liked him too, and said he was a perfect little gentleman. but tom was better than that, for he was a true christian; and it was this which made him so kind and polite to every one. when mr. bradford came to call his little girls to go home, he found them telling tom and walter about the swing which mr. jones had promised them, and he invited the boys to go with them and see it. so they all went back together. when they reached home mr. bradford told them they might go on to the barn while he went into the house for a few minutes. the great barn-doors were open, and mr. jones and his son, sam, were busy inside. just outside the door sat mrs. jones with a pan full of currants in her lap which she was stringing. there was a sheep skin on the ground beside her, and on it sat her fat baby, susie. two kittens were playing on the grass a little way off, and susie wanted to catch them. she would roll herself over on her hands and knees, and creep to the edge of her sheep skin, but just as she reached it her mother's hand would take her by the waist and lift her back to the place from which she started. susie would sit still for a moment, as if she was very much astonished, and then try again, always to be pulled back to the old spot. but when she saw maggie and bessie she forgot the kittens and sat quite still with her thumb in her mouth staring at them with her great blue eyes. "mr. jones," said bessie, "these are our friends. one is an old friend, and his name is tom; and one is a new friend, and his name is walter. they have come to see that thing you don't call a swing." "they're both welcome if they're friends of yours," said mr. jones. "i'll show you the scup in a few minutes, as soon as i finish this job i'm about." "mrs. jones," said bessie, "is that your baby?" "yes," said mrs. jones, "what do you think of her?" "i think she is fat," answered bessie. "may we help you do that, mrs. jones?" "i'm afraid you'll stain your frocks, and what would your ma say then?" "she'd say you oughtn't to let us do it." "just so," said mrs. jones. "no, i can't let you help me, but i'll tell you what i'll do. i am going to make pies out of these currants and i'll make you each a turnover; sha'n't you like that?" "what is a turnover," asked maggie. "don't you know what a turnover is? you wait and see; you'll like 'em when you find out. you can play with susie if you've a mind to." but susie would not play, she only sat and stared at the children, and sucked her thumb. pretty soon papa came, and when mr. jones was ready they all went into the barn. the swing was fastened up to a hook in the wall, but mr. jones soon had it down; and mr. bradford tried it and found it quite safe and strong. the seat was large enough to hold both the little girls, if they sat pretty close, so they were both put into it, and papa gave them a fine swing. then the boys took their turn; and mr. jones told them they might come and swing as often as they liked. iii. _the letter._ you are not going to hear all that maggie and bessie did every day at the sea-shore, but only a few of the things that happened to them. they liked quam beach more and more. maggie did not mind the trundle-bed so very much after a night or two, though she never seemed to grow quite used to it; and bessie, who had been weak and sick when they left home, became stronger, and was soon able to run about more with the other children. after a few days they began to bathe in the sea. maggie was afraid at first, and cried when she was carried into the water; but the second time she was braver, and she soon came to like it almost as well as bessie, who never was ready to come out when it was thought she had been in long enough. she would beg her father or the bathing-woman to let her stay just one minute more; and she would laugh when the waves came dashing over her, so that sometimes the salt water would get into her little mouth. but she did not mind it, and begged for another and another wave, until papa would say that it was high time for her to come out. mamma said she had never seen bessie enjoy anything so much, and it made her feel very happy to see her little girl growing well and strong again. bessie loved the sea very much, and often when her sister and little companions were playing, she would sit quietly on some rock, looking away out over the wide, beautiful waters, or watching and listening to the waves as they came rolling up on the beach. people who were passing used to turn and look at her, and smile when they saw the sweet little face, which looked so grave and wise. but if any stranger asked her what she was thinking about, she would only say, "thoughts, ma'am." maggie did not like to sit still as bessie did. she was well and fat and rosy, and full of fun when she was with people she knew; and she liked to play better than to sit on the rocks and watch the water, but she seldom went far away from bessie, and was always running to her with some pretty shell or sea-weed she had found. she and bessie and lily norris would play in the sand and make little ponds or wells, and sand pies, or pop the air bags in the sea-weed; or have some other quiet play which did not tire bessie. very often walter stone and tom norris gave them a ride in the wagon; or tom told them nice stories; and sometimes they all went out on the water in mr. jones's boat, or took a drive with papa and mamma. before they had been at quam beach many days, they knew quite a number of the children who were staying there; and they liked almost all of them, except fretful mamie stone, who made herself so disagreeable that no one cared to play with her. in short, there were so many things to do, and so much to see, that the day was never long enough for them. then they made friends with toby, mr. jones' great white dog. he was an ugly old fellow, and rather gruff and unsociable; but, like some people, he was in reality better than he appeared. he would never allow any grown person but his master to pet him; and if any one tried to pat him or make him play, he would walk away and seat himself at a distance, with an offended air which seemed to say, "what a very silly person you are; do you not know that i am too grave and wise a dog to be pleased with such nonsense!" but he was not so with little children. though he would not play, he let susie and franky pull his ears and tail, and roll and tumble over him as much as they liked without giving them one growl. maggie and bessie were rather afraid of him at first, but they soon found he was not as fierce as he looked, and after mr. jones had told them how he saved a little boy from drowning the last summer, they liked him better, and soon came to have no fear of him. this boy had been one of those who were boarding in the house last year, and was a disobedient, mischievous child. one day he wanted to go down on the beach, but it was not convenient for any one to go with him, and his mother told him he must wait. he watched till no one saw him, and then ran off followed by toby, who seemed to know that he was in mischief. when the child reached the beach, he pulled off his shoes and stockings and went to the water's edge where the waves could dash over his feet. he went a little farther and a little farther, till at last a wave came which was too strong for him. it threw him down and carried him out into deeper water, and in another minute he would have been beyond help had not toby dashed in and seized hold of him. it was hard work for toby, for he was not a water-dog; but he held the boy till a man, who had seen it all, came running to his help and pulled the boy out. after this, toby would never let the child go near the water all the time he staid at quam beach. if he tried to go, toby would take hold of his clothes with his teeth, and no coaxings or scoldings would make him let go till the boy's face was turned the other way. toby was of great use to mrs. jones; she said that he was as good as a nurse. every day she used to put susie to sleep in a room at the head of the garret stairs. then she would call the dog, and leave him to take care of the baby while she went about her work; and it seemed as if toby knew the right hour for susie's nap, for he was never out of the way at that time. he would lie and watch her till she woke up, and then go to the head of the stairs and bark till mrs. jones came. then he knew that his duty was done, and he would walk gravely down stairs. sometimes mrs. jones put susie on the kitchen floor, and left toby to look after her. he would let her crawl all round unless she went near the fire, or the open door or kitchen stairs, when he would take her by the waist and lift her back to the place where her mother had left her. susie would scold him as well as she knew how, and pound him with her little fist; but he did not care one bit for that. after a time bessie grew quite fond of toby. maggie did not like him so much. she liked a dog who would romp and play with her, which toby would never do. if his master or mistress did not want him, toby was generally to be found lying on the porch or sitting on the edge of the bank above the beach, looking down on the people who were walking or driving there. bessie would sit down beside him and pat his rough head, and talk to him in a sweet, coaxing voice, and he would blink his eyes at her and flap his heavy tail upon the ground in a way that he would do for no one else. "bessie," said maggie, one day, as her sister sat patting the great dog, "what makes you like toby so much; do you think he is pretty?" "no," answered bessie, "i don't think he is pretty, but i think he is very good and wise." "but he is not so wise as jemmy bent's shock," said maggie; "he does not know any funny tricks." jemmy bent was a poor lame boy, and shock was his dog,--a little scotch terrier with a black shaggy coat, and a pair of sharp, bright eyes peeping out from the long, wiry hair which hung about his face. he had been taught a great many tricks, and maggie thought him a very wonderful dog, but bessie had never seemed to take much of a fancy to him. "but he is very useful," said bessie, "and i don't think shock is pretty either; i think he is very ugly, maggie." "so do i," said maggie; "but then he looks so funny and smart: i think he looks a great deal nicer than toby." "i don't," said bessie, "i don't like the look of shock; the first time i saw him i didn't think he was a dog." "what did you think he was?" "i thought he was _a animal_," said bessie, "and i was afraid of him." "and are you afraid of him now?" "no, not much; but i had rather he'd stay under the bed when i go to see jemmy." "i wouldn't," said maggie, "and i can't like toby so much as shock. no, i can't, toby, and you need not look at me so about it." maggie's opinion did not seem to make the least difference to toby; he only yawned and blinked his eyes at her. when maggie and bessie had been at quam beach about a week, they woke one morning to find it was raining hard, and mr. jones said he hoped it would keep on, for the rain was much needed. the little girls hoped it would not, for they did not like to stay in the house all day. about eleven o'clock they went to their mother and told her they had promised to write a letter to grandpapa duncan, and asked if they might do it now. mamma was busy, and told them that she could not write it for them at that time. "but, mamma," said maggie, "we don't want you to write it for us; grandpapa will like it better if we do it all ourselves. i can print it, and bessie will help me make it up." so mamma gave them a sheet of paper and a pencil, and they went off in a corner to write their letter. they were very busy over it for a long while. when it was done they brought it to their mother to see if it was all right. there were a few mistakes in the spelling which mrs. bradford corrected; but it was very nicely printed for such a little girl as maggie. this was the letter:-- "dear grandpapa duncan,-- "maggie and bessie are making up this letter, but i am printing, because bessie is too little. we hope you are well, and bessie is better and i am very well, thank you, and every body. it rains, and we have nothing to do, and so we are writing you a letter. we like this place; it is nice. there is a great deal of sea here. there are two kittens here. mrs. jones made us a turnover. the old cat is very cross. mrs. jones put currants in it, and she put it in the oven and the juice boiled out and made it sticky, and it was good and we eat it all up. dear grandpa, we hope you are well. this is from us, maggie and bessie. good-by, dear grandpa. p. s.--we can't think of anything else to say. my hand is tired, too. "your beloved "maggie and bessie. "another p. s.--god bless you." mamma said it was a very nice letter, and she folded it and put it in an envelope. then she directed it to mr. duncan, and put a postage stamp on it, so that it was all ready to go with the rest of the letters when mr. jones went to the post-office in the evening. but you must learn a little about the dear old gentleman to whom the children had been writing. his name was duncan, and he lived at a beautiful place called riverside, a short distance from new york. he was not really the children's grandfather, but his son, mr. john duncan, had married their aunt helen; and as they were as fond of him as he was of them, he had taught them to call him grandpapa duncan. a little way from riverside lived a poor widow named bent. she had a son, who a year or two since had fallen from a wall and hurt his back, so that the doctor said he would never walk or stand again. day after day he lay upon his bed, sometimes suffering very much, but always gentle, patient, and uncomplaining. jemmy was often alone, for hours at a time; for his mother had to work hard to get food and medicine for her sick boy; and his sister, mary, carried radishes and cresses, and other green things to sell in the streets of the city. but jemmy's bible and prayer-book were always at his side, and in these the poor helpless boy found comfort when he was tired and lonely. to buy a wheel chair, in which jemmy might be out of doors, and be rolled from place to place without trouble or pain to himself, was the one great wish of mrs. bent and mary; and they were trying to put by money enough for this. but such a chair cost a great deal; and though they saved every penny they could, the money came very slowly, and it seemed as if it would be a long while before jemmy had his chair. now mrs. bradford was one of mary's customers; so it happened that the children had often seen her when she came with her basket of radishes. bessie used to call her "yadishes," for she could not pronounce _r_: but neither she nor maggie had ever heard of the poor lame boy, till one day when they were at riverside. playing in the garden, they saw mary sitting outside the gate, counting over the money she had made by the sale of her radishes: and as they were talking to her, it came about that she told them of the sick brother lying on his bed, never able to go out and breathe the fresh air, or see the beautiful blue sky and green trees, in this lovely summer weather; and how she and her mother were working and saving, that they might have enough to buy the easy chair. our little girls were very much interested, and went back to the house very eager and anxious to help buy the chair for jemmy; and finding grandpapa duncan on the piazza, they told him the whole story. now our maggie and bessie had each a very troublesome fault. bessie had a quick temper, and was apt to fly into a passion; while maggie was exceedingly careless and forgetful, sometimes disobeying her parents from sheer heedlessness, and a moment's want of thought. when mr. duncan heard about jemmy bent, he proposed a little plan to the children, that pleased them very much. this was about a month before they were to leave the city for the sea-shore. grandpapa duncan promised that for each day, during the next three weeks, in which bessie did not lose her temper and give way to one of her fits of passion, or in which maggie did not fall into any great carelessness or disobedience, he would give twenty cents to each little girl. at the end of three weeks this would make eight dollars and forty cents. when they had earned this much he would add the rest of the money that was needed to buy the wheel chair, and they should have the pleasure of giving it to jemmy themselves. the children were delighted, and promised to try hard, and they did do their best. but it was hard work, for they were but little girls,--bessie only five, maggie not quite seven. bessie had some hard battles with her temper. maggie had to watch carefully that she was not tempted into forgetfulness and disobedience. and one day maggie failed miserably, for she had trusted to her own strength, and not looked for help from above. but grandpapa duncan gave her another trial; and, as even such young children may do much toward conquering their faults if they try with all their hearts, the money was all earned, the chair bought, and maggie and bessie carried it to lame jemmy. then it would have been hard to tell who were the most pleased, the givers or the receivers. nor did maggie and bessie cease after this to struggle with their faults, for from this time there was a great improvement to be seen in both. iv. _the quarrel._ mr. jones had another errand to do when he went to the post-office, which was to go to the railway station for harry and fred, whose vacation had begun. grandmamma and aunt annie came with them, but they went to the hotel, and maggie and bessie did not see them till the next morning. how glad the little girls were to have their brothers with them; and what a pleasure it was to take them round the next day and show them all that was to be seen! "maggie and bessie," said harry, "i saw a great friend of yours on saturday; guess who it was." "grandpa hall," said maggie. "no; guess again. we went out to riverside to spend the day, and it was there we saw him." "oh, i know!" said bessie, "it was lame jemmy." "yes, it was lame jemmy, and he was as chirp as a grasshopper. he was sitting up in his chair out under the trees; and you never saw a fellow so happy, for all he is lame. why, if i was like him, and couldn't go about, i should be as cross as a bear." "oh, no, you wouldn't, harry," said bessie; "not if you knew it was god who made you lame." "oh, but i should, though; i'm not half as good as he is." "but you could ask jesus to make you good and patient like jemmy, and then he would." "well," said harry, "he's mighty good, anyhow; and fred and i gave him a first-rate ride in his chair ever so far up the road. he liked it, i can tell you; and he asked such lots of questions about you two. and what do you think he is learning to do?" "what?" asked both his little sisters. "to knit stockings for the soldiers." "what! a boy?" said maggie. "yes; aunt helen sent some yarn to his mother to knit socks; and jemmy wanted to learn so that he could do something for his country, if he was a lame boy, he said. aunt helen pays mrs. bent for those she makes, but jemmy told her if he might use some of her yarn he would like to do it without pay, and she gave him leave; so his mother is teaching him, and you would think he is a girl to see how nicely he takes to it. he is not a bit ashamed of it either, if it is girl's work." "and so he oughtn't," said bessie. "girl's work is very nice work." "so it is, queen bess; and girls are very nice things when they are like our midget and bess." "i don't think boys are half as nice as girls," said maggie, "except you and tom, harry." "and i," said fred. "well, yes, fred; when you don't tease i love you; but then you do tease, you know. but mamie stone is not nice if she is a girl; she is cross, and she did a shocking thing, harry. she pinched bessie's arm so it's all black and blue. but she was served right for it, 'cause i just gave her a good slap." "but that was naughty in you," said tom, who was standing by; "you should return good for evil." "i sha'n't, if she evils my bessie," said maggie, stoutly. "if she hurts me i won't do anything to her, but if she hurts bessie i will, and i don't believe it's any harm. i'm sure there's a verse in the bible about it." "about what, maggie?" "about, about,--why about my loving bessie and not letting any one hurt her. i'll ask papa to find one for me. he can find a verse in the bible about everything. oh, now i remember one myself. it's--little children love each other." "and so you should," said tom; "and it is very sweet to see two little sisters always so kind and loving to each other as you and bessie are. but, maggie, that verse does not mean that you should get into a quarrel with your other playmates for bessie's sake; it means that you should love all little children. of course you need not love mamie as much as bessie, but you ought to love her enough to make you kind to her. and there's another verse,--'blessed are the peace-makers.' you were not a peace-maker when you slapped mamie." "i sha'n't be mamie's peace-maker," said maggie; "and, tom, you ought to take my side and bessie's; you are very unkind." "now don't be vexed, midget," said tom, sitting down on a large stone, and pulling maggie on his knee. "i only want to show you that it did not make things any better for you to slap mamie when she pinched bessie. what happened next after you slapped her?" "she slapped me," said maggie; "and then i slapped her again, and lily slapped her, too; it was just good enough for her." "and what then?" asked tom. "why mamie screamed and ran and told her mother, and mrs. stone came and scolded us; and jane showed her bessie's arm, and she said she didn't believe mamie meant to hurt bessie." "what a jolly row!" said fred. "i wish i had been there to see." "nurse said she wished she had been there," said maggie, "and she would have told mrs. stone--" "never mind that," said tom; "there were quite enough in the quarrel without nurse. now, maggie, would it not have been far better if you had taken bessie quietly away when mamie hurt her?" "no," said maggie, "because then she wouldn't have been slapped, and she ought to be." "well, i think with you that mamie was a very naughty girl, and deserved to be punished; but then it was not your place to do it." "but her mother would not do it," said maggie; "she is a weak, foolish woman, and is ruining that child." the boys laughed, when maggie said this with such a grand air. "who did you hear say that?" asked harry. "papa," said maggie,--"so it's true. i guess he didn't mean me to hear it, but i did." "oh, you little pitcher!" cried harry; and tom said, "maggie dear, things may be quite right for your father to say, that would not be proper for us; because mrs. stone is a great deal older than we are; but since we all know that she does not take much pains to make mamie a good and pleasant child, do you not think that this ought to make us more patient with her when she is fretful and quarrelsome?" "no," said maggie; "if her mother don't make her behave, some one else ought to. i will hurt her if she hurts bessie." "maggie," said tom, "when wicked men came to take jesus christ and carry him away to suffer a dreadful death on the cross, do you remember what one of the disciples did?" "no; tell me," said maggie. "he drew his sword and cut off the ear of one of those wicked men; not because he was doing anything to him, but because he was ill-treating the dear lord whom he loved." "i'm glad of it," said maggie; "it was just good enough for that bad man, and i love that disciple." "but the saviour was not glad," said tom, "for he reproved the disciple, and told him to put up his sword; and he reached out his hand and healed the man's ear." "that was because he was jesus," said maggie. "i couldn't be so good as jesus." "no, we cannot be as holy and good as jesus, for he was without sin; but we can try to be like him, and then he will love us and be pleased with what he knows we wish to do. maggie, the other day i heard you saying to your mother that pretty hymn, 'i am jesus' little lamb;' now, if you are really one of jesus' little lambs you will also be one of his blessed peace-makers. i think if you and lily had not struck mamie, she would have felt much more sorry and ashamed than she does now, when she thinks that you have hurt her as much as she hurt bessie." "do you want me to be a peace-maker with mamie, now?" asked maggie. "yes, if you are not friends with her yet." "oh, no, we are not friends at all," said maggie; "for she runs away every time she sees lily or me; and we make faces at her." "and do you like to have it so?" "yes," said maggie slowly, "i think i do; i like to see her run." "and do you think it is like jesus' little lamb for you to feel so." "no, i suppose not; i guess it's pretty naughty, and i won't make faces at her anymore. what shall i do to make friends, tom?" "well," said tom, "i cannot tell exactly; but suppose the next time that mamie runs away from you, you call her to come and play with you; will not that show her that you wish to be at peace again?" "yes," said maggie; "and if you think jesus would want me to, i'll do it; but, tom, we'll be very sorry if she comes. you don't know what an uncomfortable child she is to play with; she's as cross as--as cross as--_nine_ sticks." "perhaps you'll find some other way," said tom, who could not help smiling. "if we wish for a chance to do good to a person we can generally find one. but i must go, for there is father beckoning to me to come out in the boat with him. you will think of what i have said, will you not, maggie?" "oh, yes i will, and i will do it too, tom; and if mamie pinches bessie again, i won't slap her, but only give her a good push, and then we'll run away from her." tom did not think that this was exactly the way to make friends, but he had not time to say anything more, for his father was waiting. v. _tom's sunday-school._ "there's tom," said maggie, on the next sunday afternoon, as she looked out of the window; "he is talking to mr. jones, and now they are going to the barn. i wonder if he is going to swing on sunday." "why, maggie," said bessie; "tom wouldn't do such a thing." "i thought maybe he forgot," said maggie. "i forgot it was sunday this morning, and i was just going to ask mr. jones to swing me. i wonder what they are doing. i can see in the door of the barn and they are busy with the hay. come and look, bessie." tom and mr. jones seemed to be very busy in the barn for a few minutes, but the little girls could not make out what they were doing. at last tom came out and walked over to the house. maggie and bessie ran to meet him. "here you are," he said, "the very little people i wanted to see. i am going to have a sunday-school class in the barn. mr. jones has given me leave, for i could find no place over at the hotel. we have been making seats in the hay. will you come?" "oh, yes, indeed we will," said maggie, clapping her hands. bessie shook her head sorrowfully. "tom," she said, "mamma wont let me go to sunday-school; she says i am too little." "i think she will let you go to mine," said tom; "we'll go and ask her." they all went in together to the room where papa and mamma sat reading. "mrs. bradford," said tom, when he had shaken hands with her, "i am going to hold a little sunday-school class over in the barn; will you let maggie and bessie come?" "certainly," said mrs. bradford. "who are you to have, tom?" "only lily, ma'am, and mamie stone, and a few more of the little ones from the hotel; they were running about and making a great noise in the hall and parlors, and i thought i could keep them quiet for a while if mr. jones would let me bring them over to his barn, and have a sunday-school there. walter is coming to help me." "a good plan, too," said mr. bradford; "you are a kind boy to think of it, tom." "may i come?" asked harry. "and i, too?" said fred. "i don't know about you, fred," said tom; "i should like to have harry, for neither walter nor i can sing, and we want some one to set the tunes for the little ones. but i am afraid you will make mischief." "indeed i won't, tom. let me come and i will be as quiet as a mouse, and give you leave to turn me out if i do the first thing." "well, then, you may come, but i shall hold you to your word and send you away if you make the least disturbance. i don't mean this for play." "honor bright," said fred. they all went out and met walter who was coming up the path with a troop of little ones after him. there were lily and eddie norris, gracie howard, mamie stone, julia and charlie bolton, and half a dozen more beside. tom marched them into the barn, where he and mr. jones had arranged the school-room. and a fine school-room the children thought it; better than those in the city to which some of them went every sunday. there were two long piles of hay with boards laid on top of them,--one covered with a buffalo robe, the other with a couple of sheep skins, making nice seats. in front of these was tom's place,--an empty barrel turned upside-down for his desk, and fred's velocipede for his seat. the children did not in the least care that hay was strewn all over the floor, or that the old horse who was in the other part of the barn, would now and then put his nose through the little opening above his manger, and look in at them as if he wondered what they were about. "oh, isn't this splendid?" said maggie. "it is better than our infant school-room, in dr. hill's church." "so it is," said lily. "i wish we always went to sunday-school here, and had tom for our teacher." some of the little ones wanted to play, and began to throw hay at each other; but tom put a stop to this; he had not brought them there to romp, he said, and those who wanted to be noisy must go away. then he told them all to take their seats. maggie had already taken hers on the end of one of the hay benches, with bessie next to her, and lily on the other side of bessie. gracie howard sat down by lily, and mamie stone was going to take her place next, when gracie said, "you sha'n't sit by me, mamie." "nor by me," said lily. "nor me, nor me," said two or three of the others. now mamie saw how she had made the other children dislike her by her ill-humor and unkindness, and she did not find it at all pleasant to stand there and have them all saying they would not sit by her. "i want to go home," she said, while her face grew very red, and she looked as if she were going to cry. "who is going to be kind, and sit by mamie," asked tom. "i should think none of them who know how she can pinch," said fred. "oh, we are going to forget all that," said tom. "come, children, make room for mamie." "this bench is full," said lily, "she can't come here." mamie began to cry. "there is plenty of room on the other bench," said tom; "sit there, mamie." "i don't want to," answered mamie; "there's nothing but boys there, and i want to go home." "why," said tom, "what a bad thing that would be, to begin our sunday-school by having one of our little scholars go home because none of the rest will sit by her. that will never do." all this time maggie had sat quite still, looking at mamie. she was thinking of what tom had said to her, and of being jesus' little lamb. here was a chance to show mamie that she was ready to be friends with her, but it was hard work. she did not at all like to go away from her little sister whom she loved so much, to sit by mamie whom she did not love at all, and who had been so unkind to bessie. she rose up slowly from her seat, with cheeks as red as mamie's and said,-- "tom, i'll go on the other seat and sit by mamie." "and just get pinched for it," said lily: "stay with us, maggie." mamie took her hand down from her face and looked at maggie with great surprise. "she wants some one to sit with her," said maggie, "and i had better go." "maggie is doing as she would be done by," said tom. then maggie felt glad, for she knew she was doing right. "come, mamie," she said, and she took hold of mamie's hand, and they sat down together on the other bench. "you are a good girl, midget," said harry, "and it's more than you deserve, miss mamie." "i don't care," said mamie. "i love maggie, and i don't love any of the rest of you, except only tom." here tom called his school to order and said there must be no more talking, for he was going to read, and all must be quiet. he went behind his barrel-desk, and opening his bible, read to them about the saviour blessing little children. then they sang, "i want to be an angel." harry and fred, with their beautiful clear voices, started the tune, and all the children joined in, for every one of them knew the pretty hymn. [illustration: bessie at sea side. p. ] next, tom read how jesus was born in bethlehem of judea, in a rough stable and laid not in a pretty cradle such as their baby brothers and sisters slept in, but in a manger where the wise men of the east came and worshipped him: and how after joseph and mary had been told by god to fly into the land of egypt with the infant saviour, the wicked king, herod, killed all the dear little babies in the land, with the hope that jesus might be among them. when he came to any thing which he thought the children would not understand, he stopped and explained it to them. "now we will sing again," he said, when he had done reading, "and the girls shall choose the hymns. maggie, dear, what shall we sing first?" maggie knew what she would like, but she was too shy to tell, and she looked at tom without speaking. tom thought he knew, and said, "i'll choose for you, then. we will sing, 'jesus, little lamb;' whoever knows it, hold up their hand." half a dozen little hands went up, but tom saw that all the children did not know it. "what shall we do?" he said. "maggie would like that best, i think; but i suppose all want to sing, and some do not know the words." "never mind," said gracie howard, who was one of those who had not held up her hand, "if maggie wants it we'll sing it, because she was so good and went and sat by mamie. if we don't know the words we can holler out the tune all the louder." some of the children began to laugh when gracie said this, but tom said, "i have a better plan than that. i will say the first verse over three or four times, line by line, and you may repeat it after me; then we will sing it, and so go on with the next verse." this was done. tom said the lines slowly and distinctly, and those who did not know the hymn repeated them. while they were learning the first verse in this way, mamie whispered to maggie, "maggie, i love you." "do you?" said maggie, as if she could not quite believe it. "yes, because you are good; don't you love me. maggie?" "well, no, not much," said maggie, "but i'll try to." "i wish you would," said mamie; "and i wont snatch your things, nor slap you, nor do anything." "i'll love you if you do a favor to me," said maggie. "yes, i will, if it is not to give you my new crying baby." "oh, i don't want your crying baby, nor any of your toys," said maggie. "i only want you to promise that you won't pinch my bessie again. why, mamie, you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than any girl that ever lived; her arm is all black and blue yet." "i didn't mean to hurt her so much," said mamie, "and i was sorry when bessie cried so; but then you slapped me, and lily slapped me, and jane scolded me, and so i didn't care, but was glad i did it; but i am sorry, now, and i'll never do it again." "and i sha'n't slap you, if you do," said maggie. "what will you do, then?" "i'll just take bessie away, and leave you to your own 'flections." "i don't know what that means," said mamie. "i don't, either," said maggie; "but i heard papa say it, so i said it. i like to say words that big people say. bessie won't say a word if she don't know what it means; but i'd just as lief. i guess it means conscience." "oh, i guess it does, too," said mamie, "for walter said he should think i'd have a troubled conscience for hurting bessie so; but i didn't. and tom talked to me too; but i didn't care a bit, till you came to sit by me, maggie, and now i am sorry. did you tell tom about it?" "i talked to him about it, but he knew before. why, everybody knew, mamie, because your mamma made such an awful fuss about those little slaps." now maggie made a mistake in saying this; she did not mean it to vex mamie, but it did. "they were not little slaps," she said, "they were hard slaps, and they hurt; and you sha'n't say my mamma makes an awful fuss." before maggie had time to answer, tom called upon the children to sing, and maggie joined in with her whole heart. the first verse was sung over twice; and by the time this was done, mamie felt good-natured again, for she remembered how maggie had come to sit with her when none of the other little girls would do so. she had been quite surprised when maggie had offered to do it, and had thought that she could not have been so good. "i'll never be cross with maggie again," she said to herself. when tom began to teach the second verse she whispered, "maggie, will you kiss me and make up?" "yes, by and by, when some of the other children are gone," said maggie. "why won't you do it, now?" "i don't like to do it before them; i'm afraid they'll think i want them to see." when tom thought the children all knew the hymn pretty well, they sang it over two or three times, and then he told them a story. after they had sung once more, he dismissed the school; for he did not want to keep them too long, lest the little ones should be tired. he invited all those who liked it, to come again the next sunday afternoon, for mr. jones had said that they might have sunday-school in the barn as often as they liked. every one of the children said that they would come. when most of them had left the barn, maggie said, "now i will kiss you, mamie." "i want to kiss bessie, too," said mamie, as the little girl came running up to her sister; "will you kiss me, bessie?" "oh, yes," said bessie; and mamie kissed both of her little playmates, and so there was peace between them once more. vi. _the post-office_ on monday mr. bradford went up to new york to attend to some business. he was to come back on wednesday afternoon; and on the morning of that day, grandmamma sent over to know if mrs. bradford would like to have her carriage, and drive to the railway station to meet him. mamma said yes; and told maggie and bessie they might go with her. she offered to take harry and fred, too; but they wanted to go clam-fishing with mr. jones; so she took franky and baby instead, and carried baby herself, telling nurse and jane that they might have a holiday for the afternoon. the little girls were delighted at the thought of going to meet their dear father; for he had been gone three days, and they had missed him very much. the first part of the ride was through the sand, where the wheels went in so deep that the horses had hard work to draw the carriage and went very slowly, but the children did not mind that at all. they liked to hear the sound of the wheels grating through the sand, and to watch how they took it up and threw it off again as they moved round and round. at last the carriage turned off to the right, and now the road was firmer and harder, and, after a time, ran through the woods. this was delightful, it was so cool and shady. baby seemed to think this was a good place for a nap, for she began to shut her eyes and nod her little head about, till mamma laid her down in her lap, where she went fast asleep. james took franky in front with him and let him hold the end of the reins, and franky thought he was driving quite as much as the good-natured coachman, and kept calling out "get up," and "whoa," which the horses did not care for in the least. there was a little stream which ran along by the side of the road, and at last bent itself right across it, so that the carriage had to go over a small bridge. just beyond the bridge the stream widened into quite a large pool. james drove his horses into it, and stopped to let them take a drink. it was a lovely, shady spot. the trees grew close around the pool and met overhead, and there were a number of small purple flowers growing all around. james tried to reach some of them with his whip, but they were too far away, so the children were disappointed. when the horses had stopped drinking, there was not a sound to be heard but the twittering of the birds in the branches, and the little ripple of the water as it flowed over the stones. "let's stay here a great while, mamma," said bessie, "it is so pleasant." "and what would papa do when he came and found no one waiting for him?" said mrs. bradford. "oh, yes! let us make haste then," said bessie; "we mustn't make him disappointed for a million waters." but mamma said there was time enough; so they staid a few moments longer, and then drove on. at last they passed from the beautiful green wood into a space where there was no shade. there were bushes and very small trees to be sure, but they were low and scrubby and grew close together in a kind of tangled thicket. these reached as far as they could see on either side, and came so near to the edge of the road, that once, when james had to make way for a heavy hay wagon, and drew in his horses to let it pass, maggie stretched her hand out of the carriage and pulled some sprigs from one of the bushes. "mamma, do you know that funny old man?" asked bessie, as the driver of the hay wagon nodded to her mother, and mrs. bradford smiled and nodded pleasantly in return. "no, dear; but in these lonely country places it is the custom for people to nod when they pass each other." "why, we don't do that in new york," said maggie. "no, it would be too troublesome to speak to every one whom we met in the streets of a great city; and people there would think it very strange and impertinent if you bowed to them when you did not know them." "mamma," said maggie, "i don't like the kind of country there is here, at all. what makes all these bushes grow here?" then mamma told how all this ground was once covered with just such beautiful woods as they had passed through, and how they were set on fire by the sparks from a train of cars, how the fire spread for miles and miles, and burned for many days; and the people could do nothing to stop it, until god sent a change of wind and a heavy rain which put it out. she told them how many poor people were burnt out of their houses, and how the little birds and squirrels and other animals were driven from their cosy homes in the woods, and many of them scorched to death by this terrible fire. then for a long time the ground where these woods had grown was only covered with ashes and charred logs, till at last these tangled bushes had sprung up. mamma said she supposed that by and by the people would cut down the underbrush, and then the young trees would have space to grow. by the time she had finished her long story they reached the station and found that they had a few moments to wait, for it was not yet quite time for the train. there was a locomotive standing on the track, and when the horses saw it they began to prick up their ears and to dance a little; so james turned their heads and drove them up by the side of the depot, where they could not see it. on the other side of the road was a small, white building, and over the door was a sign with large black letters upon it. "p-o-s-t, porst," spelled maggie. "post," said mamma. "post, o double f." "o-f, of," said mamma again. "o-f, of, f-i-c-e; oh, it's the post-office. i wonder if there is a letter there for us from grandpapa duncan." "perhaps there may be," said mrs. bradford. "i told mr. jones we would inquire for the letters. james, will it do for you to leave the horses?" "i think not, ma'am," said james. "they are a little onasy yet, and if she squales they'll run." "and i cannot go because of baby," said mamma; "we must wait till papa comes." "i wish we could get our letter if it is there," said maggie; "we could read it while we are waiting for papa." "there's a nice civil man there, mrs. bradford," said james, "and if you didn't mind miss maggie going over, i could lift her out, and he'll wait on her as if it was yourself." "oh, james," said maggie; "i couldn't do it, not for anything. i couldn't indeed, mamma." "well, dear, you need not, if you are afraid." "but i would like to have our letter so much, mamma." "so would i," said bessie. "and when dear papa comes we will want to talk to him and not to yead our letter." "maybe it is not there," said maggie. "but we would like to know," said bessie. "could i go, mamma?" "you are almost too little i think, dear." "well," said maggie, slowly, "i guess i'll go. mamma, will you look at me all the time?" "yes, dear, and there is nothing to hurt you. just walk in at that door, and you will see a man there. ask him if there are any letters to go to mr. jones's house." "yes, mamma, and be very sure you watch all the time." james came down from his seat and lifted maggie from the carriage. she walked very slowly across the road, every step or two looking back to see if her mother was watching her. mrs. bradford smiled and nodded to her, and at last maggie went in at the door. but the moment she was inside, her mother saw her turn round and fly out of the post-office as if she thought something terrible was after her. she tore back across the road and came up to the carriage looking very much frightened. "why, maggie, what is it, dear?" asked her mother. "oh, mamma, there is a hole there, and a man put his face in it; please put me in the carriage, james." "oh, foolish little maggie," said mamma; "that man was the post-master, and he came to the hole as you call it, to see what you wanted. if you had waited and told him, he would have looked to see if there were any letters for us." "he had such queer spectacles on," said maggie. "i wish i could go," said bessie; "i wouldn't be afraid of him. i do want to know if grandpapa duncan's letter is there." "then you may try," said her mother; "take her out, james." so bessie was lifted out of the carriage, and went across the road as maggie had done. she walked into the post-office and saw the hole maggie had spoken of, but no one was looking out of it. it was a square opening cut in a wooden partition which divided the post-office. on one side was the place where bessie stood, and where people came to ask for their letters; on the other was the postmaster's room, where he kept the letters and papers till they were called for. bessie looked around and saw no one. she always moved very gently, and she had come in so quietly that the post-master had not heard her. there was a chair standing in front of "the hole." bessie pushed it closer, and climbing upon it, put her little face through, and looked into the post-master's side of the room. he was sitting there reading. he was an ugly old man, and wore green goggles, which maggie had called "such queer spectacles." but bessie was not afraid of him. "how do you do, mr. post officer?" she said. "i came for our letter." the post-master looked up. "well, you're a big one to send after a letter," he said. "who is it for?" "for maggie and me, and it is from grandpapa duncan; has it come?" "where are you from?" asked the post-master, laughing. "from mr. jones's house. oh, i forgot, mamma said i was to ask if any letters had come for mr. jones's house." "then i suppose you are mr. bradford's daughter?" "yes, i am," said bessie. "and are you the little girl who came in here just now, and ran right out again?" "oh, no, sir; that was maggie. poor maggie is shy, and she said you looked out of a hole at her." "and you looked in a hole at me, but i did not run away. if i was to run away you could not get your letter." "is it here, sir?" asked bessie. "well, i reckon it may be," said the post-master; "what's your name?" "my name is bessie, and my sister's is maggie." "here is one apiece then," said the post-master, taking up some letters. "here is one for miss bessie bradford; that's you, is it? and one for miss maggie bradford, that's your sister, i reckon." "what! one for myself, and one for maggie's self," said bessie. "are they from grandpapa duncan?" "i don't know," said the post-master. "you will have to open them to find that out." "oh, how nice; please let me have them, sir; i am very much obliged to you." "stop, stop," cried the post-master, as bessie jumped down from the chair, and was running off with her prizes. "here are some more papers and letters for your folks." but bessie did not hear him; she was already out of the door, running over to the carriage with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, holding up a letter in each hand. "oh, maggie, maggie," she called, "that nice post-officer gave me two letters, one for you, and one for me; wasn't he kind?" "i think it was a kind grandpapa duncan, who took the trouble to write two letters," said mrs. bradford. "so it was," said maggie. "mamma, will you read them for us?" "in a moment," said mrs. bradford; and then she turned to speak to the post-master, who had followed bessie to the carriage with the papers and letters which she had been in too great a hurry to wait for. she thanked him, and he went back and stood at the door watching the eager little girls while their mother read to them. she opened maggie's letter first. it said, "my dear little maggie:-- "i cannot tell you how pleased i was to receive the very nice letter which you and bessie sent me. i have put it in a safe place in my writing desk, and shall keep it as long as i live. as you wrote it together, perhaps you expected that i would make one answer do for both; but i thought you would be better pleased if i sent a letter for each one. "i am glad to hear that you like quam beach so much; but you must not let it make you forget dear old riverside. i am fond of the sea myself, and do not know but i may take a run down to see you some day this summer. do you think you could give a welcome to the old man? and would mrs. jones make him such a famous turnover as she made for you? "i went this morning to see your friend jemmy, for i thought you would like to hear something about him. he was out in the little garden, on the shady side of the house, sitting in his chair with his books beside him, and a happier or more contented boy i never saw. he was alone, except for his dog and rabbits, for his mother was washing, and mary was out. mrs. bent brought me a chair, and i sat and talked to jemmy for some time. i asked him which of all his books he liked best. 'oh, my bible, sir,' he said. 'i think it is with the bible and other books, just like it is with people, mr. duncan.' 'how so?' i asked. 'why, sir,' he answered, 'when mary and mother are away, the neighbors often come in to sit with me and talk a bit. they are very kind, and i like to have them tell me about things; but no matter how much they make me laugh or amuse me, 'tain't like mother's voice; and if i am sick, or tired, or uncomfortable, or even glad, there ain't nobody that seems to have just the right thing to say, so well as her. and it's just so with the bible, i think; it always has just the very thing i want: whether it's comfort and help, or words to say how happy and thankful i feel. the other books i like just as i do the neighbors; but the bible i love just as i do mother. i suppose the reason is that the bible is god's own words, and he loved and pitied us so that he knew what we would want him to say, just as mother loves and pities me, and so knows what i like her to say.' happy jemmy! he knows how to love and value god's holy book, that most precious gift, in which all may find what their souls need. may my little maggie learn its worth as the poor lame boy has done. "i really think your chair has done jemmy good. he looks brighter, and has a better color and appetite since he has been able to be out of doors so much. i do not suppose he will ever be able to walk again, but he does not fret about that, and is thankful for the blessings that are left to him. if you and bessie could see how much he enjoys the chair, you would feel quite repaid for any pains you took to earn it for him. and now, my darling, i think i must put the rest of what i have to say, in your little sister's letter. write to me soon again, and believe me "your loving grandpapa, "charles duncan." just as mama was finishing this letter, the train came in sight, and she said she must leave bessie's letter till they were at home. in a few minutes they saw their dear father coming towards them, and a man following with his bag and a great basket. then papa was in the carriage, and such a hugging and kissing as he took and gave. franky came inside that he might have his share, too; and baby woke up, good-natured as she always was, and smiled and crowed at her father till he said he really thought she knew him, and was glad to see him. mamma was quite sure she did. when they had all settled down once more, and papa had asked and answered a good many questions, he said, "maggie and bessie, i met a very curious old gentleman to-day; what strange question do you think he asked me?" the children were sure they did not know. "he asked me if there were any little girls down this way who wrote letters to old gentleman?" maggie and bessie looked at each other, and maggie shook her head very knowingly; but they waited to hear what papa would say next. "i told him i thought i knew of two such young damsels, and what do you think he did then?" "what?" asked both the little girls at once. "he handed me these two parcels and told me if i could find any such little letter-writers, to ask them if they would prove useful." as mr. bradford spoke, he produced two parcels. like the letters, they were directed one to miss maggie bradford, and the other to miss bessie bradford. they were quickly opened, and inside were two purple leather writing cases, very small, but as bessie said, "perfaly pretty." they had steel corners and locks, and a plate with each little girl's name engraved upon her own. in each were found a small inkstand, a pen, and two pencils, two sticks of sealing wax, and best of all, tiny note paper and envelopes stamped m. s. b., and b. r. b. it would have done grandpapa duncan good to have seen his pets' pleasure. maggie fairly screamed with delight. "oh, such paper, such lovely stamped paper." "and such _embelopes_," said bessie, "with our own name letters on them." "i am going to write to every one i know in the world," cried maggie. "mamma," said bessie, when they had looked again and again at their beautiful presents, "i do think god has made all my people the very best people that ever lived. i don't think any little girls have such people as mine." "i suppose every other little girl thinks the same thing, bessie." "mamma, how can they? they don't have you, nor papa, nor maggie, nor grandpapa duncan, nor grandmamma;" and bessie went on naming all the people whom she loved, and who loved her. papa asked if they had not each had a letter from grandpapa duncan. the writing cases had almost made them forget the letters; but now they showed them to papa, and he told bessie he would read hers. he let her open it herself, and taking her on his knee, read: "my dear little bessie,-- "maggie will tell you how much i was pleased with the letter you both sent me, but i must thank you for your share in it. your old grandpapa is very happy to know that his little pets think about him, and care for him when they are away. i am glad to hear that you are better, and hope you will come home with cheeks as red as maggie's. "we are all well here except poor little nellie, who is cutting some teeth which hurt her very much, and make her rather fretful. she has learned to say two or three words, and among them she makes a curious sound which her mamma declares to be a very plain grandpapa; as she looks at me every time she says it, i suppose i must believe it is so; but i must say it does not sound much like it to my ears. however, she loves her old grandpapa dearly, which is a great pleasure to me. "your little dog flossy is growing finely. he is very pretty and lively, and will make a fine playmate for you and maggie when you come home. i went down to donald's cottage the other day and found all four of the puppies playing before the door while alice sat on the steps watching them. she says they are growing very mischievous and have already broken two or three of donald's fine plants, so that when she lets them out for a play, she has to keep her eye on them all the time. alice asked about you and maggie, and i could not help wishing with her that you were there to see your little doggie. it will be pleasant to have you at riverside again in the autumn. send me another letter, if you wish to please "your loving grandpapa, "charles duncan." vii. _a new friend._ one morning bessie was sitting on a large rock on the beach, looking at the waves as they rolled up, one after another, and listening to the pleasant sound they made. the other children and jane were playing a little way off. presently a lady and gentleman came walking slowly along the beach. the gentleman used crutches, for he had only one foot. they stopped at the rock where bessie sat, and the lady said, "you had better sit down, horace, you have walked far enough." the gentleman sat down beside bessie, who looked at him for a minute and then got up. "i'll sit on that other stone," she said, "and then there'll be room for the lady: that is big enough for me." "thank you, dear," said the lady; and the gentleman said, "well, you are a polite little girl." bessie liked his looks, but it made her sorry to see that he had only one foot. she sat opposite to him looking at him very gravely; and he looked back at her, but with a smile. now that bessie had given up her seat to the strangers, she felt they were her company and she must entertain them, so she began to talk. "is your foot pretty well, sir?" she said. "which foot?" asked the gentleman. "the one that is cut off." "how can it be pretty well if it is cut off?" he said; "you see it is not here to feel pretty well." "i mean the place where it was cut off," said bessie. "it pains me a good deal," he said. "i am a soldier, and my foot was hurt in battle and had to be cut off, but i hope it will feel better one of these days. i have come down here to see what the sea air will do for me." "oh, then you'll feel better, soon," said bessie. "i used to feel very _misable_, but now i am most well." "why, is your foot cut off, too?" asked the gentleman. "oh, no; don't you see i have both my two?" "so you have," said the gentleman, laughing as she held up two little feet; "but there is not half as much in those two tiny feet, as there is in my one big one." "i had yather have two little ones than one big one," said bessie. "so would i, but you see i cannot choose, and all the sea air in the world will not bring me back my other foot." "don't you like the sea, sir?" asked bessie, "i do." "why do you like it so much?" "because i like to see the waves, and i think it sounds as if it was saying something all the time." "what does it seem to say?" "i don't know, sir. i listen to it a great deal, and i can't find out, but i like to hear it for all. i think it must be telling us to yemember our father in heaven who made it." "what a strange child," the gentleman whispered to the lady; "who is she like?" "i do not know, but she is lovely;" said the lady; "i should like to take her picture as she sits there." "what is your name, fairy?" asked the gentleman. "bessie," said the little girl. "bessie what?" "bessie bradford." "bessie bradford! and what is your father's name?" "his name is bradford, too." "but what is his first name?" "mr." said bessie, gravely. the gentleman laughed. "has he no other names?" "oh, yes;" said bessie, "all his names are mr. henry, lane, bradford." "i thought so," said the gentleman, "she is the very image of helen duncan. and where is your father, bessie?" "up in the house, yeading to mamma," said bessie, looking away from him to the lady. she was very pretty and had a sweet smile. bessie liked her face very much and sat gazing at her as earnestly as she had before done at the gentleman who presently said, "well, what do you think of this lady?" "i think she is very pretty," said bessie, turning her eyes back to him. "so do i," said the gentleman, "do you think that i am very pretty, too?" "no," said bessie. "then what do you think about me?" "i think you are pretty 'quisitive," said the little girl, at which both the lady and gentleman laughed heartily; but bessie looked very sober. "will you give me a kiss, little one?" asked the stranger. "no," said bessie, "i had yather not." "why, you are not afraid of me?" "oh, no!" said bessie, "i am not afraid of soldiers; i like them." "then why won't you kiss me?" "i don't kiss strangers, if they're gentlemen," said bessie. "and that is very prudent, too," said the soldier, who seemed very much amused; "but then you see i am not quite a stranger." "oh, what a--i mean i think you are mistaken, sir," said bessie. "don't tease her, dear," said the lady. "but, little bessie," said the gentleman, "do you call people strangers who know a great deal about you?" "no," said bessie; "but you don't know anything about me." "yes, i do; in the first place i know that you are a very kind and polite little girl who is ready to give up her place to a lame soldier. next, i know that your father's name is mr. henry, lane, bradford, and that yours is bessie rush bradford, and that you look very much like your aunt, helen duncan. then i know that you have a little sister, whose name is--let me see, well, i think her name is margaret, after your mother; and you have two brothers, harry and fred. there is another little one, but i have forgotten his name." "franky," said bessie; "and we have baby, too." "ah, well, i have never made baby's acquaintance. and this is not your home, but you live in new york, at no. ---- street, where i have spent many a pleasant hour. and more than all this, i know there is a lady in baltimore named elizabeth rush, who loves you very much, and whom you love; and that a few days since you wrote a letter to her and told her how sorry you were that her brother who was 'shooted' had had his foot cut off." while the gentleman was saying all this, bessie had slipped off her stone and come up to him, and now she was standing, with one little hand on his knee, looking up eagerly into his face. "why, do you know the lady whom i call my aunt bessie?" she said. "indeed i do; and now if you are so sorry for aunt bessie's brother, would you not like to do something to help him?" "i can't," said bessie; "i am too little." "yes, you can," said the colonel, "you can give me a kiss, and that would help me a great deal." "why," said bessie, again, "do you mean that you are colonel yush, dear aunt bessie's brother?" "to be sure i am," said the colonel; "and now are you going to give me the kiss for her sake?" "yes, sir, and for your own sake, too." "capital, we are coming on famously, and shall soon be good friends at this rate," said the colonel as he stooped and kissed the rosy little mouth which bessie held up to him. "will you tell me about it?" she said. "about what?" "about how you was in that country, called india, which papa says is far away over the sea, and how the wicked heathen named, named--i can't yemember." "sepoys?" said the colonel. "yes, sepoys: how the sepoys, who you thought were your friends, made a great fight, and killed the soldiers and put the ladies and dear little babies down a well. and how brave you was and how you was fighting and fighting not to let the sepoys hurt some poor sick soldiers in the hospital; and the well soldiers wanted to yun away, but you wouldn't let them, but made the sepoys yun away instead, and went after them. and then they came back with ever so many more to help them, and you and your soldiers had to go away, but you took all the sick men with you and did not let them be hurt. and you saw a soldier friend of yours who was dying, and he asked you not to let the sepoys find him, and you put him on your horse and carried him away, and the sepoys almost caught you. and how the very next day there was a dreadful, dreadful battle when more soldiers came, and your foot was shooted and your side; and your foot had to be cut off in the hospital, and would not get well for a long, long while. and how there was a lady that you wanted for your wife, and you came to our country to get her--oh, i guess that's the lady!" bessie stopped as she looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel smiled as he said,-- "you are right, bessie; and what more?" "and when you were coming in the ship, there was a little boy who fell in the water and you forgot your lame foot and jumped in after him, and your foot was hurt so much it had to be cut off some more. so please tell me all about it, sir." bessie said all this just as fast as her little tongue would go, and the colonel sat watching her with a very amused look on his face. "upon my word, you are well posted, little one. i do not know that i could tell the story better myself; how did you learn so much?" "oh, aunt bessie put it in the letters she yote to mamma, and mamma told us about it, and harry yeads and yeads it; and maggie made a nice play about it. harry gets on the yocking horse and plays he is colonel yush, and fred is the soldier that you helped." "very good," said the colonel, "and what are you and maggie?" "oh! we are harry's soldiers, i mean _your_ soldiers, and franky is, too; and we have the nursery chairs for horses, and our dolls for sick soldiers, and we have the pillows for sepoys, and we poke them; and nurse don't like it, 'cause she says we make a yumpus and a muss in the nursery." "i should think so," said the colonel, laughing heartily. "will you tell me the story?" asked bessie. "i think i had better tell you another, since you know that so well," said colonel rush; "i will tell you one about a drummer boy." but just as he began the story bessie saw her father coming towards them, and in another minute he and the colonel were shaking hands and seeming so glad to see one another. then mr. bradford turned and looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel said, "yes, this is the lady of whom you have heard as miss monroe, now mrs. rush. she has taken charge of what is left of me." "isn't she _perfaly_ lovely, papa?" asked bessie, as mr. bradford took off his hat and shook hands with the lady, and she saw a pretty pink color come into her cheeks which made her look sweeter than ever. papa looked as if he quite agreed with his little daughter, but he only smiled and said, "my bessie speaks her mind on all occasions." "so i see," said the colonel, looking very much pleased. "did i talk too much, sir?" asked bessie, not knowing exactly whether he meant to find fault with her, for she was sometimes told at home that she talked too much. "not one word," he answered; "and i hope you will often come and see me at my rooms in the hotel, and talk to me there. i am very fond of little children." "if mamma will let me," said bessie; "but i can't come _very_ often, 'cause i don't want to be away from maggie." "oh, maggie must come, too," said the colonel. "maggie is shy," said bessie. "well, you bring her to my room, and we will see if i have not something there that will cure her shyness." but papa called maggie to come and see colonel and mrs. rush, and when she heard that this was the brave english soldier about whom she had made the famous play, her shyness was forgotten at once, and she was quite as ready to be friends as bessie, though she had not much to say. "you know, bessie," she said afterwards, "we're so very acquainted with him in our hearts, he is not quite a stranger." the next morning, mrs. bradford went to the hotel to call on mrs. rush, taking maggie and bessie with her; and from this time the little girls and the colonel were the best friends possible, though bessie was his particular pet and plaything, and she always called him her soldier. when he felt well enough, and the day was not too warm, he would come out and sit on the beach for an hour or two. the moment he came moving slowly along on his crutches, bessie was sure to see him, and no matter what she was doing, off she would run to meet him. as long as he stayed she never left him, and her mother sometimes feared that the colonel might grow tired of having such a little child so much with him, but he told her it was a great pleasure to him; and indeed it seemed to be so, for though there were a great many people at quam beach who knew him and liked to talk to him, he never forgot the little friend who sat so quietly at his side, and had every now and then a word, or smile, or a touch of his hand for her. bessie had been taught that she must not interrupt when grown people were speaking; so, though she was a little chatterbox when she had leave to talk, she knew when it was polite and proper for her to be quiet. if the colonel could not come down to the shore, he was almost sure to send for maggie and bessie to come to his room, until it came to be quite a settled thing that they were to pass some time there every day when he did not go out, and many a pleasant hour did they spend there. he told them the most delightful and interesting stories of people and things that he had seen while he was in india, being always careful not to tell anything that might shock or grieve them, from the day that he was speaking of the sad death of a little drummer boy, when, to his great surprise and distress, both children broke into a violent fit of crying, and it was some time before they could be pacified. then such toys as he carved out of wood! he made a little boat with masts and sails for each of them, which they used to sail in the pools that were left by the tide; and a beautiful set of jack-straws, containing arrows, spears, swords, trumpets, and guns. one day he asked harry to bring him some sprigs from the spruce tree, and the next time maggie and bessie came to see him, there was a tiny set of furniture,--a sofa and half a dozen chairs to match, all made of those very sprigs. he used to lie and carve, while mrs. rush was reading to him; and sometimes he worked while the children were there, and it was such a pleasure to watch him. then he had some books with fine pictures, and oh! wonder of wonders, and what the children liked best of all, such a grand musical-box, they had never seen one like it. mamma had a small one which played three tunes, but it was a baby musical-box to this, which was so very much larger, and played twenty. they never tired of it, at least bessie did not; and she would sit looking into it and listening so earnestly that often she seemed to see and hear nothing else around her. maggie was fond of it, too, but she could not keep quiet so long as bessie, and often wanted to be off and playing out of doors long before her sister was ready to go. there were many days when the colonel was suffering too much pain to talk or play with them, and they had to be very still if they went into his room. then maggie never cared to stay very long, nor indeed did the colonel care much to have her; for though she tried her best to be gentle and quiet, those restless little hands and feet seemed as if they must be moving; and she was almost sure to shake his sofa, or to go running and jumping across the room, in a way that distressed him very much, though her merry ways amused him when he was able to bear them. quiet little mouse of a bessie went stealing about so softly that she never disturbed the sick man; and so it came about that she spent many an hour in his room without maggie. maggie never half enjoyed her play, if her sister was not with her; but she was not selfish, and did not complain if bessie sometimes left her for a while. viii. _bessie's little sermon._ one afternoon when the children had gone over to the hotel to see grandmamma, a basket of fine fruit came, from riverside. they had not been to the colonel's room for two or three days, for he had been suffering very much, and was not able to see any one. when the fruit came grandmamma put some on a plate, and sent bessie with it to the colonel's door, but told her that she must not go in. bessie went to the door, and, putting her plate down on the hall floor, knocked very gently. mrs. rush came and opened the door, and, taking up her plate again, bessie handed it to her, gave her grandmamma's message, and was going away, when she heard the colonel's voice. "is that my pet?" he said. "yes, sir; and i love you very much, and i am so sorry for you; but grandmamma said i must not come in." "but i want to see you," said the colonel. "you can come in, darling," said mrs. rush; "he is better this afternoon, and would like to see you." "but i better mind grandma first; bettern't i?" said bessie. "i'll yun and ask her, and if she'll let me, i can come back." mrs. rush smiled, and said, "very well;" and the obedient little girl ran to ask her grandmamma's permission. grandmamma said, "certainly, if the colonel wanted her." "didn't he invite me?" said maggie, with rather a long face. "no," said bessie. "would you yather i would not go? i'll stay with you, if you want me." "i guess you had better go, if he wants you," said maggie; "but don't stay very long, bessie; it's very sorrowful without you." "poor maggie," said walter, who was standing by at the time; "it is very cruel in the colonel not to ask you. never mind, you shall come and take care of me when i lose my foot." "oh, no, it's me you ought to call cruel," said maggie, in a very doleful voice; "you know i am such a fidget, walter, and i can't help it. the other day the colonel was so sick, and i meant to be so quiet, and yet i did two shocking things." "what did you do?" asked walter. "i knocked over a chair, and i slammed the door; and so mamma said i must not go again till he was better." "but what do you do without bessie, when she goes?" said walter; "i thought you two could not live apart." "we can't," said maggie; "but then, you see, the colonel is a sick, lame soldier, with a foot cut off and a hole in his side; so, if he wants bessie, i ought to make a sacrifice of myself and let her go." the boys laughed; but tom said, "that is right, little woman, do all you can for the soldiers; they have sacrificed enough for us." and bessie kissed her sister and ran back to the colonel's room. "why, is he better?" she asked, as mrs. rush lifted her up to kiss him. "i think he looks very worse. oh, how big his eyes are!" the colonel laughed. "i am like the wolf in red riding-hood; am i not, bessie?" he said. "no," she answered, "not a bit; you are just like my own dear soldier, only i wish you did not look so white." "i think he will look better to-morrow, bessie," said mrs. rush. "he has suffered terribly the last two days; but he is easier now, though he is very tired and weak, so we must not talk much to him." "i wont talk a word, only if he speaks to me," said bessie; and she brought a footstool and sat down by the side of the sofa. the colonel held out his hand to her, and she put her own little one in it and sat perfectly quiet. he lay looking at her, with a smile, for a few minutes, but presently his eyes closed, and bessie thought he was asleep. he looked more ill when his eyes were shut than when they were open; his face was so very, very pale, and his black hair and beard made it look whiter still. mrs. rush sat by the sofa fanning her husband, while the little girl watched him with earnest, loving eyes. at last she whispered, "if he dies, he'll go to heaven, 'cause he's so very brave and good; wont he?" mrs. rush did not speak, but bessie did not need any answer. she was quite sure in her own mind; for she never imagined that this brave soldier did not love his saviour. "he could not be so brave and good if he did not love jesus very much," she said, looking up at mrs. rush. she could not see the lady's face very plainly, for she was bending it down almost close to the pillows. bessie went on very softly and gravely: "i suppose that's the yeason he's so patient too. papa says he never saw any one so patient; and i guess he's like lame jemmy. jemmy said he couldn't help being patient when he thought how much his saviour suffered for him, and i guess the colonel is just like him; and he was so brave in the battles, 'cause he knew jesus loved him and would take him to heaven if he was killed. he would have been afraid, if he didn't know that. and i suppose when he was hurt in that battle and lay on the ground all night, and his own soldiers didn't know where he was, but thought the sepoys had him, he thought about jesus and his father in heaven all the time, and yemembered how jesus died for him, and kept saying his prayers to them; and so they took care of him, and let his own soldiers come and find him. oh, i know he must love jesus very much. and don't you think jesus took such care of him so he could love him more yet?" mrs. rush's face was quite down on her husband's pillows now, and bessie looked back at him. he had turned his head, and she could not see his face either, but she felt the hand, in which her own was lying, moving a little uneasily. "i'm 'fraid i esturb him," she said; "i mustn't whisper any more." she kissed his hand very gently, and laid her head on the sofa beside it. the room was rather dark, and very still, and in a few moments she was fast asleep. after a while the colonel turned his head again, opened his eyes and looked at her. then mrs. rush lifted up her face. "were you asleep, horace?" she asked. "no," he said, rather crossly, and moving his head impatiently; "i wish you would take her away." mrs. rush was glad that bessie did not hear him; she knew that this would have grieved her. she lifted the little darling in her arms, and carried her across the floor to her grandmamma's room. mrs. stanton herself opened the door; there was no one else in the room. "this precious child is asleep," said mrs. rush, in a low voice. "shall i leave her with you?" mrs. stanton asked her to lay bessie on the bed. she did so, and then bent over her for a moment, and when she raised her head, mrs. stanton saw how very pale and sad her sweet face was. "what is it, my child?" asked the kind old lady, taking her hand. mrs. rush burst into tears. "is your husband worse? do you think him in danger?" "not for this life, but for that which is to come," sobbed mrs. rush, laying her head on mrs. stanton's shoulder. "my poor child! and is it so?" said grandmamma. "yes, yes, and he will not hear a word on the subject; he has forbidden me to mention it to him. and if he would let me, i do not know how to teach him. i am only a beginner myself. these things are all so new to me; for it was not until i feared that i was to lose him that i felt my own need of more than human strength to uphold me. bessie, dear little unconscious preacher, has just said more in his hearing than he has allowed me to say for months. god, in his mercy, grant that her innocent words may touch his heart. dear mrs. stanton, pray for him and for me." mrs. stanton tried to comfort her, and then the old lady and the young one knelt down together, while little bessie slept on, knowing nothing of the hopes and fears and sorrows of those who prayed beside her. ix. _faith._ "nursey," said bessie, the next morning, as nurse was putting on her shoes and stockings, after giving her her bath, "i can't think how it is." "how what is, dear?" "about the trinity." "well!" said nurse. "the trinity! and what put that into your head?" "it's not in my head," said bessie; "i can't get it there. i try and try to think how it can be, and i can't. father, son, and holy ghost, three persons and one god," she repeated, slowly; "how can it be, nursey? i know the father means our father in heaven, and the son means jesus, and the holy ghost means heavenly spirit; but there's only one god, and i don't understand." "and wiser heads than yours can't understand it, my lamb," said nurse; "don't bother your little brains about that. it's just one of those things we must take upon faith; we must believe it without understanding it. don't you think about it any more till you are older." but bessie did think about it; and her thoughtful little face looked more grave and earnest than usual all that day. mamma wondered what she was considering, but said nothing, for she was sure that bessie would soon come to her if she was in any difficulty. "what are you thinking about, bessie?" asked the colonel that afternoon, when she was in his room. he was much better, and was sitting up in his easy-chair. "what is faith?" asked bessie, answering his question by another, and turning her great serious, brown eyes on his face. the colonel looked surprised. "faith?" he said. "why, to have faith in a person is to believe in him and trust in him." bessie did not look satisfied. "when you first went in bathing," said the colonel, "did you not feel afraid?" "no, sir," answered bessie. "why not? did you not fear that those great waves would wash you away and drown you?" "no, sir; before i went in, i thought i would be very 'fraid; but papa said he would carry me in his arms, and wouldn't let me be drownded." "and did you believe him?" "why, yes," answered bessie, opening her eyes very wide at this question; "my father don't tell stories." "and you were not afraid when he carried you in his arms?" "no, sir." "that was faith,--faith in your father. you believed what he told you, and trusted in his care." bessie still looked puzzled. "well," said the colonel, "don't you understand yet?" "i don't know how it is about things," said the little girl. "what things?" "things that i don't know how they can be." "do you mean, bessie," said mrs. rush, "that you do not know how to have faith in what you do not understand?" "yes, ma'am." "see here, little old head on young shoulders," said the colonel, drawing bessie closer to him, and seeming much amused, "when i told you that this box would make sweet music, did you believe me?" "yes, sir." "did you understand how it could?" "no, sir." "do you know what this paper-knife is made of?" "no, sir." "it is made of the shell of a fish; do you believe it?" "why, yes," answered bessie. "but you did not see it made; how can you believe it?" "'cause you tell me so." "well, then, that is faith; you believe what i say, even when you cannot understand how it is, because you trust me, or have faith in me, for you know i never tell you anything that is not true. if i sometimes told you what is false, you could not have faith in me; could you?" "no," said the little girl, "but you never would tell me _falses_." "indeed, i would not, my pet," he said, smiling, and twisting one of her curls over his finger. she stood for a few minutes, as if thinking over what he had told her, and then, her whole face lighting up, she said, "oh, yes, i know now! i believe what papa tells me when he says he'll take care of me, 'cause he always tells me true, and i know he can do it; and that's faith; and i believe what you tell me, 'cause you tell me true; and that's faith; and we believe what god tells us, even if we can't understand how it can be, 'cause he tells us what is true; and that's faith. now i know what nursey meant." "what did nurse say, dear?" asked mrs. rush. "she said we must have faith about three persons in one god, and believe what we could not understand; but i think i do understand about that too. i thinked about it when i was sitting on the yocks this morning, and i am going to ask mamma if it is yight." "and what do you think about it, bessie?" "why," said bessie, holding up her little finger, "don't you know i have a silver three cent piece? well, there's three pennies in it--mamma said so,--but it's only one piece of money, and i suppose it's somehow that way about three persons in one god,--father, son, and holy ghost,--three persons in one god."[a] if the colonel had looked surprised before, he looked still more so now, while mrs. rush laid down her work and gazed at the child. "who told you that, bessie?" she asked. "oh, nobody," said bessie, innocently; "i just thinked it; maybe it is not yight. i couldn't ask mamma about it all day, 'cause she was busy, or some one came to see her; and i don't like to ask her things when somebody is there." mrs. rush looked out of the window by which she sat, and seemed to be watching the sea; and bessie stood, softly patting the colonel's knee with her hand, while for a moment or two no one spoke. suddenly bessie looked up in the colonel's face. "colonel yush," she said, "don't you have a great deal of faith?" "in some people, bessie," he answered. "i have a great deal of faith in my little wife, and a great deal in my pet bessie, and some few others." "oh, i mean in our father," she said. "i should think you'd have more faith than 'most anybody, 'cause he took such good care of you in the battles." "what?" said the colonel, "when my leg was shot off?" bessie did not know whether he was in earnest or not, but she did not think it was a thing to joke about, and he did not look very well pleased, though he laughed a little when he spoke. "oh, don't make fun about it," she said, "i don't think he would like it. he could have let you be killed if he chose, but he didn't; and then he took such care of you all that night, and let your men come and find you. don't you think he did it 'cause he wanted you to love him more than you did before? oh, i know you must have a great deal of faith! didn't you keep thinking of jesus all that night, and how he died for you so his father could forgive your sins, and take you to heaven if you died?" "i was very thankful when i heard my men coming, bessie; but i was too weak to think much," said the colonel. "come, let us wind the box and have some music; hand me that key." "but you think a great deal about it when you don't feel so bad; don't you?" persisted the child, as she gave him the key of the musical box. "pshaw!" said the colonel, throwing it down again on the table; "what absurdity it is to fill a child's head--" "horace!" said mrs. rush, in a quick, startled voice. the colonel stopped short, then taking up the paper-cutter, began tapping the table in a very impatient manner. "i am sick of the whole thing," he said; "there seems to be no end to it. wife, sister, and friend, from the parson to the baby, every one has something to say on the same subject. i tell you i will have no more of it from any one. i should have supposed i would have been safe there. and my own words turned into a handle against me too." and he looked at bessie, who had drawn a little away from him and stood gazing at him with fear and wonder in her large eyes. she had never seen him angry before, and she could not think what had made him so now. "am i naughty?" she asked. "no, darling," said mrs. rush, holding out her hand. bessie ran over to her. mrs. rush lifted her up in her lap. "did i talk too much?" asked bessie. "i did not mean to tease him." "see that steamship coming in, bessie," said mrs. rush, in a voice that shook a little. "i think it must be the 'africa,' which is to bring gracie howard's father. will she not be glad to see him?" "yes," said bessie; but she did not look at the steamer, but watched the colonel, who still seemed vexed, and kept up his tattoo with the paper-cutter. nobody spoke again for a few moments, and bessie grew more and more uncomfortable. presently she gave a long sigh, and leaned her cheek on her hand. "are you tired, dear?" asked mrs. rush. "no," said bessie, "but i'm so uncomf'able. i think i had yather go to mamma in grandmamma's yoom." mrs. rush put her down, and was leading her away, but when they reached the door, bessie drew her hand from hers and ran back to the colonel. "i am sorry i teased you," she said. "i didn't know you didn't like people to talk about that night; i'll never do it any more again." the colonel threw down the paper-cutter, and catching her in his arms, kissed her heartily two or three times. "you do not tease me, my pet," he said; "you did not know how cross your old soldier could be; did you?" "you was not so very cross," she said, patting his cheek lovingly with her little hand. "sick, lame people can't be patient all the time, and i do talk too much sometimes; mamma says i do. next time i come, i'll be so quiet." then she ran back to mrs. rush, who took her to her grandmamma's room and left her at the door. bessie went to mamma, and tried to climb upon her lap. mrs. bradford lifted her up, but she was talking to her mother, and did not notice her little girl's troubled face till mrs. stanton signed to her to look at bessie. then she asked, "what is it, dearest?" "i don't know, mamma," said bessie. "has something troubled you?" asked mamma. "yes," said bessie; "i teased the colonel." "oh!" said maggie, "did you slam the door?" "no, i talked about what he didn't like," said bessie, with a quivering lip; "i talked about that night, and it teased him. i didn't know he didn't like to hear about it, mamma. i s'pose it's because he suffered so much he don't like to think of it." mamma had no need to ask what night she meant; ever since bessie had heard of the terrible night when the colonel had lain upon the battle-field, faint and almost dying from his dreadful wounds, thinking that he should never see his home and friends again, the story had seemed to be constantly in her mind; and she spoke of it so often that her mother knew quite well what she meant. "what did you say about it, dear?" she asked. bessie could not remember all, but she told enough to let her mother see what had displeased the colonel. but mrs. bradford did not tell her little girl, for she knew it would distress her very much to know that the brave soldier of whom she was so fond did not like to be reminded, even by a little child, of his debts and duty to the merciful father who had kept him through so many dangers and who had sent his dear son to die for him. footnotes: [footnote a: the above train of reasoning was actually carried out by a child of five years.] x. _the sick baby._ one night the dear little baby was very sick. bessie woke many times, and as often as she did so, she found that nurse had not come to bed, and when she looked through the open door which led into her mother's room, she saw either her father or mother walking up and down with the baby, trying to hush her pitiful cries and moans. in the morning the doctor was sent for, and grandmamma came over to the cottage and stayed all day; but the baby grew worse and worse. in the afternoon maggie and bessie went into their mamma's room and stood by her side looking at their little sister, who was lying on her lap. the baby seemed very restless, and was moaning and throwing its arms about; suddenly it threw back its head with a very strange look on its face, and clinched its tiny hands. mamma caught it in her arms, and she and grandmamma called for nurse to bring warm water. mrs. jones came with it in a minute, saying, "i had it all ready, for i thought it would be wanted." maggie ran away; she could not bear to see baby look and act so strangely; but bessie stayed till grandmamma sent her out of the room. in a short time, jane came to take the little girls to the beach. they did not want to go, and begged her to let them stay at home; but she said she could not keep franky in the house all the afternoon, and she thought their mamma would wish them to go out as usual; so they said no more, and went with her, like the obedient children they were. they found colonel and mrs. rush down on the beach. mrs. rush talked to jane a little, and then said she would go up and see baby. she left the little girls with the colonel, and he tried to amuse them; but although he told them a very interesting story, they did not care about it half as much as usual. mrs. rush stayed a good while, and came back with a very grave face, and when her husband asked, "how is the child?" she looked at him without speaking; but maggie and bessie knew by this that the baby was worse. then mrs. rush asked them if they did not want to go to the hotel and have tea with her and the colonel, but they said "no," they wanted to go home. when they went back to the house, jane left the little girls sitting on the door-step, while she took franky in to give him his supper. it was a very quiet, lovely evening. the sun had gone down, but it was not dark yet. the sky was very blue, and a few soft gray clouds, with pink edges, were floating over it. down on the beach they could see the people walking and driving about; but not a sound was to be heard except the cool, pleasant dash of the waves, and farmer jones' low whistle as he sat on the horse-block with susie on his knee. susie sucked her fat thumb, and stared at the children. they sat there without speaking, with their arms round each other's waists, wishing they knew about the baby. presently mrs. jones came down stairs and called out over the children's heads, "sam'l." mr. jones got up off the horse-block and came towards them. "here," said mrs. jones, handing him a paper, "they want you to go right off to the station and send up a telegraph for the city doctor. here it is; mr. bradford writ it himself, and he says you're to lose no time. 'taint a mite of use though, and it's just a senseless wastin' of your time." "not if they want it done," said jones. "why, susan, s'pose everybody hadn't done everything they could when we thought this one was going to be took, wouldn't we have thought they was hard-hearted creeturs? i aint done thanking the almighty yet for leaving her to us, and i aint the man to refuse nothing to them as is in like trouble,--not if it was to ride all the way to york with the telegram." "i'm sure i don't want you to refuse 'em," said mrs. jones,--"one can't say no to them as has a dyin' child; but i do say it's no use. it will all be over long before the doctor comes; all the doctors in york can't save that poor little lamb. anyhow, if i was miss bradford, i wouldn't take on so; she's got plenty left." "i'll do my part, anyhow," said the farmer, as he handed susie to her mother, and then hurried off to saddle his horse and ride away to the station as fast as possible, while mrs. jones carried susie off to the kitchen. "maggie," whispered bessie, "what does she mean?" "the bad, hateful thing!" answered maggie, with a sudden burst of crying; "she means our baby is going to die. she wouldn't like any one to say that of her susie, and i don't believe it a bit. bessie, i can't bear her if she does make us cookies and turnovers. i like mr. jones a great deal better, and i wish he didn't have mrs. jones at all. mamma wont have plenty left if our baby dies; six isn't a bit too many, and she can't spare one of us, i know." "but perhaps jesus wants another little angel up in heaven," said bessie, "and so he's going to take our baby." "well, i wish he would take somebody else's baby," said maggie. "there's mrs. martin, she has thirteen children, and i should think she could spare one very well; and there's a whole lot of little babies at the orphan asylum, that haven't any fathers and mothers to be sorry about them." "perhaps he thinks our baby is the sweetest," said bessie. "i know she is the sweetest," said maggie, "but that's all the more reason we want her ourselves. she is so little and so cunning; i think she grows cunninger and cunninger every day. day before yesterday she laughed out loud when i was playing with her, and put her dear little hands in my curls and pulled them, and i didn't mind it so very much if she did pull so hard i had to squeal a little; and oh! i'd let her do it again, if she would only get well. don't you think, bessie, if we say a prayer, and ask jesus to let us keep her, he will?" "i think he will," said bessie; "we'll try." "let us go into the sitting-room," said maggie, "there is no one there." "oh! let us stay out here," answered bessie, "there's such a beautiful sky up there. perhaps jesus is just there looking at us, and maybe he could hear us a little sooner out here. nobody will see us." they knelt down together by the seat on the porch. "you say it, bessie," said maggie, who was still sobbing very hard. she laid her head down on the bench, and bessie put her hands together, and with the tears running over her cheeks said, "dear jesus, please don't take our darling little baby to be an angel just yet, if you can spare her. she is so little and so sweet, and poor mamma will feel so sorry if she goes away, and we will, too, and we want her so much. please, dear jesus, let us keep her, and take some poor little baby that don't have any one to love it, amen." they sat down again on the door-step till harry and fred came in. "how is baby?" asked harry. "we don't know," said maggie; "nobody came down this ever so long." "go up and see, midget." "oh! i can't, harry," said maggie. "i don't want to see that strange look on baby's face." "then you go, bessie," said harry; "my shoes make such a noise, and you move just like a little mouse. you wont disturb them." bessie went up stairs and peeped in at the door of her mother's room. there was no one there but papa and mamma and the baby. papa was walking up and down the room with his arms folded, looking very sad and anxious, and mamma sat on a low chair with baby on her lap. the little thing lay quiet now, with its eyes shut and its face so very, very white. mamma was almost as pale, and she did not move her eyes from baby's face even when bessie came softly up and stood beside her. bessie looked at her baby sister and then at her mother. mamma's face troubled her even more than the baby's did, and she felt as it she must do something to comfort her. she laid her hand gently on her mother's shoulder, and said, "dear mamma, don't you want to have a little angel of your own in heaven?" mamma gave a start and put her arm farther over the baby, as if she thought something was going to hurt it. papa stopped his walk and bessie went on,-- "maggie and i asked jesus to spare her to us, if he could; but if he wants her for himself, we ought not to mind very much; ought we? and if you feel so bad about it 'cause she's so little and can't walk or speak, i'll ask him to take me too, and then i can tell the big angels just how you took care of her, and i'll help them. and then when you come to heaven, you will have two little angels of your own waiting for you. and we'll always be listening near the gate for you, dear mamma, so that when you knock and call us, we'll be yeady to open it for you; and if we don't come yight away, don't be frightened, but knock again, for we'll only be a little way off, and we'll come just as fast as i can bring baby; and she'll know you, for i'll never let her forget you. and while you stay here, dear mamma, wont it make you very happy to think you have two little children angels of your own, waiting for you and loving you all the time?"[b] mamma had turned her eyes from the baby's face, and was watching her darling bessie as she stood there talking so earnestly yet so softly; and now she put her arm around her and kissed her, while the tears ran fast from her eyes and wet bessie's cheeks. "please don't cry, mamma," said the little girl; "i did not mean to make you cry. shall i ask jesus to take me, too, if he takes the baby?" "no, no, my darling, ask him to leave you, that you may be your mother's little comforter, and pray that he may spare your sister too." "and if he cannot, mamma?" "then that he may teach us to say, 'thy will be done,'" said her father, coming close to them and laying his hand on bessie's head. "he knows what is best for us and for baby." "yes," said bessie, "and i suppose if he takes her, he will carry her in his arms just as he is carrying the lambs in the picture of the good shepherd in our nursery. we need not be afraid he wont take good care of her; need we, mamma?" "no, darling," said mrs. bradford, "we need not fear to give her to his care, and my bessie has taught her mother a lesson." "did i, mamma?" said the little girl, wondering what her mother meant; but before she could answer, grandmamma came in with the country doctor. mr. bradford took bessie in his arms, and after holding her down to her mother for another kiss, carried her from the room. when he had her out in the entry, he kissed her himself many times, and whispered, as if he was speaking to himself, "god bless and keep my angel child." "yes, papa," said bessie, thinking he meant the baby, "and maggie and i will say another prayer about her to-night; and i keep thinking little prayers about her all the time, and that's just the same, papa; isn't it?" "yes, my darling," said her father; and then he put her down and stood and watched her as she went down stairs. it was not the will of our father in heaven that the dear little baby should die. late in the night the doctor came from new york, and god heard the prayers of the baby's father and mother and little sisters, and blessed the means that were used to make it well; and before the morning it was better, and fell into a sweet, quiet sleep. footnotes: [footnote b: almost the exact words of a very lovely child of a friend of the writer.] xi. _the happy circumstance._ the next morning, when bessie woke up, it was very quiet in the nursery. she lay still a moment, wondering what it was that had troubled her last night; and just as she remembered about the baby, she heard a little discontented sound at her side. she turned her head and looked around, and there sat maggie on the floor beside the trundle-bed, with one sock and one shoe on, and the other shoe in her hand. she looked rather cross. "maggie," said bessie, "has the baby gone to heaven?" "no," said maggie, "and i don't believe she's going just yet. our own doctor came in the night, and she's a great deal better; and now she's fast asleep." "and don't you feel glad then?" "oh, yes! i am real glad of _that_," said maggie. "then why don't you look glad? what is the matter?" "i can't find my clo'," said maggie, in a fretful tone. "what clo'?" "why, my sock." "why don't nurse or jane find it for you?" asked bessie. "i can't wait," said maggie; "i want it now; nurse is holding baby because mamma has gone to sleep too, and jane has taken franky to harry's room to dress him, because she was afraid he would make a noise; and she said if i put on my shoes and socks, and all the rest of my under-clo's before she came back, i might put on yours, if you waked up. and that's a great 'sponsibility, bessie; and i want to do it, and now i can't." "look some more," said bessie, who was very well pleased at the thought of having her sister dress her. "i have looked all over," said maggie. "i just expect a robber came in the night and stole it." "why, it would not fit him!" said bessie. "well, i guess he has a bad little robber girl of his own that he has taken it to," said maggie. "anyhow, she'll be bare one foot, and i'm glad of it." bessie sat up in the bed and looked around the room. "i see a pair of clean socks over there on your petticoats," she said. "so there is," said maggie; and quite good-natured again, she began to dress as fast as she could. "maggie," said bessie, as she lay down again to wait till her sister was ready, "what was the name of that word you said?" "what,--'sponsibility?" "yes, that's it; say it again." "spons-er-bil-er-ty," said maggie, slowly. "oh!" said bessie, with a long breath, as if that word was almost too much for her, "what does it mean?" "it means something to do or to take care of." "then when mamma put baby on the bed the other day, and told me to take care of her, was that a great spons-er-bil-er-ty?" "yes," said maggie. "it's a nice word; isn't it, maggie?" "yes, but it is not so nice as happy circumstance." "oh, that is very nice? what does that mean, maggie?" "it means something very nice and pleasant. i'm going to say happy circumstance to some one to-day, if i get a chance." "whom are you going to say it to?" "i don't know yet; but i shall not say it to the boys, for they laugh at us when we say grown-up words. you may say it, bessie, if you want to." "oh, no," said bessie, "i would not say your new words before you say them yourself; that would not be fair, and i would not do it for a hundred dollars." "well," said maggie, "i would not let any one else do it, but you may say any of my words you want to, bessie." while they were talking away, maggie was putting on her clothes, and then bessie got up; and by the time jane came back, maggie had nearly dressed her sister too. jane called maggie a good, helpful little girl, which pleased her very much, for she liked praise. after breakfast, as the children were standing on the porch waiting for jane to take them for their walk, harry came along and told them, if they would come out to the barn, he would give them a swing. they never said no to the offer of a swing, and, much pleased, followed him to the barn, where they found mr. jones sitting outside of the door mending his nets. he took down the swing for them, lifted bessie in, and then went back to his work. maggie had said that bessie should take her turn first, and that, while harry was swinging her, she would go out and talk to mr. jones. they were very good friends now, and maggie was not at all afraid of him, but sat watching him with great interest as he filled up the broken places in his nets. "well, and so the little sister is better this morning?" said mr. jones. "yes," said maggie; "and we are very much obliged to you, mr. jones." "what for?" asked jones. "because you went so quick to send for our own doctor." "deary me, that wasn't nothing," said mr. jones. "i'd ha' been a heathen if i hadn't." maggie stood silent for a few moments, watching him, and then said, slowly, but very earnestly, "mr. jones, do you think mrs. jones is a very happy circumstance?" mr. jones looked at her for a moment as if he did not quite understand her, and then he smiled as he said, "well, yes, i reckon i do; don't you?" "no, i _don't_," said maggie. "what did make you marry her, mr. jones?" "because i thought she would make me a good wife." [illustration: bessie at sea side. p. .] "and does she?" "first-rate; don't you think she does?" "i don't know," said maggie, "i don't like her very much; i like you a great deal better than i do her; i think you are a very nice man, mr. jones." "i guess i'm about of the same opinion about you," said mr. jones; "but what is the reason you don't like mrs. jones?" "oh," said maggie, "because she--she--does things. she makes me just as mad as a hop." "what things?" "she goes and has trundle-beds," said maggie. mr. jones laughed out now as he said, "oh, you haven't got over that trouble yet, eh? well, what else does she do?" "she said we could spare our baby, and we couldn't," said maggie, angrily; "and she didn't want you to go send the message for our own doctor. i think she ought to be ashamed." "she didn't mean it," said mr. jones, coaxingly. "people ought not to say things they don't mean," said maggie. "no more they oughtn't, but yet you see they do sometimes." "and she said mamma took on," said maggie, "and mamma would not do such a thing; mamma is a lady, and ladies do not take on." this seemed to amuse mr. jones more than anything else, and he laughed so loud and so long that mrs. jones came out to the kitchen door. "sam'l," she called, "what are you making all that noise about?" "oh, don't tell her!" said maggie; while mr. jones laughed harder than ever, and she saw that mrs. jones was coming towards them. "don't you be afraid," said mr. jones, "i aint goin' to tell her." "now aint you just ashamed of yourself, sam'l," said mrs. jones as she came up, "to be making all that hee-hawing, and poor miss bradford and that little sick lamb lying asleep? do you want to wake 'em up? is he laughing at you, maggie?" maggie hung her head, and looked as if she would like to run away. "i s'pose he's just tickled to death about some of your long words, that he thinks so funny," said mrs. jones. "it does not take much to set him going. never you mind him, come along with me to the kitchen, and see the nice ginger cakes i am makin' for your supper. i'll make you and bessie a gingerbread man apiece. such good children you was yesterday, keeping so quiet when the baby was sick, and trying to help yourselves when your poor 'ma and your nurse was busy. if it had been them young ones that was here last summer, they'd have kept the house in a riot from night till morning when they was left to themselves. jane was tellin' me how nicely you dressed yourself and bessie this morning. now, sam'l, you stop bein' such a goose." poor maggie did not know which way to look. here was mrs. jones, whom she had just been saying she did not like, praising and petting her and promising gingerbread men; and oh, mr. jones was laughing so! he was not laughing out loud now, but he was shaking all over, and when maggie peeped at him from under her eyelashes, he twinkled his eyes at her, as much as to say, "now, what do you think of her?" right glad was she when harry called her to take her turn at the swing, and she could run away out of sight of mr. and mrs. jones. in a few days the dear baby was quite well and bright again, while her little sisters thought they loved her more than ever, now that she had been spared to them when they had so much feared they were to lose her. xii. _miss adams._ among the many pleasures which maggie and bessie bradford enjoyed at quam beach, there was none which they liked much better than going over to the hotel to see the dear friends who were staying there. sometimes it was to stay a while with grandmamma and aunt annie; perhaps to take a meal with them at the long hotel table; to hear grandmamma's stories, or to have a frolic with aunt annie and their little playmates. aunt annie was a young girl herself, merry and full of mischief, and liked play almost as well as maggie. then there were those delightful visits to colonel and mrs. rush, which the colonel said he enjoyed more than they did; but they thought that could not be possible. they knew a good many of the other people, too, and almost every one was pleased to see the two well-behaved, ladylike little girls. but there was staying at the hotel a lady who used to amaze maggie and bessie very much. her name was miss adams. she was very tall and rather handsome, with bright, flashing black eyes, a beautiful color in her cheeks, and very white teeth. but she had a loud, rough voice and laugh, and a rude, wild manner, which was more like that of a coarse man than a young lady. then she talked very strangely, using a great many words which are called "slang," and which are not nice for any one to use, least of all for a lady. maggie ran away whenever she came near; but bessie would stand and watch her with a grave, disapproving air, which was very amusing to those who saw it. miss adams generally had a number of gentlemen around her, with whom she was very familiar, calling them by their names without any "mr.," slapping them on the shoulder, laughing and talking at the top of her voice, and altogether behaving in a very unladylike way. but bessie thought it very strange that sometimes, when miss adams had been acting in this rough, noisy manner, after she went away, the gentlemen would shrug their shoulders, and laugh and talk among themselves, as if they were making unkind remarks about her. she thought they could not like her very much, after all, when they did so. one evening harry came home from the hotel in a state of great indignation. miss adams had a beautiful dog named carlo. he was a water spaniel, and was a great favorite with all the boys, who often coaxed him to the shore, where they could play with him. miss adams was generally willing enough to have him go; but that afternoon, when she was going out in her pony carriage, she wanted him to go with her, and he was not to be found. something had happened before to put her out, and she was very angry at carlo's absence. she had gone but a little way, when it began to rain, and she had to turn back. this vexed her still more; and just as she jumped from her carriage, carlo ran up. "so, sir," she said, with an angry frown, "i'll teach you to run away without leave!" and taking the poor dog by the back of the neck, she thrashed him with the horse-whip she held in her other hand. carlo whined and howled, and looked up in her face with pitiful eyes; but she only whipped him the harder. the ladies turned pale and walked away, and the gentlemen begged her to stop, but all in vain; she kept on until her arm was quite tired, and then the poor dog crept away shaking and trembling all over. the boys were furious, and maggie and bessie were very much distressed when they heard the story, and disliked miss adams more than ever. when the baby was quite well again, mr. and mrs. bradford took a drive of some miles, to spend the day with an old friend. they took only baby and nurse with them, and maggie and bessie went up to the hotel to stay with their grandmamma. it was a very warm day, and grandmamma called them indoors earlier than usual. but they did not care much, for aunt annie was a capital playmate, and she amused them for a long time. but just as she was in the midst of a most interesting story, some ladies came to make a visit to grandmamma. one of the ladies was old and rather cross, and she did not like children, and aunt annie thought that it would not be very pleasant for her little nieces to be in the room while she was there. so she gave them a pack of picture cards and a basket of shells, and said they might go and play with them on one of the long settees which stood on the piazza. there were only one or two people on the piazza, and the children spread out their shells and pictures, and were very busy and happy for some time. they heard miss adams' loud voice in the hall, but did not pay any attention to her. presently she came out on the piazza, followed by three or four gentlemen, and looked around for a shady place. she saw none that she liked as well as that where maggie and bessie were playing, and coming up to them, she sat down on the other end of the bench. the gentlemen stood around. "here, thorn," said miss adams, "sit down here;" and she moved nearer to bessie, sweeping down some of the shells and pictures with her skirts. mr. thorn obeyed, and maggie whispered to bessie, "let's go away." bessie said, "yes;" and they began to gather up their treasures, maggie stooping to pick up those which miss adams had thrown down. presently bessie felt a pretty hard pull at one of her long curls. she was sure it was miss adams, although she did not see her; but she said nothing, only shook back her hair, and put on the look she always did when miss adams was doing anything of which she did not approve. there came another pull, this time a little harder. "don't," said bessie. a third pull, just as maggie raised her head and saw miss adams' hand at bessie's hair. "don't!" said bessie again, in a louder and more impatient tone. "come now, lovatt," said miss adams, "are you not ashamed to be pulling a young lady's hair?" "oh!" said maggie, astonished out of her shyness, "you did it yourself! i saw you." miss adams shook her fist at maggie, and then gave a longer and harder pull at bessie's hair. "when i tell you _to don't_, why _don't_ you don't?" said bessie, furiously, stamping her foot, and turning to miss adams, her face crimson with anger. miss adams and the gentlemen set up a shout of laughter, and mr. lovatt, who was standing just behind bessie, caught her up in his arms and held her high in the air. now bessie disliked mr. lovatt almost as much as she did miss adams. he was a great tease, and was always running after her and trying to kiss her. he had never done it yet, for she had always managed to run away from him, or some of her friends had interfered to save her from being annoyed. "put me down!" she said. "not until you have given me three kisses," said mr. lovatt. "i have you now, and you cannot help yourself." "put me down!" screamed bessie, furious with passion. "for shame, lovatt!" said mr. thorn, and mr. lovatt looked for a moment as if he was going to put bessie down; but miss adams laughed and said,-- "you are not going to let that little mite get the better of you? _make_ her kiss you. such airs!" mr. lovatt lowered the struggling child a little, but still held her fast in his arms, while maggie ran off to call her grandmamma. "kiss me, and i'll let you go," said mr. lovatt. "i wont, i wont!" shrieked bessie. "i'll tell my papa." "your papa is far away," said miss adams. "i'll tell colonel yush!" gasped bessie. "do you think i care a _rush_ for him?" said mr. lovatt, as he tried to take the kisses she would not give. bessie screamed aloud, clinched one little hand in mr. lovatt's hair, and with the other struck with all her force upon the mouth that was so near her own. "whew!" said mr. lovatt, as he quickly set bessie upon her feet, "who would have thought that tiny hand could have stung so?" "you little tiger!" said miss adams, seizing bessie by the shoulder and giving her a shake. "you are the child they call so good; are you? why, there's not another in the house would have flown into such a passion for nothing. what a furious temper!" bessie had never been shaken before. it was a punishment which mr. and mrs. bradford would not have thought proper for a child, were she ever so naughty, and she had never been punished at all by any one but her father or mother, and that but seldom. but it was not so much the shaking as miss adams' words which sobered bessie in an instant. she had been in a passion again! she stood perfectly silent, her lips and cheeks growing so white that miss adams was frightened, but just then mrs. stanton stepped out on the piazza and came quickly toward them. they all looked ashamed and uncomfortable as the stately old lady lifted her little granddaughter in her arms and spoke a few words of stern reproof to the thoughtless young people who could find amusement in tormenting a little child. then she carried bessie away. xiii. _bessie's repentance._ mrs. stanton would have come sooner, but her visitors were just leaving when maggie came in, and she did not quite understand at first how it was. miss ellery, a young lady who had been standing by, rushed into mrs. stanton's room after she carried bessie in, and told her how the little girl had been treated. mrs. stanton was very much displeased, but just now she could think of nothing but the child's distress. she shook all over, and the sobs and tears came faster and faster till grandmamma was afraid she would be ill. she soothed and comforted and petted in vain. bessie still cried as if her heart would break. all she could say was, "oh, mamma, mamma! i want my own mamma!" at last mrs. stanton said kindly but firmly, "bessie, my child, you _must_ be quiet. you will surely be sick. grandmamma is very sorry for you, but your head cannot hurt you so very much now." "oh, no!" sobbed the little girl, clinging about her grandmother's neck, "it isn't that, grandmamma; i don't care much if she did pull my hair; but oh, i was so wicked! i was in a passion again, and i was _so_ bad! i struck that man, i know i did. jesus will be sorry, and he will be angry with me too. he will think that i don't want to be his little child any more, 'cause i was so very, very naughty. oh! what shall i do?" "tell jesus that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you, bessie," said grandmamma, gently. "oh! i am 'fraid he can't," sobbed bessie; "he must be so very angry. i didn't think about him, and i didn't try one bit, grandmamma. i just thought about what miss adams and that man did to me, and i was in such a dreadful passion; i never was so bad before. oh, i wish i could tell my own mamma about it!" all this was said with many sobs and tears and catchings of her breath, and grandmamma wished that miss adams could see the distress she had caused. "bessie," she said, "why did jesus come down from heaven and die on the cross?" "so our father in heaven could forgive us," answered the child more quietly. "and do you not think that his precious blood is enough to wash away our great sins as well as those which we may think are smaller?" "yes, grandmamma." "now, no sin is small in the eyes of a just and holy god, bessie; but when he made such a great sacrifice for us, it was that he might be able to forgive _every one_ of our sins against him, if we are truly sorry for them. and he will surely do so, my darling, and help and love us still, if we ask him for the sake of that dear son." "and will he listen to me _now_, grandmamma, just when i was so very naughty?" "yes, he is always ready to hear us. no matter how much we have grieved him, he will not turn away when we call upon him." bessie was silent for some minutes with her face hidden on her grandmother's neck, and her sobs became less violent. at last she whispered, "grandmamma, do you think jesus can love me just as much as he did before?" "just as much, my precious one," said grandmamma, drawing her arms close about bessie, and pressing her lips on the little curly head. then bessie raised her face and turned around in her grandmamma's lap. a very pale little face it was, and very weak and tired she looked; but she lay quite quiet now except for a long sob which still came now and then. maggie wondered why grandmamma bit her lip, and why her eyebrows drew together in a frown, as if she were angry. she could not be displeased with bessie now, she thought. presently grandmamma began to sing in a low voice,-- "just as i am, without one plea, save that thy blood was shed for me, and that thou bid'st me come to thee, o lamb of god! i come. "just as i am, and waiting not to rid my soul of one dark blot, to thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, o lamb of god! i come. "just as i am thou wilt receive, wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve, because thy promise i believe, o lamb of god! i come. "just as i am,--thy love unknown has broken every barrier down; now to be thine, yea, thine alone o lamb of god! i come." when she had sung one verse, maggie joined in, and bessie lay listening. when they were through, mrs. stanton put bessie down in a corner of the lounge, and said the children must have some lunch. first she rang the bell, and then went to a little cupboard at the side of the fireplace and brought out two small white plates, which maggie and bessie knew quite well. presently the waiter came to the door to know what mrs. stanton wanted. this was james, the head waiter. he knew maggie and bessie, and they were great favorites with him. his wife washed for some of the ladies in the hotel, and once when she came there with some clothes, she brought her little girl with her, and left her in the hall with her father, who was busy there. she was a _very_ little girl, and could just walk alone, and while she was toddling about after her father, she fell down and knocked her head against the corner of a door. she cried very hard, and james tried to quiet her, lest she should disturb some of the boarders. but she had a great bump on her head, and she did not see any reason why she should be still when it hurt her so. she was still crying when maggie and bessie came through the hall. each had a stick of candy, which some one had just given them. when they heard the little one crying, they stopped to ask what ailed her. "i'll give her my candy," said maggie. "yes, do," said bessie, "and i'll give you half of mine." the child stopped crying when she had the nice stick of candy. james was very much pleased, and after that he was always glad to wait upon our little girls. he had just now heard the story of bessie's trouble, for miss ellery had taken pains to spread it through the house, so vexed was she at miss adams, and james had been by when she was telling some of the ladies. he felt very sorry for bessie, and wished that he could do something for her. when he came to answer mrs. stanton's ring, she asked him to bring some bread and butter. "is it for the little ladies, ma'am?" asked james. mrs. stanton said, "yes," and james asked if they would not like toast better. two or three times when maggie and bessie had taken tea with their grandmamma, he had noticed that bessie always asked for toast. mrs. stanton thanked him and said yes, for she thought perhaps bessie would eat toast when she would not eat bread. "but can i have it at this time of the day?" she said. "no fear, ma'am," said james. "you shall have it, if i make it myself;" and with a nod to the children, he went away. bessie sat quiet in a corner of the sofa, still looking very grave. "don't you feel happy now, bessie?" said maggie, creeping close to her, and putting her arm around her. "i am sure jesus will forgive you." "yes, i think he will," said bessie; "but i can't help being sorry 'cause i was so naughty." "you was not half so bad as miss adams, if you did get into a passion," said maggie, "and i don't believe he'll forgive her." "oh, maggie!" said bessie. "well, i don't believe she'll ask him." "then i'll ask him," said bessie. "now, bessie, don't you do it!" "but i ought to ask him, if i want him to forgive me," said bessie. "when we say 'our father in heaven,' we say 'forgive us our sins as we forgive those that sin against us.' i think miss adams sinned against me a little bit; don't you, maggie?" "no, i don't," said maggie. "no little bit about it. _i_ think she sinned against you a great bit,--as much as the whole ocean." "then if i want jesus to forgive me, i ought to forgive her, and to ask him to forgive her too. i think i ought. i'm going to ask mamma to-night." "_i_ sha'n't do it, i know," said maggie. "i wish i was as tall as she is; no,--as tall as papa or colonel rush, and oh! wouldn't she get it then!" "what would you do?" asked bessie. "i don't know,--something. oh, yes! don't you know the pictures of bluebeard's wives, where they're all hanging up by their hair? i'd just hang her up that way, and then _her_ hair would be nicely pulled. and i'd get the boys to come and poke her with sticks." maggie said this, shaking her head with a very determined look. the idea of miss adams hanging up by her hair made bessie laugh; but in a moment she looked grave again. "i don't believe that's yight, maggie," she said. "i don't care," said maggie. "i'm going to say it." just then james came back, and they forgot miss adams for a while. he brought a nice plate of toast and some butter. grandmamma spread two pieces of toast and laid them on the little plates, and then went back again to the famous cupboard and brought out--oh, delicious!--a box of guava jelly. she put a spoonful on each plate, and gave them to the children. "now, remember," she said, "the jelly goes with the toast." bessie looked rather doubtfully at her toast. "grandmamma, i don't feel very hungry." "but you must eat something, bessie; it is long after your luncheon time, and it will not do for you to go until dinner without eating. mamma will think i did not take good care of you." but the toast tasted so good with the guava jelly that bessie eat the whole of hers and even asked for more, to grandma's great pleasure. when she brought it to her with some more jelly, she saw that bessie had still some of the sweetmeats left on her plate. "don't you like your jelly, dear?" she asked. "yes, ma'am," said bessie, "but i didn't know if i could eat all the toast, and i thought perhaps you only wanted me to eat just so much share of the guava as i eat a share of the toast; so i eat that first to be sure." grandma smiled, but she did not praise her honest little granddaughter, for she did not think it best. when aunt annie heard miss ellery tell how bessie had been treated, she was very angry, and said some things about miss adams and mr. lovatt which her mother did not wish to have her say before the children. she told her so, speaking in french; so annie said no more just then; but as soon as bessie ceased crying, she ran out to tell miss adams what she thought of her conduct. but happily miss adams was not to be found, and before annie saw her again, her mother had persuaded her that it was better to say nothing about it. but now when she could not find miss adams, she went off to mrs. rush's room and told her and the colonel the whole story. the colonel was angry enough to please even annie. he said so much, and grew so excited, that mrs. rush was sorry annie had told him. he was far more displeased than he would have been with any insult to himself, and when, soon after, he met mr. lovatt in the hall, he spoke so severely and angrily to him that mr. lovatt was much offended. very high words passed between the two gentlemen, and the quarrel might have become serious, if mr. howard had not interfered. miss adams heard all this, and when she found how much trouble and confusion she had caused by her cruel thoughtlessness, she felt rather ashamed, and wished she had not tormented the little child who had never done her any harm. but this was not the last of it, for miss adams was to be punished a little by the last person who meant to do it. xiv. _who is a lady?_ in the afternoon the children asked their grandmother if they might go down upon the beach, but she said it was still too warm, and she did not wish bessie to go out until the sun was down. "grandma is going to take her nap now," said aunt annie; "suppose we go out on the piazza and have a store, and ask lily and gracie to come play with you." "is miss adams there?" asked maggie. "no, but the colonel has had his arm-chair taken out, and is sitting there with mrs. rush, and i am going there with my work; so you will be quite safe." "oh, then we'll go," said bessie. she did not feel afraid where the colonel was. "are you going to sew with mrs. rush again?" asked maggie. aunt annie laughed and pinched her cheeks, telling her not to be inquisitive. for the last few days aunt annie had always seemed to be sewing with mrs. rush, and they were very busy, but they did not appear to wish to let the little girls know what they were doing. annie was always whisking her work out of their sight, and if they asked any questions, they were put off, or told, as maggie was now, not to be curious. once when they were staying with the colonel, when mrs. rush had gone out for a while, he sent bessie to a certain drawer to find a knife. bessie did as she was told, but as she was looking for it, she suddenly called out, "oh, what a dear darling little cap! just like a dolly's. why, does mrs. yush play with dolls when nobody looks at her?" "holloa!" said the colonel, "i forgot; come away from that drawer. i'm a nice man; can't keep my own secrets." maggie was going to ask some questions; but the colonel began to talk about something else, and they both forgot the little cap. but they were very curious to know why aunt annie and mrs. rush were always whispering and laughing and showing each other their work, as well as why it was so often put away when they came near. to-day aunt annie was embroidering a little piece of muslin, but she did not put it out of their sight, though she would answer no questions about it. they all went out on the piazza to set about making what maggie called, "a grocery and _perwision_ store." the piazza steps ended in two large blocks of wood, and on one of these they were to play. aunt annie made some paper boxes to hold some of their things, and they had clam shells for the rest. they had sand for sugar, blades of timothy grass for corn, sea-weed for smoked beef and ham, and small pebbles for eggs, with larger ones for potatoes. in short, it was quite wonderful to see the number of things they contrived to have for sale. when the colonel found what they were about, he called for a couple of clam shells, and sent his man for a piece of wood and some twine; with these he made a pair of scales, which maggie and bessie thought quite splendid. to be sure, one side was ever so much heavier than the other, but that did not matter in the least; neither they nor their customers would be troubled by a trifle like that. then he gave them a couple of bullets and some shot for weights, so that the whole thing was fixed in fine style. maggie went to call lily and gracie, and when mamie stone heard what was going on, she asked if she might come too. maggie said "yes," for mamie was not so disagreeable as she used to be when she first came to quam beach. however fretful and selfish she was when she was playing with other children, she was almost always pleasant when she was with maggie and bessie. maggie went back with her to their little playmates, and in a few moments they were all as busy as bees. maggie said bessie must be store-keeper, for she knew she did not feel like running about. they had been playing but a little while, when walter came up, and when he saw what they were doing, he said he would be a customer too. he was a capital playfellow, and pretended to be ever so many different people. first, he was an old negro man, then he was a naughty boy, who meddled with everything on the counter, and gave the little shop-woman a great deal of trouble, which she enjoyed very much; then he was a frenchman, who spoke broken english; and after that, he pretended to be a cross old irishman. while they were playing so nicely, who should come sweeping down the piazza but miss adams, dressed in her riding-habit? away went all the little girls like a flock of frightened birds. mamie and lily ran into the parlor, where they peeped at her from behind the blinds; gracie scrambled into annie stanton's lap; maggie squeezed herself in between the colonel and mrs. rush; and bessie walked to the other side of the colonel, where she stood with her hand on his chair. miss adams was vexed when she saw them all fly off so, for she had not come with any intention of interrupting or teasing them. she was going out to ride, and had walked to the window of the hall above, to see if the horses were at the door, and there she had noticed the children at their play. bessie stood quietly behind her counter, while the rest ran about after maggie. she looked more pale and languid than usual that afternoon, as she always did when she had been tired or excited. all the soft pink color which had come into her cheek since she had been at quam beach was quite gone; it was no wonder that grandma frowned and bit her lip to keep herself from saying sharp things when she looked at her darling that day. now, miss adams always said that she was afraid of nobody, and did not care what people said of her; but as she watched the delicate little child, who she knew had been brought by her parents to the sea-shore that she might gain health and strength, she felt sorry that she had plagued her so, and thought that she would like to make it up with her. she went into her room, put a large packet of sugar-plums into her pocket, and then went down stairs. she came up to bessie just as the little girl reached the colonel's side, and, standing before her, said,-- "well, bessie, are you in a better humor yet?" bessie was certainly not pale now. a very bright color had come into her cheeks, as miss adams spoke to her, but she said nothing. "come," said miss adams, holding out the parcel, "here are some sugar-plums for you; come, kiss me and make up." "i'll forgive you," said bessie, gravely; "but i don't want the sugar-plums." "oh, yes, you do!" said miss adams; "come and kiss me for them." "i don't kiss people for sugar-plums," said bessie; "and i'm sure i don't want them." "then come and kiss me without the sugar-plums." "no," said bessie, "i'll shake hands with you, but i don't kiss people i don't like." "oh!" said miss adams, "i suppose you keep all your kisses for your friend, the colonel." "oh, no," answered bessie, "a great many are for papa and mamma, and the yest of the people i like." miss adams saw that the colonel was laughing behind his newspaper, and she was provoked. "and you don't like me, eh?" she said, sharply. "don't you know it's very rude to tell a lady you don't like her, and wont kiss her?" bessie opened her eyes very wide. "are you a lady?" she asked, in a tone of great surprise. mrs. rush did not wish to have miss adams go on talking to the child, for she was afraid straightforward bessie would say something which would cause fresh trouble; and she begged annie stanton to take her away; but annie would not; she rather enjoyed the prospect, and when mrs. rush would have spoken herself, her husband put out his hand and stopped her. "a lady!" repeated miss adams; "what do you take me for? don't you know a lady when you see one?" "oh, yes," answered bessie, innocently. "mamma's a lady, and grandma and aunt annie and mrs. yush, and ever so many others." "and i'm not, eh?" said miss adams, angrily. bessie did not answer, but peeped up under the colonel's paper, to see if he would help her; but he did not seem inclined to interfere. his eyes were fixed on the paper which he held before his face, and his other hand was busily engaged in smoothing his moustache. miss adams was very angry. she would not have cared if she had been alone with bessie; but she was provoked that she should tell her she was not a lady, before so many people, for two or three gentlemen had gathered near, and the colonel's amusement vexed her still more. "you don't call me a lady, eh?" said miss adams again. "how can you quarrel with such a baby about nothing, miss adams?" said mrs. rush, rising from her seat. "she is no baby. she knows very well what she is about, and she has been put up to this," said miss adams, with a furious look at the colonel. "who told you i was not a lady?" "nobody; i just knew it myself," said bessie, drawing closer to the colonel, as miss adams came nearer to her. he threw down his paper, and put his hand over her shoulder. "you little impertinent!" said miss adams, "who made you a judge, i should like to know? not a lady, indeed!" poor bessie! she would not say what she did not think, and she did not like to say what she did think; but she was tired of the dispute, and thought miss adams would have an answer. she gave a long sigh, and said,-- "well, perhaps you are a kind of a lady; but if you are, it must be a kitchen or stable lady." the gentlemen who were standing by walked quickly away; mrs. rush looked frightened; annie bent her head down on gracie's shoulder, and shook with laughter; and the colonel reached his crutches and, rising, began to steady himself. miss adams stood silent a moment, and then began to speak in a voice almost choked with rage, "you little--" when the colonel interrupted her. "excuse me, madam," he said, "if i remind you that you have no one to blame for this but yourself. the child is straightforward and honest, accustomed to speak as she thinks; and if she has said what was better left unsaid, remember that you forced her to it. i cannot permit her to be annoyed any farther." helpless as he was, he looked so grand and tall as he stood there with his eyes fixed sternly on miss adams, that she felt abashed. mrs. rush had taken bessie into her room, annie had followed with maggie and gracie, and there was no one left to quarrel with but the colonel. just at that moment the horses were led up, and she turned away and went down the steps to mount. but miss adams had never been so annoyed. she had no mother, or perhaps she would not have been so rough and unladylike; but she had had many a reproof from other people. many a grave, elderly lady, and even some of her own age, had spoken, some kindly, some severely, upon the wild, boisterous manner in which she chose to behave. but she had always laughed at all they said, and went on as before. but that this innocent little child, to whom she had been so unkind, should see for herself that she had acted in an improper way, and one that was only fit for the kitchen or stable, and should tell her so, and show such surprise at hearing her call herself a lady, was very mortifying, and she could not forget it. that evening, when mr. and mrs. bradford came home, they went over to the hotel for their little girls, and annie told them all that had happened that day. after bessie was undressed, and had said her prayers, she sat on her mother's lap, and told her of all her troubles, and then she felt happier. "mamma, i'm afraid i made miss adams mad, when i said that, and i didn't mean to," she said. "but why did you say it, bessie?--it was saucy." "why, i had to, mamma; i didn't want to; but i couldn't _break the truth_; she asked me and asked me, so i had to." "oh, my bessie, my bessie!" said mamma, with a low laugh, and then she held the little girl very close in her arms, and kissed her. bessie nestled her head down on her mamma's bosom, and her mother held her there, and rocked her long after she was fast asleep. sometimes she smiled to herself as she sat thinking and watching her child; but once or twice a bright tear dropped down on bessie's curls. mamma was praying that her little girl might live to grow up and be a good christian woman, and that she might always love the truth as she did now, even when she was older and knew it was not wise to say such things as she had done to-day. xv. _uncle john._ "a letter from uncle john!" said mamma, at the breakfast-table. "i hope nellie is no worse. no, she is better; but the doctor has ordered sea air for her, and they all want to come here, if we can find room for them, either in this house or in the hotel." "the hotel is full, i know," said mr. bradford; "i do not think there is a room to be had. i wonder if mrs. jones can do anything for us." "i think not," said mrs. bradford. "old mr. duncan must be with them wherever they go, for john is not willing to leave his father alone." "we can ask her, at least," said mr. bradford. so the next time mrs. jones came in with a plate full of hot cakes, she was asked if she could possibly take in mr. duncan's family. "couldn't do it," she said. "if you didn't mind scroudging, i could give 'em one room; but two, i can't do it. i've plenty of beds, but no more rooms." maggie and bessie looked very much disappointed. it would be such a pleasure to have grandpapa duncan, and all the rest. "suppose we gave up this little dining-room, and took our meals in the sitting-room," said mr. bradford; "could you put old mr. duncan in here?" "oh, yes, well enough," said mrs. jones. "didn't suppose you'd be willing to do that, york folks is so partickler." "we would be willing to do far more than that to accommodate our friends," said mrs. bradford, smiling. after a little more talk with mrs. jones, it was all settled; so mamma sat down to write to uncle john, telling him they might come as soon as they chose. "mamma," said maggie, "what did mrs. jones mean by 'scroudging'?" "she meant to crowd." "i sha'n't take it for one of my words," said maggie; "i don't think it sounds nice." "no," said mamma, laughing, "i do not think it is a very pretty word; crowd is much better." the children went out in the front porch, greatly pleased with the idea of having their riverside friends with them. dear grandpapa duncan and aunt helen, merry uncle john and little nellie! maggie went hopping about the path, while bessie sat down on the steps with a very contented smile. presently she said,-- "maggie, if you was on the grass, what would you be?" "i don't know," said maggie; "just maggie stanton bradford, i suppose." "you'd be a grasshopper," said bessie. maggie stopped hopping to laugh. she thought this a very fine joke; and when, a moment after, her brothers came up to the house, she told them of bessie's "conundrum." they laughed, too, and then ran off to the barn. maggie sat down on the step by her sister. "bessie," she said, "don't you think mrs. jones is very horrid, even if she does make us gingerbread men?" "not very; i think she is a little horrid." "i do," said maggie; "she talks so; she called papa and mamma 'york folks.'" "what does that mean?" asked bessie. "i don't know; something not nice, i'm sure." "here comes papa," said bessie; "we'll ask him. papa, what did mrs. jones mean by york folks?" "she meant people from new york," said mr. bradford. "then why don't she say that?" said maggie; "it sounds better." "well, that is her way of talking," answered mr. bradford. "do you think it a nice way, papa?" "not very. i should be sorry to have you speak as she does; but you must remember that the people with whom she has lived are accustomed to talk in that way, and she does not know any better." "then we'll teach her," said maggie. "i'll tell her she doesn't talk properly, and that we're going to teach her." "indeed, you must do nothing of the kind," said mr. bradford, smiling at the idea of his shy maggie teaching mrs. jones; "she would be very much offended." "why, papa," said bessie, "don't she like to do what is yight?" "yes, so far as i can tell, she wishes to do right; but probably she thinks she speaks very well, and she would think it impertinent if two such little girls were to try to teach her. it is not really wrong for a person to talk in the way she does, if they know no better. it would be wrong and vulgar for you to do so, because you have been taught to speak correctly." "and do we do it?" said bessie. "do we speak coryectly?" "pretty well for such little girls," said papa. "mrs. jones laughs at us because she says we use such big words," said maggie; "and mr. jones does too. they ought not to do it, when they don't know how to talk themselves. i like grown-up words, and i am going to say them, if they do laugh." "well, there is no harm in that, if you understand their meaning," said papa; "but i would not feel unkindly towards mrs. jones; she means to be good and kind to you, and i think she is so; and you must not mind if her manner is not always very pleasant." "but she called you and mamma particular," said maggie, who was determined not to be pleased with mrs. jones. "well, if mrs. jones thinks we are too particular about some things, we think she is not particular enough; so neither one thinks the other quite perfect." maggie did not think this mended the matter at all. but just then the nurses came with the younger children, and after their father had played with them for a while, they all went for their morning walk on the beach. two days after, the party came from riverside, and, with some crowding, were all made comfortable. they almost lived out of doors in this beautiful weather, and so did not mind some little inconveniences in the house. uncle john was always ready for a frolic. now he would hire mr. jones' large farm wagon and two horses, cover the bottom of the wagon with straw, pack in aunt annie and the little bradfords, and as many other boys and girls as it would hold, and start off for a long drive. then he said they must have a clam-bake, and a clam-bake they had; not only one, but several. sometimes uncle john would invite their friends from the hotel, and they would have quite a grand affair; but, generally, they had only their own family, with mrs. rush, and the colonel when he was well enough to come; and the children enjoyed the smaller parties much more than they did the larger ones. first, a large, shallow hole was made in the sand, in which the clams were placed, standing on end; a fire was built on top of them, and they were left until they were well roasted, when they were pulled out and eaten with bread and butter. when mrs. jones found how fond the children were of roast clams, she often had them for their breakfast or supper; but they never tasted so good as they did when they were cooked in the sand and eaten on the shore. one cool, bright afternoon, mr. bradford and mr. duncan went down to the beach for a walk. the children had been out for some time: maggie was racing about with the boys; bessie, sitting on the sand beside a pool of salt water, looking into it so earnestly that she did not see her father and uncle till they were quite close to her. "what is my little girl looking at?" said her father, sitting down on a great stone which was near. "such an ugly thing!" said bessie. papa leaned forward and looked into the pool, and there he saw the thing bessie thought so ugly. it was a small salt-water crab which had been left there by the tide. he was very black and had long, sprawling legs, spreading out in every direction. he lay quite still in the bottom of the pool, with his great eyes staring straight forward, and did not seem to be in the least disturbed by the presence of his visitors. "what do you suppose he is thinking about, bessie?" said uncle john. "i guess he thinks he looks pretty nasty," said bessie; "i do." "bessie," said her father, "it seems to me that you and maggie say 'nasty' very often. i do not think it is at all a pretty word for little girls to use." "then i wont say it," said bessie; "but when a thing looks--looks _that_ way, what shall i say?" "you might say ugly," said mr. bradford. "but, papa, sometimes a thing looks ugly, and not nasty. i think that animal looks ugly and nasty too." "tell us of something that is ugly, but not nasty," said uncle john. bessie looked very hard at her uncle. now mr. duncan was not at all a handsome man. he had a pleasant, merry, good-natured face, but he was certainly no beauty. bessie looked at him, and he looked back at her, with his eyes twinkling, and the corners of his mouth twitching with a smile, for he thought he knew what was coming. "well?" he said, when bessie did not speak for a moment. "uncle john," said she, very gravely, "i think you are ugly, but i do not think you are nasty, a bit." uncle john laughed as if he thought this a capital joke; and mr. bradford smiled as he said, "it don't do to ask bessie questions to which you do not want a straightforward answer." "but i want to know about 'nasty,'" said bessie. "is it saying bad grammar, like mrs. jones, to say it?" "not exactly," said mr. bradford, "and you may say it when a thing is really nasty; but i think you often use it when there is no need. perhaps this little fellow does look nasty as well as ugly; but the other day i heard maggie say that mamie stone was a nasty, cross child. now, mamie may be cross,--i dare say she often is,--but she certainly is not nasty, for she is always neat and clean. and this morning i heard you say that you did not want 'that nasty bread and milk.' the bread and milk was quite good and sweet, and not at all nasty; but you called it so because you did not fancy it." "then did i tell a wicked story?" asked bessie, looking sober at the thought of having said what was not true. "no," said papa, "you did not tell a wicked story, for you did not mean to say that which was not so. but it is wrong to fall into the habit of using words which seem to say so much more than we mean. but do not look so grave about it, my darling; you did not intend to do anything that was not right, i am sure."-- "but, papa," said bessie, "why did god make ugly things?" "because he thought it best, bessie. he made everything in the way which best fitted it for the purpose for which he intended it. this little crab lives under the sea, where he has a great many enemies, and where he has to find his food. with these round, staring eyes which stand out so far from his head, he can look in every direction and see if any danger is near, or if there is anything which may do for him to eat. with these long, awkward legs, he can scamper out of the way, and with those sharp claws, he fights, for he is a quarrelsome little fellow. he can give a good pinch with them, and you had better not put your fingers too near them. under that hard, black shell, he has a tender body, which would be hurt by the rocks and stones among which he lives, if he had not something to protect it." uncle john took up a stick. "here, johnny crab," he said, "let us see how you can fight;" and he put the stick in the water and stirred up the crab. the moment he was touched, the crab began to move all his legs, and to scuttle round the pool as if he wanted to get out. but uncle john did not mean to let him come out until he had shown bessie what a nip he could give with those pincers of his. he pushed him back, and put the stick close to one of his larger claws. the crab took hold of it, as if he were very angry, and such a pinch as he gave it! "see there, bessie," said uncle john, "are you not glad it is not one of your little fingers he has hold of?" "yes," said bessie, climbing on her father's knee as the crab tried to get out. "i didn't know he could pinch like that." "or you would not have sat so quietly watching him, eh, bessie?" said uncle john. "well, romp,"--to maggie, as she rushed up to them, rosy and out of breath, and jumping upon the rock behind him, threw both arms around his neck,--"well, romp, here is a gentleman who wishes to make your acquaintance." "why, uncle john, what a horrid, nasty thing! what is it?" said maggie, as her uncle pushed back the crab, which was still trying to get out of the pool. "there it goes again," said uncle john,--"horrid, nasty thing! poor little crab!" "maggie," said bessie, "we must not say 'nasty.' papa says it means what we do not mean, and it's unproper. tell her about it, papa." "no," said papa, "we will not have another lecture now. by and by you may tell her. i think you can remember all i have said." "now see, maggie," said uncle john, "you have hurt the crab's feelings so that he is in a great hurry to run off home. i am sure his mother thinks him a very handsome fellow, and he wants to go and tell her how he went on his travels and met a monster who had the bad taste to call him 'a horrid, nasty thing.'" "oh," said bessie, laughing, "what a funny uncle john you are! but i should think it would hurt the crab's feelings a great deal more to be poked with a stick, and not to be let to go home when he wants to. i don't believe he knows what maggie says." "i think you are about right, bessie; i guess we must let him go." so the next time the crab tried to come out of the pool, uncle john put the stick by his claw, and when he took hold of it, lifted him out of the water and laid him on the sand. away the crab scampered as fast as his long legs could carry him, moving in a curious side-long fashion, which amused the children very much. they followed him as near to the water's edge as they were allowed to go, and then ran back to their father. xvi. _the birthday presents._ the tenth of august was maggie's birthday. she would be seven years old, and on that day she was to have a party. at first, mrs. bradford had intended to have only twenty little children at this party, but there seemed some good reason for inviting this one and that one, until it was found that there were about thirty to come. maggie begged that she might print her own invitations on some of the paper which grandpapa duncan had sent. mamma said she might try, but she thought maggie would be tired before she was half through, and she was right. by the time maggie had printed four notes, her little fingers were cramped, and she had to ask her mother to write the rest for her. mrs. bradford did so, putting maggie's own words on maggie's and bessie's own stamped paper. maggie said this was bessie's party just as much as hers, and the invitations must come from her too. so they were written in this way. "please to have the pleasure of coming to have a party with us, on tuesday afternoon, at four o'clock. "maggie and bessie." among those which maggie had printed herself, was one to colonel and mrs. rush. "what do you send them an invitation for?" said fred. "they wont come. the colonel can't walk so far, and mrs. rush wont leave him." "then they can send us a _refuse_," said maggie. "i know the colonel can't come, but maybe mrs. rush will for a little while. we're going to ask them, anyhow. they'll think it a great discompliment if we don't." such busy little girls as they were on the day before the birthday! the dolls had to be all dressed in their best, and the dolls' tea things washed about a dozen times in the course of the morning. then bessie had a birthday present for maggie. she had been saving all her money for some time to buy it. papa had bought it for her, and brought it from town the night before. every half-hour or so, bessie had to run and peep at it, to be sure it was all safe, taking great care that maggie did not see. they went to bed early, that, as maggie said, "to-morrow might come soon," but they lay awake laughing and talking until nurse told them it was long past their usual bedtime, and they must go right to sleep. the next morning bessie was the first to wake. she knew by the light that it was very early, not time to get up. she looked at her sister, but maggie showed no signs of waking. "oh, this is maggie's birthday!" said the little girl to herself. "my dear maggie! i wish she would wake up, so i could kiss her and wish her a happy birthday. 'many happy yeturns,' that's what people say when other people have birthdays. i'll say it to maggie when she wakes up. but now i'll go to sleep again for a little while." bessie turned over for another nap, when her eye was caught by something on the foot of the bed. she raised her head, then sat upright. no more thought of sleep for bessie. she looked one moment, then laid her hand upon her sleeping sister. "maggie, dear maggie, wake up! just see what somebody brought here!" maggie stirred, and sleepily rubbed her eyes. "wake up wide, maggie! only look! did you ever see such a thing?" maggie opened her eyes, and sat up beside bessie. on the foot of the bed--one on maggie's side, one on bessie's--were two boxes. on each sat a large doll--and such dolls! they had beautiful faces, waxen hands and feet, and what bessie called "live hair, yeal live hair." they were dressed in little white night-gowns, and sat there before the surprised and delighted children as if they had themselves just wakened from sleep. maggie threw off the bed-covers, scrambled down to the foot of the bed, and seized the doll nearest to her. "who did it, bessie?" she said. "i don't know," said bessie. "mamma, i guess. i think they're for your birthday." "why, so i s'pose it is!" said maggie. "why don't you come and take yours, bessie?" "but it is not my birthday," said bessie, creeping down to where her sister sat. "i don't believe somebody gave me one; but you will let me play with one; wont you, maggie?" "bessie, if anybody did be so foolish as to give me two such beautiful dolls, do you think i'd keep them both myself, and not give you one? indeed, i wouldn't. and even if they only gave me one, i'd let it be half yours, bessie." bessie put her arm about her sister's neck and kissed her, and then took up the other doll. "what cunning little ni'-gowns!" she said. "i wonder if they have any day clo's." "maybe they're in these boxes," said maggie. "i'm going to look. gracie howard's aunt did a very unkind, selfish thing. she gave her a great big doll with not a thing to put on it. i don't believe anybody would do so to us. oh, no! here's lots and lots of clo's! pull off your cover quick, bessie. oh, i am so very, very pleased! i know mamma did it. i don't believe anybody else would be so kind. see, there's a white frock and a silk frock and a muslin one, and--oh! goody, goody!--a sweet little sack and a round hat, and petticoats and drawers and everything! why don't you look at yours, bessie, and see if they are just the same?" "yes," said bessie; "they are, and here's shoes and stockings, and oh! such a cunning parasol, and here's--oh, maggie, here's the dear little cap that i saw in mrs. yush's drawer the day the colonel sent me to find his knife! why, she must have done it!" "and look here, bessie, at this dear little petticoat all 'broidered. that's the very pattern we saw aunt annie working the day that 'bomnable miss adams pulled your hair. isn't it pretty?" "and see, maggie! mrs. yush was sewing on a piece of silk just like this dear little dress, and she wouldn't tell us what it was. i do believe she did it, and aunt annie and maybe the colonel." "how could the colonel make dolls' clothes?" said maggie. "men can't sew." "soldier men can," said bessie. "don't you yemember how colonel yush told us he had to sew on his buttons? but i did not mean he made the dolly's clothes, only maybe he gave us the dolls, and mrs. yush and aunt annie made their things. oh, here's another ni'-gown,--two ni'-gowns!" "yes," said maggie. "i was counting, and there's two ni'-gowns, and two chemise, and two everything, except only dresses, and there's four of those, and they're all marked like our things,--'bessie,' for yours, and 'maggie' for mine. oh, what a happy birthday! bessie, i'm so glad you've got a doll too! oh, i'm so very gratified!" "i have something nice for you too, maggie. please give me my slippers, and i'll go and get it." maggie leaned over the side of the trundle-bed, to reach her sister's slippers, but what she saw there quite made her forget them. she gave a little scream of pleasure, and began hugging up her knees and rolling about the bed squealing with delight. bessie crept to the edge of the bed, and peeped over. there stood two little perambulators, just of the right size for the new dolls, and in each, lay neatly folded, a tiny affghan. when this new excitement was over, bessie put on her slippers and went for her present for maggie. this was a little brown morocco work-bag, lined with blue silk, and fitted up with scissors, thimble, bodkin, and several other things. she gave it to her sister saying, "i make you many happy yeturns, dear maggie." then maggie had another fit of rolling, tumbling, and screaming, until nurse, who was watching the children from her bed, though they did not know it, could stand it no longer, but broke into a hearty laugh. "now, nursey," said maggie. "is it a pig or a puppy we have got here for a birthday?" said nurse. "sure, it is a happy one i wish you, my pet, and many of 'em, and may you never want for nothing more than you do now. now don't you make such a noise there, and wake franky. i s'pose i may just as well get up and wash and dress you, for there'll be no more sleep, i'm thinking." "who gave us these dolls and all these things, nursey?" asked maggie. "indeed, then, bessie was just right," said nurse. "colonel rush gave you the dolls, and his wife, with miss annie, made the clothes; and did you ever see dolls that had such a fittin' out? it was your mamma that bought the wagons and made the blankets." "we didn't see her," said bessie. "no, but she did them when you were out or asleep; but you see mrs. rush and miss annie had to be working all the time on the clothes, lest they wouldn't be done; and you're round there so much, they had to let you see." "but we never knew," said maggie. the children could scarcely keep still long enough to let nurse bathe and dress them; but at last it was done, and then the dolls were dressed, and the rest of the clothes put nicely away in the boxes. as soon as baby awoke, they were off to their mamma's room, scrambling up on the bed to show their treasures, and talking as fast as their tongues could go. "i was so very surprised, mamma!" said maggie. "you were not; were you, bessie?" said mamma, laughing. "why, yes, i was." "didn't you see or hear something last night?" asked mamma. bessie looked at her mother for a minute, and then exclaimed, "oh, yes, i do yemember, now! maggie, last night i woke up and somebody was laughing, and i thought it was aunt annie; but when i opened my eyes, only mamma was there, and when i asked her where aunt annie was, she said, 'go to sleep; you shall see aunt annie in the morning.' mamma, i thought you came to kiss us, as you do every night before you go to bed. i suppose you put the dolls there that time?" "yes," said mrs. bradford. "that's what i call being _mysteyious_," said bessie. "do you like people to be mysterious, bessie?" asked her father, laughing. "about dolls, i do, papa; but about some things, i don't." "what things?" "when they're going to say what they don't want me to hear, and they send me out of the yoom. i don't like that way of being mysteyious at all. it hurts children's feelings very much to be sent out of the yoom." "what are these magnificent young ladies to be named?" asked uncle john, at the breakfast-table. "mine is to be bessie margaret marion," said maggie,--"after mamma and bessie and mrs. rush." "why, all your dolls are named bessie," said harry; "there are big bessie and little bessie and middling bessie." "i don't care," said maggie; "this is going to be bessie too. she will have two other names, so it will be very nice. besides, i am not going to play with middling bessie again. the paint is all off her cheeks, and franky smashed her nose in, and yesterday i picked out her eyes, to see what made them open and shut, so she is not very pretty any more. i am going to let susie have her." "and what is yours to be, bessie?" "margayet colonel hoyace yush byadford," said bessie, trying very hard to pronounce her r's. the boys shouted and even the grown people laughed. "that is a regular boy's name,--all except the margaret," said fred, "and the colonel is no name at all." "it is," said bessie,--"it is my own dear soldier's, and it is going to be my dolly's. you're bad to laugh at it, fred." "do not be vexed, my little girl," said her father. "colonel is not a name; it is only a title given to a man because he commands a regiment of soldiers. now young ladies do not command regiments, and horace is a man's name. you may call your doll what you please, but suppose you were to name her horatia; would not that sound better?" but bessie held fast to the horace; it was her soldier's name, and she was quite determined to give her doll the same. after breakfast, mrs. bradford called maggie up stairs for a while. "maggie, dear," she said, when she had taken the little girl up into her lap, "have you remembered this morning that our father in heaven has brought you to the beginning of another year of your life?" "oh, yes, mamma," said maggie; "i have done nothing but think it was my birthday ever since i woke up. you know i could not forget it when every one was so kind and gave me such lots and lots of lovely things." "but have you remembered to thank god for letting you see another birthday, and for giving you all these kind friends, and so many other blessings? and have you asked him to make you wiser and better each year, as you grow older?" "i am afraid i did not think much about it that way," said maggie, coloring; "but i _am_ very thankful. i know i have a great many blessings. i have you and papa and bessie, and my new doll, and all the rest of the family. but i want to know one thing, mamma. isn't it wrong to pray to god about dolls? bessie said it wasn't, but i thought it must be." "how to pray about them, dear?" "to thank god because he made colonel rush think of giving us such beautiful ones. bessie said we ought to, but i thought god would not care to hear about such little things as that. bessie said we asked every day for our daily bread; and dolls were a great deal better blessing than bread, so we ought to thank him. but i thought he was such a great god, maybe he would be offended if i thanked him for such a little thing as a doll." "we should thank him for every blessing, dear, great and small. though we deserve nothing at his hands, all that we have comes from his love and mercy; and these are so great that even our smallest wants are not beneath his notice. he knows all our wishes and feelings,--every thought, whether spoken or not; and if you feel grateful to him because he put it into the hearts of your kind friends to give you this pretty present, he knew the thought, and was pleased that you should feel so. but never fear to thank him for any mercy, however small. never fear to go to him in any trouble or happiness. he is always ready to listen to the simplest prayer from the youngest child. shall we thank him now for all the gifts and mercies you have received to-day, and for the care which he has taken of you during the past year?" "yes, mamma." "and, maggie, i think you have one especial blessing to be grateful for." "what, mamma?" "that you have been able, with god's help, to do so much towards conquering a very troublesome fault." "oh, yes, mamma! and i do think god helped me to do that, for i asked him every night and morning, since i meddled with papa's inkstand. i mean, when i said, 'god bless,' when i came to 'make me a good little girl,' i used to say quite quick and softly to myself, 'and careful too.'" "that was right, dear," said mrs. bradford, tenderly smoothing maggie's curls, and kissing her forehead; "you see he did hear that little prayer, and help you in what you were trying to do." then mrs. bradford knelt down with maggie, and thanked god that he had spared her child's life, and given her so many blessings, and prayed that each year, as she grew older, she might be better and wiser, and live more to his glory and praise. "i am not quite careful yet, mamma," said maggie, when they rose from their knees. "you know the other day, when nurse told me to bring in bessie's best hat, i forgot and left it out on the grass, and the rain spoiled it; but i mean to try more and more, and maybe, when i am eight, i will be as careful as bessie." xvii. _the birthday party._ maggie said this was the very best birthday she had ever had. the whole day seemed one long pleasure. she and bessie walked over, with their father and uncle john, to see colonel and mrs. rush, leaving mamma, aunt helen, and aunt annie all helping mrs. jones to prepare for the evening. there were cakes and ice cream and jelly to make, for such things could not be bought here in the country as they could in town. the new dolls went too, seated in the perambulators and snugly tucked in with the affghans, though it was such a warm day that when they reached the hotel, bessie said she was "yoasted." "so this is a pleasant birthday; is it, maggie?" said the colonel. "oh, yes!" said maggie; "i wish every day was my birthday or bessie's." "then in sixty days you would be old ladies. how would you like that?" said uncle john. "not a bit," answered maggie; "old ladies don't have half so much fun as children." "so you will be content with one birthday in a year?" "yes, uncle john." "and you liked all your presents, maggie?" asked the colonel. "yes, sir, except only one." "and what was that?" "mrs. jones gave me a white _canting_ flannel rabbit, with black silk for its nose, and red beads for its eyes. idea of it! just as if i was a little girl, and i am seven! i told nurse if baby wanted it, she could have it; and i didn't care if she did put it in her mouth. nurse said i was ungrateful; but i am not going to be grateful for such a thing as that." the colonel and uncle john seemed very much amused when maggie said this, but her father looked rather grave, though he said nothing. "colonel yush," said bessie, "you didn't send me a yefuse." "a what?" "a yefuse to our party note." "oh, i understand. did you want me to refuse?" "oh, no, we didn't _want_ you to; but then we knew you couldn't come, because you are so lame." "will it do if you get an answer to-night?" said the colonel. bessie said that would do very well. when they were going home, mr. bradford fell a little behind the rest, and called maggie to him. "maggie, dear," he said, "i do not want to find fault with my little girl on her birthday, but i do not think you feel very pleasantly towards mrs. jones." "no, papa, i do not; i can't bear her; and the make-believe rabbit too! if you were seven, papa, and some one gave you such a thing, would you like it?" "perhaps not; but mrs. jones is a poor woman, and she gave you the best she had, thinking to please you." "papa, it makes mrs. jones very mad to call her poor. the other day i asked her why she didn't put pretty white frocks, like our baby's and nellie's, on susie. bessie said she supposed she was too poor. mrs. jones was as cross as anything, and said she wasn't poor, and mr. jones was as well off as any man this side the country; but she wasn't going to waste her time doing up white frocks for susie. she was so mad that bessie and i ran away." "then we will not call her poor if she does not like it," said mr. bradford; "but mrs. jones is a kind-hearted woman, if she is a little rough sometimes. she tries very hard to please you. late last night, i went into her kitchen to speak to mr. jones, and there she sat making that rabbit, although she had been hard at work all day, trying to finish her wash, so that she might have the whole of to-day to make cakes and other nice things for your party. yet this morning when she brought it to you, you did not look at all pleased, and scarcely said, 'thank you.'" "ought i to say i was pleased when i was not, papa?" "no, certainly not; but you should have been pleased, because she meant to be kind, even if you did not like the thing that she brought. it was not like a lady, it was not like a christian, to be so ungracious; it was not doing as you would be done by. last week you hemmed a handkerchief for grandpapa duncan. now you know yourself that, although you took a great deal of pains, the hem was rather crooked and some of the stitches quite long, yet grandpapa was more pleased with that one than with the whole dozen which aunt helen hemmed, and which were beautifully done, because he knew that you had done the best you could, and that it was a great effort for you. it was not the work, but the wish to do something for him, that pleased him. now, if grandpa had frowned, and looked at the handkerchief as if it were scarcely worth notice, and grumbled something that hardly sounded like 'thank you,' how would you have felt?" "i'd have cried," said maggie, "and wished i hadn't done it for him." "suppose he had told other people that he didn't like work done in that way, and was not going to be grateful for it?" maggie hung her head, and looked ashamed. she saw now how unkindly she had felt and acted towards mrs. jones. mr. bradford went on: "i think mrs. jones was hurt this morning, maggie. now, i am sure you did not mean to vex her; did you?" "no, papa, indeed, i did not. what can i do? i don't think i ought to tell mrs. jones that i think the rabbit is pretty when i don't." "no, of course you must not. truth before all things. but you might play with it a little, and not put it out of sight, as you did this morning. perhaps, too, you may find a chance to thank her in a pleasanter way than you did before." "i'll make a chance," said maggie. when they reached the house, maggie ran up to the nursery. "nursey," she said, "where is my rabbit; did baby have it?" "no, indeed," said nurse; "i wasn't going to give it to baby, to hurt mrs. jones' feelings,--not while we're here, at least. when we go to town, then my pet may have it, if you don't want it; and a nice plaything it will make for her then. it's up there on the mantel-shelf." "please give it to me," said maggie; "i'm going to cure mrs. jones' feelings." nurse handed it to her, and she ran down stairs with it. she took her doll out of the little wagon, put the rabbit in its place, and tucked the affghan all round it. then she ran into the kitchen, pulling the wagon after her. "now, come," said mrs. jones, the moment she saw her, "i don't want any children here! i've got my hands full; just be off." "oh, but, mrs. jones," said maggie, a little frightened, "i only want you to look at my rabbit taking a ride in the wagon. don't he look cunning? i think you were very kind to make him for me." "well, do you know?" said mrs. jones. "i declare i thought you didn't care nothing about it,--and me sitting up late last night to make it. i was a little put out when you seemed to take it so cool like, and i thought you were stuck up with all the handsome presents you'd been getting. that wasn't nothing alongside of them, to be sure; but it was the best i could do." "and you were very kind to make it for me, mrs. jones. i am very much obliged to you. no, susie, you can't have it. maybe you'd make it dirty, and i'm going to keep it till i'm thirteen; then i'll let baby have it, when she's big enough to take care of it." "oh, it will be in the ash-barrel long before that," said mrs. jones. "here's a cake for you and one for bessie." "no, thank you," said maggie; "mamma said we musn't eat any cakes or candies this morning, because we'll want some to-night." "that's a good girl to mind so nice," said mrs. jones; "and your ma's a real lady, and she's bringing you up to be ladies too." maggie ran off to the parlor, glad that she had made friends with mrs. jones. she found her mother and aunt helen and aunt annie all making mottoes. they had sheets of bright-colored tissue paper, which they cut into small squares, fringed the ends with sharp scissors, and then rolled up a sugar-plum in each. they allowed maggie and bessie to help, by handing the sugar-plums, and the little girls thought it a very pleasant business. and once in a while mamma popped a sugar-plum into one of the two little mouths, instead of wrapping it in the paper; and this they thought a capital plan. then came a grand frolic in the barn with father and uncle john and the boys, tom and walter being of the party, until mrs. bradford called them in, and said bessie must rest a while, or she would be quite tired out before afternoon. so, taking bessie on his knee, grandpapa duncan read to them out of a new book he had given maggie that morning. after the early dinner, the dolls, old and new, had to be dressed, and then they were dressed themselves, and ready for their little visitors. the piazza and small garden and barn seemed fairly swarming with children that afternoon. and such happy children too! every one was good-natured, ready to please and to be pleased. and, indeed, they would have been very ungrateful if they had not been; for a great deal of pains was taken to amuse and make them happy. even mamie stone was not heard to fret once. "i do wish i had an uncle john!" said mamie, as she sat down to rest on the low porch step, with bessie and one or two more of the smaller children, and watched mr. duncan, as he arranged the others for some new game, keeping them laughing all the time with his merry jokes,--"i do wish i had an uncle john!" "you have an uncle robert," said bessie. "pooh! he's no good," said mamie. "he's not nice and kind and funny, like your uncle john. he's as cross as anything, and he wont let us make a bit of noise when he's in the room. he says children are pests; and when papa laughed, and asked him if he said that because he remembered what a pest he was when he was a child, he looked mad, and said no; children were better behaved when he was a boy." "i don't think he's very better behaved to talk so," said bessie, gravely. "no, he's not," said mamie. "he's awful. he's not a bit like mr. duncan. and i like your aunt annie too. she plays so nice, just as if she were a little girl herself; and she helps everybody if they don't know how, or fall down, or anything." "are we not having a real nice time, bessie?" asked gracie howard. "yes," said bessie; "but i do wish my soldier and mrs. yush could come to our party." "what makes you care so much about colonel rush?" asked gracie. "he's such a big man." "he isn't any bigger than my father," said bessie; "and i love my father dearly, dearly. we can love people just as much if they are big." "oh, i didn't mean that," said gracie; "i meant he's so old. you'd have to love your father, even if you didn't want to, because he is your father, and he takes care of you. but colonel rush isn't anything of yours." "he is," said bessie; "he is my own soldier, and my great, great friend; and he loves me too." "i know it," said gracie. "mamma says it is strange to see a grown man so fond of a little child who doesn't belong to him." "i think it is very good of him to love me so much," said bessie, "and i do wish he was here. i want him very much." "and so do i," said maggie, who had come to see why bessie was not playing; "but we can't have him, 'cause he can't walk up this bank, and the carriage can't come here, either. i just wish there wasn't any bank." "why, what is the matter?" asked uncle john. "here is the queen of the day looking as if her cup of happiness was not quite full. what is it, maggie?" "we want the colonel," said maggie. "why, you disconsolate little monkey! are there not enough grown people here already, making children of themselves for your amusement, but you must want the colonel too? if he was here, he could not play with you, poor fellow!" "he could sit still and look at us," said maggie. "and we could look at him," said bessie. "we are very fond of him, uncle john." "i know you are," said uncle john, "and so you should be, for he is very fond of you, and does enough to please you. but i am very fond of you too, and i am going to make a fox of myself, to please you. so all hands must come for a game of fox and chickens before supper." away they all went to join the game. uncle john was the fox, and mrs. bradford and aunt annie the hens, and aunt helen and papa were chickens with the little ones; while grandpa and grandma and mrs. jones sat on the piazza, each with a baby on her knee. the fox was such a nimble fellow, the mother hens had hard work to keep their broods together, and had to send them scattering home very often. it was a grand frolic, and the grown people enjoyed it almost as much as the children. even toby seemed to forget himself for a moment or two; and once, when the chickens were all flying over the grass, screaming and laughing, he sprang up from his post on the porch, where he had been quietly watching them, and came bounding down among them with a joyous bark, and seized hold of the fox by the coat tails, just as he pounced on harry and walter, as if he thought they had need of his help. how the children laughed! but after that, toby seemed to be quite ashamed of himself, and walked back to his old seat with the most solemn air possible, as if he meant to say,-- "if you thought it was this respectable dog who was playing with you just now, you were mistaken. it must have been some foolish little puppy, who did not know any better." and not even bessie could coax him to play any more. but at last fox, hen, and chickens were all called to supper, and went in together as peaceably as possible. the children were all placed round the room, some of them on the drollest kind of seats, which mr. jones had contrived for the occasion. almost all of them were so low that every child could hold its plate on its lap, for there was not half room enough round the table. they were scarcely arranged when a curious sound was heard outside, like a tapping on the piazza. "that sounds just like my soldier's crutches," said bessie. "but then it couldn't be, because he never could get up the bank." but it seemed that the colonel could get up the bank, for as bessie said this, she turned, and there he stood at the door, with mrs. rush at his side, both looking very smiling. "oh, it is, it is!" said bessie, her whole face full of delight. "oh, maggie, he did come! he did get up! oh, i'm _perferly_ glad." and indeed she seemed so. it was pretty to see her as she stood by the colonel, looking up at him with her eyes so full of love and pleasure, and a bright color in her cheeks; while maggie, almost as much delighted, ran to the heavy arm-chair in which grandpapa duncan usually sat, and began tugging and shoving at it with all her might. "what do you want to do, maggie?" asked tom norris, as he saw her red in the face, and all out of breath. "i want to take it to the door, so that he need not walk another step. please help me, tom," said maggie, looking at the colonel who stood leaning on his crutches, and shaking hands with all the friends who were so glad to see him. "never mind, little woman," said he; "i shall reach the chair with far less trouble than you can bring it to me, and i can go to it quite well. i could not have come up this bank of yours, if i had not been 'nice and spry,' as mrs. jones says. i told you you should have the answer to your invitation to-night; did i not?" "oh, yes; but why didn't you tell us you were coming?" "because i did not know myself that i should be able to when the time came; and i was vain enough to think you and bessie would be disappointed if i promised and did not come after all. i knew i should be disappointed myself; so i thought i would say nothing till i was on the spot. would you have liked it better if i had sent you a 'refuse'?" "oh, no, sir!" said maggie. "how can you talk so?" "you gave us the best answer in the world," said bessie. certainly the colonel had no reason to think that all, both old and young, were not glad to see him. as for maggie, she could not rest until she had done something for him. as soon as she had seen him seated in the great chair, she rushed off, and was presently heard coming down stairs with something thump, thumping after her, and in a moment there she was at the door dragging two pillows, one in each hand. these she insisted on squeezing behind the colonel's back, and though he would have been more comfortable without them, he allowed her to do it, as she had taken so much trouble to bring them, and smiled and thanked her; so she was quite sure she had made him perfectly easy. neither she nor bessie would eat anything till he had taken or refused everything that was on the table, and he said he was fairly in the way to be killed with kindness. after supper fred whispered to his father, and receiving his permission, proposed "three cheers for bessie's soldier, colonel rush." the three cheers were given with a hearty good-will, and the room rang again and again. "three cheers for all our soldiers," said harry; and these were given. then walter stone cried, "three cheers for our maggie, the queen of the day," and again all the boys and girls shouted at the top of their voices. but maggie did not like this at all. she hung her head, and colored all over face, neck, and shoulders, then calling out in a vexed, distressed tone, "i don't care," ran to her mother, and buried her face in her lap. "poor maggie! that was almost too much, was it not?" said her mother, as she lifted her up and seated her on her knee. "oh, mamma, it was dreadful!" said maggie, almost crying, and hiding her face on her mother's shoulder. "how could they?" "never mind, dear; they only did it out of compliment to you, and they thought you would be pleased." "but i am not, mamma. i would rather have a discompliment." maggie's trouble was forgotten when uncle john jumped up and began a droll speech, which made all the children laugh, and in a few moments she was as merry as ever again. "so this has been a happy day?" said the colonel, looking down at bessie, who was sitting close beside him, as she had done ever since he came in. "oh, yes," said bessie; "it is the best birthday we have ever had." "we?" said the colonel. "it is not your birthday, too; is it?" "no," said bessie; "but that's no difference. i like maggie's birthday just as much as mine, only i like hers better, 'cause i can give her a present." "does she not give you a present on your birthday?" "yes; but i like to give her one better than to have her give me one; and it was such a great part of the happiness 'cause you came to-night." "bless your loving little heart!" said the colonel, looking very much pleased. "you know, even if you did not give me that beautiful doll, it would be 'most the same; for maggie would let me call hers half mine; but i am very glad you did give it to me. oh, i'm _very_ satisfied of this day." "wasn't this a nice day?" bessie said to her sister, when their little friends were gone, and they were snug in bed. "yes, lovely," said maggie, "only except the boys hollering about me. i never heard of such a thing,--to go and holler about a girl, and make her feel all red! i think, if it wasn't for that, i wouldn't know what to do 'cause of my gladness." xviii. _the adventure._ there was a dreadful storm that week, which lasted several days, and did a great deal of damage along the coast. the sky was black and angry with dark, heavy clouds. the great waves of the ocean rolled up on the beach with a loud, deafening roar, the house rocked with the terrible wind, and the rain poured in such torrents that maggie asked her mother if she did not think "the windows of heaven were opened," and there was to be another flood. "maggie," said her mother, "when noah came out of the ark, what was the first thing he did?" maggie thought a moment, and then said, "built an altar and made a sacrifice." "yes; and what did the lord say to him?" "well done, good and faithful servant," said maggie, who, provided she had an answer, was not always particular it was the right one. mrs. bradford smiled a little. "we are not told the lord said that," she answered, "though he was doubtless pleased that noah's first act should have been one of praise and thanksgiving. indeed, the bible tells us as much. but what did he place in the clouds for noah to see?" "a rainbow," said maggie. "what did he tell noah it should be?" "i forgot that," said maggie; "he said it should be a sign that the world should never be drowned again." "yes; the lord told noah he would make a covenant with him 'that the waters should no more become a flood to destroy the earth;' and he made the rainbow for a sign that his promise should stand sure." "i am glad god made the rainbow, 'cause it is so pretty," said maggie; "but i think noah might have believed him without that, when he took such care of him in the ark." "probably he did; we are not told that noah did not believe, and it was of his own great goodness and mercy that the almighty gave to noah, and all who should live after him, this beautiful token of his love and care. but if my little girl could have believed god's promise then, why can she not do so now? his word holds good as surely in these days as in those of noah." "so i do, mamma," said maggie; "i forgot about the rainbow and god's promise. i wont be afraid any more, but i do wish it would not rain so hard, and that the wind would not blow quite so much." "we are all in god's hands, maggie. no harm can come to us unless he wills it." "franky don't like this great wind either, mamma," said maggie, "and he said something so funny about it this morning. it was blowing and blowing, and the windows shook and rattled so, and franky began to cry and said, 'i 'fraid.' then nurse told him not to be afraid, 'cause god made the wind blow, and he would take care of him. a little while after, he was standing on the chair by the window, and it galed harder than ever, and the wind made a terrible noise, and franky turned round to nurse and said, 'how god do blow!' and then the poor little fellow began to cry again." "yes, and maggie was very good to him," said bessie; "she put her new doll in the wagon, and let him pull it about the nursery, only we watched him all the time, 'cause he's such a misfit." (bessie meant mischief.) "mamma, will you yead us about noah?" mrs. bradford took the bible and read the chapter in genesis which tells about the flood, and the children listened without tiring until she had finished. at last the storm was over,--the wind and rain ceased, and the sky cleared, to the delight of the children, but they still heard a great deal of the storm and the damage which had been done. many vessels had been wrecked, some with men and women on board, who had been drowned in the sea. some miles farther up the shore, a large ship had been cast upon the rocks, where she was driven by the gale. the guns of distress she had fired had been heard by the people of quam the night before the storm ceased. it was an emigrant ship coming from europe, and there were hundreds of poor people on board, many of whom were drowned; and most of the saved lost everything they had in the world, so there was much suffering among them. mr. howard and mr. norris drove over to the place, to see if anything could be done for them, and came back to try and raise money among their friends and acquaintances to buy food and clothing. maggie and bessie were down on the beach with their father and colonel rush when mr. howard joined them, and told them some of the sad scenes he had just seen. the little girls were very much interested, and the gentlemen seemed so too. mr. bradford and mr. duncan gave them money, and the colonel, too, pulled out his pocket-book, and taking out a roll of bills, handed mr. howard two or three. mr. howard was still talking, and the colonel, who was listening earnestly, and who was always careless with his money, did not pay much heed to what he was doing. he put the roll of bank-notes back in his pocket-book, and, as he thought, put the book in his pocket; but instead of going in, it dropped upon the sand behind the rock on which he sat, and no one saw it fall, but a bad boy standing a little way off. now this boy was a thief and a liar. perhaps no one had ever taught him better; but however that was, he was quite willing to do anything wicked for the sake of a little money. he saw the soldier take out the roll of bank-notes, put them back again, and then drop the pocket-book on the sand, and he hoped no one would notice it, so that he might pick it up when they had gone. [illustration: bessie at sea side. p. .] by and by the colonel said he was tired, and thought he would go home. mr. bradford and the other gentlemen said they would go with him, mr. bradford telling his little girls to come too. "in a minute, papa," said bessie; "my dolly's hat has come off, and i must put it on." "we'll go on then," said her father; "you can run after us." the gentlemen walked on, while bessie began to put on miss margaret horace rush bradford's hat. "oh, maggie!" she said, "there's lily norris going out in the boat with her father, and mamma said we might ask her to tea. i know she'd yather come with us; you yun ask her, while i put on my dolly's hat, and then i'll come too." maggie ran on, leaving bessie alone. the boy came a little nearer. bessie put on her doll's hat, and was going after her sister, when she dropped her doll's parasol, and as she stooped to pick it up, she saw the pocket-book. "oh, there's my soldier's porte-monnaie!" she said to herself; "i know it is; i'll take it to him. my hands are so full, maybe i'll lose it. i'll put it in my bosom, and then it will be all safe." she laid doll, parasol, and the little basket she held in her hand upon the rock, picked up the pocket-book, and pulling down the neck of her spencer, slipped it inside. just at this moment the boy came up to her. "give me that," he said. "what?" asked bessie, drawing back from him. "don't you make believe you don't know,--that pocket-book. it's mine." "it isn't," said bessie; "it's the colonel's." "no, 'taint; it's mine. hand over now, else i'll make you." "i sha'n't," said bessie. "i know it's the colonel's. i've seen it a great many times, and just now he gave mr. howard some money out of it for the poor people who lost all their things." "are you going to give it to me?" said the boy, coming nearer to her. "no," said bessie, "i am not. i am going to give it to the colonel, and i shall tell him what a very naughty boy you are. why, i'm afraid you're a stealer! don't you know--" bessie was stopped by the boy taking hold of her, and trying to drag away the spencer, beneath which he had seen her slip the pocket-book. just at this moment maggie turned her head, to see if bessie were coming, and saw her struggling in the grasp of the boy. down went her new doll, happily in a soft place in the sand, where it came to no harm, and forgetting all fear, thinking only of her little sister, she ran back to her help. "leave my bessie be! leave my bessie be!" she screamed, flying upon the boy, and fastening with both her hands upon the arm with which he was tearing away the spencer and feeling for the pocket-book, while he held bessie with the other. "let go!" he said, fiercely, between his teeth. but maggie only held the tighter, screaming,-- "leave my bessie be! oh! papa, papa, do come!" both terrified children were now screaming at the top of their voices, and they were heard by their father and the other gentlemen, who turned to see what was the matter. although they were at a distance, mr. bradford saw his little girls were in great trouble. back he came, as fast as he could, mr. howard and uncle john after him, the colonel, too, as quick as his crutches would carry him. "let go!" cried the boy, as he saw mr. bradford, letting go his own hold on bessie, and giving maggie a furious blow across the face. but fearing he would seize bessie again, brave little maggie held fast. "take that, then!" said the boy, giving her another and a harder blow. maggie fell, striking her head against the edge of the rock, and the boy turned to run before mr. bradford reached the spot. but all this time another pair of eyes had been upon him. four swift feet were coming toward him, and ever so many sharp teeth were set for a grip of him. while the children had been with their father, toby, mr. jones' great white dog, had been seated on the edge of the bank before the house, watching the people as he was accustomed to do. now between toby and joe sands, the boy who tried to take the pocket-book, there was great enmity. joe never saw toby without trying to provoke him to a quarrel by making faces at him, and throwing sticks and stones; but though the dog would growl and show his teeth, he had never yet tried to bite him. this afternoon, the moment joe appeared, toby seemed to suspect mischief. he straightened himself up, put his head on one side, cocked up one ear and drooped the other. toby was not a handsome dog at the best of times, and it was not becoming to him to hold his ears in this fashion. he looked very fierce as he sat thus, but joe did not see him, or he might have been afraid to meddle with bessie. toby never told whether he saw the colonel drop the pocket-book, but from the minute it fell, he looked all ready for a spring, and never took his eyes from joe. when the boy spoke to bessie, he appeared still more uneasy, rose to his feet, snarled, and gave short, angry barks, but did not think it was time to interfere till joe laid his hand upon the little girl. then his patience was at an end, and with a furious, rough bark, he rushed over the bank, down the beach, and just as joe turned to run from mr. bradford, seized fast hold of his leg. happily for joe, he had on a thick, strong pair of boots; but even through these toby's teeth came in a way far from pleasant. not a step could he stir, and in an instant mr. bradford and the other gentlemen came up. mr. bradford stooped to pick up maggie, while mr. howard collared joe. even then toby would not let go, but gave joe a good shake, which made him cry out with pain. poor maggie was quite stunned for a moment by the blow which joe had given her, and there was a bad cut on her head, where it had struck the rock, while one side of her face was much bruised and scratched. but when, a moment after, she came to herself, her first thought was still for bessie, who was crying loudly with terror and distress for her sister. "oh, my bessie, my bessie! leave her be!" she said, as she slowly opened her eyes. "bessie is safe, my darling," said her father. "she is not hurt at all. my poor little maggie!" and sitting down on the rock, with her on his knee, he tenderly bound up her head with his handkerchief. by this time, colonel rush and two or three more people had come up, and uncle john went on to the house, to tell mrs. bradford what had happened, so that she might not be startled when she saw maggie. mr. howard kept his hand on joe's shoulder, but there was not much need, for toby still held him fast, and if he made the least move, gave him a hint to keep still, which joe thought it best to mind. mr. bradford carried maggie to the house, and the rest followed; but it was a long time before any one could make out what had happened. bessie was too much frightened to tell, maggie too sick, and joe too sullen. and maggie did not know about the pocket-book. all she could tell was, that she had seen bessie struggling with the boy, and had run to help her. at last bessie was quieted, and then told the story in her straightforward way, putting her hand in her bosom and pulling out the pocket-book. "oh, you villain!" said mrs. jones, who was holding the basin while mrs. bradford washed the blood from maggie's face and head. "oh, you villain! aint it enough to go robbin' orchards and melon patches, and farmers' wagons market-days, but you must be fighting and knocking down babies like these to get what's not your own? if you don't see the inside of the county jail for this, my name's not susan jones. and you'd have been there long ago, only for your poor mother, whose heart ye're breakin' with your bad ways. that's you, toby, my boy; you know when you've a rascal fast; but you may let him go now, for there's your master, and he will take him in hand." mr. jones was the constable, and toby knew this quite as well as if he went on two feet instead of four. when mr. jones was sent to arrest any one, he always took toby with him, and it was curious to see how the dog would watch the prisoner, and seem to feel that he had quite as much share as his master in bringing him to be punished for the wicked things he had done. as soon as mr. jones came in the room, he let go of joe, but sat down close to him, ready to take another grip, if he tried to run away. "and what's to be done about your poor mother?" said mr. jones, when he had heard the story. "i shall have to have you up for this. it will go nigh to kill her." joe made no answer, only looked more sullen and obstinate than ever. "mr. jones," said maggie, in a weak little voice, "please take him away; it frightens me to see him." "i'm going to take him right off where he wont trouble you for one while," said mr. jones. "but how is it that you are afraid of him just standing here, and you weren't afraid of him when he was handling you and bessie so rough?" "i didn't think about that," said maggie, "and if i had, i couldn't let anybody do anything to my bessie. i thought he was going to kill her. oh, dear! oh, dear!" and maggie began to cry again; she could not have told why, except that she could not help it. "come along," said mr. jones, taking hold of joe's arm. "mr. jones," said bessie, "are you going to take him to the jail?" "i am going to take him to the squire, and i guess he'll give him a few days of it. serve him right too." "but i'm 'fraid it will break his mother's heart," said bessie; "mrs. jones said it would." "he's breakin' his mother's heart fast enough, any way," said mr. jones. "drinkin' and swearin' and stealin' and idlin' round, when he ought to be a help to her, poor, sick body! it isn't goin' to do him nor his mother no harm for him to be shut up for a little while where he can think over his bad ways. he wants bringin' up somewhere, and toby knows it too." toby growled and wagged his tail, as if to say he agreed with mr. jones. the growl was for joe, the wag for his master. "you surely don't think he ought to be let off," said mrs. jones, "when he hurt maggie that way? why, she's going to have a black eye, sure as a gun!" joe walked away with toby at his heels. maggie's head was bound up, and her bruises washed with arnica, and both she and bessie were petted and comforted. as for the new doll, which maggie had thrown down in her haste to run to her little sister's help, it was picked up by one of the gentlemen, who brought it safe and unbroken to maggie. to be sure, miss bessie margaret marion's dress was rather soiled by the wet sand on which she had fallen; but as it was of muslin, it could easily be washed, and mrs. jones soon made it quite clean again. xix. _soul and instinct._ "papa," said maggie, the next morning, as she sat on his knee at the breakfast-table, leaning her aching little head against his breast,--"papa, is there anything in the paper about our 'sault and battery?" "about what?" "our 'sault and battery," said maggie. "the other day, uncle john was reading to aunt helen how mr. king was knocked down, and beaten by a man who didn't like him; and he called it an 'unprovoked 'sault and battery.' i thought that meant when somebody hit somebody that didn't do anything to him." "so it does," said her father, trying not to smile, "and yours was a most 'unprovoked assault and battery,' my poor little woman; but there is nothing in the paper about it." "do you think that there should be?" asked mrs. bradford. "oh, no, mamma; i'm very glad there isn't. i thought maybe the paper-maker would hear about it, and put it into his paper; and i didn't want people to be reading about bessie and me. do you think he would do it another day, papa?" "i think not, dear; you need not be afraid." "i don't see what's the reason then," said harry. "maggie is a real heroine, and so is bessie. why, there isn't a boy at quam, however big he is, that would dare to fight joe sands; and to think of our mite of a bess standing out against him, and holding fast to the pocket-book, and maggie running to the rescue!" "yes, you little speck of nothing ground down to a point," said uncle john, catching bessie up in his arms, "how dared you hold your ground against such a great rough boy as that?" "why, it was the colonel's pocket-book," said bessie, "and he was going to take it, and it wasn't his; so i _had_ to take care of it, you know. i couldn't let him do such a naughty thing." "they're bricks, both of them," said harry. "so they are," said fred; for both of the boys were very proud of their little sisters' courage; "and maggie has the right stuff in her, if she is shy. she is a little goose where there is nothing to be afraid of, and a lion where there is." "holloa! what is all this heap of pennies for?" asked the colonel, a while after, as he came into mrs. jones' parlor, and found maggie and bessie, like the famous king, "counting out their money." he had come up the bank and paid them a visit two or three times since maggie's birthday, so that they were not very much surprised to see him. "but first tell me how that poor little head and face are, maggie? why, you do look as if you'd been to the wars. never mind, the bruises will soon wear away; and as for the cut, your hair will hide that. it is not every soldier that gets over his scars so easily; and you must not be ashamed of yours while they last. but you have not told me what you are going to do with so much money," he added, when he was comfortably seated in the arm-chair. "oh, it isn't much," said maggie; "it is only a little, and we wish it was a whole lot." "and what do you and bessie want with a whole lot of money? i should think you had about everything little girls could wish for." "yes, we have," said bessie, "and we don't want it for ourselves." "who for, then?" "for those poor shipyecked people. papa and uncle john have gone over to see them; and mamma and aunt helen have gone to the village to buy some flannel and calico to make things for the poor little children who have lost theirs. mr. howard says there's a baby there that hasn't anything but a ni'-gown, and no mother, 'cause she was drowned. a sailor man has it, and he's going to take care of it, but he hasn't any clothes for it. and we wanted to help buy things, but we have such a very little money." "bessie has such a little, 'cause she spent all hers for my birthday present," said maggie. "mamma gives us six cents a week, but it's such a little while since my birthday, bessie hasn't saved much. i have more than she has, but not a great deal." "and she wanted mamma to let her hem a pock'-han'kerchief and earn some money," said bessie, "but she can't, for the doctor says she musn't use her eye while it's so black." "well," said the colonel, "i think you two have fairly earned the right to dispose of at least half the money that was in that unfortunate pocket-book. you shall say what shall be done with it." maggie looked as if she did not know what to say. "if you mean, sir," said bessie, "that you're going to give us half that money, papa and mamma would not like it. they don't allow us to yeceive money from people who are not yelations to us." "and they are quite right," said the colonel. "i should not like you to do it, if you were my little girls. but i do not mean that i will give _you_ the money, only that i will give it away for any purpose you may choose. your father and mother can have no objection to that. there were fifty dollars in the pocket-book. half of that is twenty-five. now, shall i give it all to the shipwrecked people, or shall i give part to something else?" "will you please to 'scuse me if i whisper to maggie?" said bessie. "certainly," said the colonel. they whispered together for a minute or two, and then bessie said, "if you didn't mind it, sir, we would like to give half to mrs. sands; she's very poor, and sick too; and she's in such a trouble 'cause joe's so bad. she has no one to work for her or do anything. mamma sent jane to see her, and she told us about her; and we're so very sorry for her." "well, you are two forgiving little souls," said the colonel. "do you want me to give money to the mother of the boy who treated you so?" "_she_ didn't treat us so," said maggie, "and we would like her to be helped 'cause she's so very poor. she cried about the pocket-book, and she is a good woman. she couldn't help it if joe was so bad. we can't help being a little speck glad that joe is shut up, he's such a dangerous boy; and we'd be afraid of him now; but his mother feels very bad about it. so if you want to do what we like with the money, sir, please give half to the baby in the shipwreck, and half to joe's mother." "just as you please," said the colonel; "twelve and a half to the baby, twelve and a half to mrs. sands. i shall give the baby's money to mrs. rush, and ask her to buy what it needs. will not that be the best way?" the children said yes, and were much pleased at the thought that mrs. sands and the little orphan baby were to be made comfortable with part of the money which they had saved. "now, suppose we go out on the piazza," said the colonel; "mrs. rush is there talking to grandpa duncan, and i told them i would come out again when i had seen you." "but there's no arm-chair out there," said maggie. "never mind; the settee will do quite as well for a while." but when mrs. jones happened to pass by, and saw the colonel sitting on the piazza, nothing would do but she must bring out the arm-chair, and make a great fuss to settle him comfortably. maggie could not help confessing she was very kind, even if she did not always take the most pleasant way of showing it. "what are you thinking of, bessie?" asked the colonel, after he had talked to mr. duncan for some time. bessie was sitting on the piazza step, looking at toby with a very grave face, as he lay beside her with his head in her lap. "i am so sorry for toby," she answered. "why, i think he is as well off as a dog can be. he looks very comfortable there with his head in your lap." "but he hasn't any soul to be saved," said the child. "he does not know that," said the colonel, carelessly; "it does not trouble him." "but," said bessie, "if he had a soul, and knew jesus died to save it, he would be a great deal happier. it makes us feel so happy to think about that. isn't that the yeason people are so much better and happier than dogs, grandpa?" "that's the reason they should be happier and better, dear." "there are some people who know they have souls to be saved, who don't think about it, and don't care if jesus did come to die for them; are there not, grandpa?" said maggie. "yes, maggie, there are very many such people." "then they can't be happy," said bessie,--"not as happy as toby, for he don't know." "i don't believe joe thinks much about his soul," said maggie. "i am afraid not," answered mr. duncan. "grandpa," said bessie, "if people know about their souls, and don't care, i don't think they are much better than toby." "but, grandpa," said maggie, "toby behaves just as if he knew some things are naughty, and other things right. how can he tell if he has no soul? how did he know it was naughty for joe to steal the pocket-book; and what is the reason he knows susie must not go near the fire nor the cellar stairs?" "it is instinct which teaches him that," said grandpa. "what is that?" "we cannot tell exactly. it is something which god has given to animals to teach them what is best for themselves and their young. it is not reason, for they have no soul nor mind as men, women, and children have; but by it some animals, such as dogs and horses, often seem to know what is right and wrong. it is instinct which teaches the bird to build her nest. i am an old man, and i suppose you think i know a great deal, but if i wanted to build a house for my children, i would not know how to do it unless i were shown. but little birdie, untaught by any one,--led only by the instinct which god has given her,--makes her nest soft and comfortable for her young. it is instinct which teaches toby to know a man or a boy who is to be trusted from one who is not; which makes him keep susie from creeping into danger when he is told to take care of her." "and, grandpa," said bessie, "toby had an instinct about our baby, too. the other day, when nurse left her asleep in the cradle, and went down stairs for a few minutes, she woke up and fretted. toby heard her, and went down stairs, and pulled nurse's dress, and made her come up after him to baby." "yes, that was his instinct," said mr. duncan. "he knew that baby wanted to be taken up, and that nurse should come to her." "he did such a funny thing the other day," said maggie, "when fred played him a trick. you know he brings mr. jones' old slippers every evening, and puts them by the kitchen door, so mr. jones can have them all ready when he comes from his work. you tell it, bessie, it hurts my face to speak so much." "well," said bessie, who was always ready to talk, "fred took the slippers, and hid them in his trunk, 'cause he wanted to see what toby would do. toby looked and looked all over, but the poor fellow could not find them. so at last he brought an old pair of yubber over-shoes, and put them by the kitchen door. then he went away and lay down behind the door, and he looked so 'shamed, and so uncomf'able, maggie and i felt yeal sorry for him, and we wanted to show him where the slippers were, but we didn't know ourselves, and fred wouldn't tell us. then fred called him ever so many times, but he was very cross, and growled, and would not go at all till fred said, 'come, old dog, come, get the slippers.' then he came out and yan after fred, and we all yan, and it was so funny to see him. he was so glad, and he pulled out the slippers and put them in their place, and then he took the old yubbers and put them in the closet, and lay down with his paws on the slippers, as if he thought somebody would take them away again. and now mrs. jones says that every morning he hides them in a place of his own, where no one can find them but his own self. i think that is very smart; don't you, grandpa?" "very smart," said mr. duncan; "toby is a wise dog." "but, grandpa, don't toby have conscience, too, when he knows what's good and what's naughty? mamma says it's conscience that tells us when we're good, and when we're naughty." "no, dear; toby has no conscience. if he knows the difference between right and wrong in some things, it is partly instinct, partly because he has been taught. conscience is that which makes us afraid of displeasing god, and breaking his holy laws, but toby feels nothing of this. he is only afraid of displeasing his master; he has neither love nor fear of one greater than that master, for he does not know there is such a wise and holy being. if toby should steal, or do anything wrong, god would not call him to account for it, because he has given to the dog no soul, no conscience, no feeling of duty to his maker." "grandpa," said bessie, "don't you mean that if toby is naughty, god will not punish him when he dies, 'cause he didn't know about him?" "yes, dear; for toby there is neither reward nor punishment in another world. for him, there is no life to come." "grandpa," said maggie, "where will toby's instinct go when he dies?" "it will die with the dog. it is mortal; that is, it must die; but our souls are immortal; they will go on living for ever and ever, either loving and praising god through all eternity, or sinking down to endless woe and suffering. toby is a good, wise, faithful dog, and knows a great deal, but the weakest, the most ignorant boy or girl--that poor idiot you saw the other day--is far better, of far more value in the sight of god, for he has a soul; and to save that precious soul, our lord left his heavenly home, and died upon the cross. think what a soul is worth when it needed that such a price be paid for its salvation!" "i can't help being sorry for toby, 'cause he has no soul," said bessie; "but i'm a great deal sorrier for those people that don't think about their souls, and go to jesus to be saved. how can they help it, when they know he wants them to come? grandpa, don't they feel ungrateful all the time?" "i am afraid not, bessie. if they do not feel their need of a saviour, they do not feel their ingratitude." bessie was silent for a minute or two, and sat gazing for a while far away over the water, with the thoughtful look she so often had in her eyes, and then she said slowly, as if speaking to herself,-- "i wonder if they think about for ever and ever and ever." no one answered her. not a word had the colonel said since bessie had said that she thought those who did not care for their souls were no better than toby; but he sat with his eyes sometimes on her, sometimes on the dog, and his face, which was turned from his wife and mr. duncan, had a vexed, troubled look. mrs. rush had often seen that look during the last few days, and now she guessed it was there, even though she did not see it. but, presently, when the carriage was seen coming back with mrs. bradford and mrs. duncan, he drove it away, and was soon laughing and talking as usual. xx. _nurse taken by surprise._ nurse and jane had taken all the children for a long walk. about a mile up the shore lived the woman who took in mrs. bradford's washing. mrs. bradford wished to send her a message, and told jane to go with it. there were two ways by which this house could be reached: one by the shore, the other by a road which ran farther back, part of the way through the woods. about a quarter of a mile this side of the washer-woman's, it turned off nearer to the shore; and here it was crossed by the brook, which also crossed the road to the station. it was wider here, and deeper, and ran faster towards the sea. over it was built a rough bridge. two beams were laid from bank to bank; on these were placed large round logs, a foot or two apart, and above these were the planks, with a miserable broken rail. it was a pretty place though, and the walk to it was shady and pleasant,--pleasanter than the beach on a warm day. nurse said she would walk to the bridge with the children, and rest there, while jane went the rest of the way. when harry and fred heard this, they said they would go too, for the brook was a capital place to fish for minnows. so they all set off, the boys carrying their fishing-rods and tin pails. but when they reached the bridge, they found there would be no fishing. the rains of the great storm a few days ago had swollen the brook very much, and there had been several heavy showers since, which had kept it full, so it was now quite a little river, with a muddy current running swiftly down to the sea. the tiny fish were all hidden away in some snug hole, and the boys knew it was of no use to put out their lines. "oh, bother!" said harry. "i thought the water would be lower by this time. never mind, we'll have some fun yet, fred. let's go in and have a wade!" "i don't believe father would let us," said fred. "he said we must not the day before yesterday, and the water is as high now as it was then." "let's go back, then," said harry. "i don't want to stay here doing nothing." "no," said fred. "let's go on with jane to the washer-woman's. she has a pair of guinea-fowls, with a whole brood of young ones. bessie and i saw them the other day, when mr. jones took us up there in his wagon. we'll go and see them again." maggie and bessie asked if they might go too, but nurse said it was too far. bessie did not care much, as she had seen the birds once, but maggie was very much disappointed, for she had heard so much of the guinea-fowls, that she was very anxious to have a look at them. so jane said, if nurse would let her go, she would carry her part of the way. so at last nurse said she might. then franky said he wanted to go too, but he was pacified by having a stick with a line on the end of it given to him, with which he thought he was fishing. a tree which had been blown down by the gale lay near the bridge, and on this nurse sat down with baby on her knee, and bessie and franky beside her. franky sat on the end of the log, toward the water, where he was quite safe, if he sat still, and nurse meant to keep a close eye on him. but something happened which made her forget him for a moment or two. "and i'll tell you cinderella," said nurse to bessie, as the others went off. "i'd yather hear about when you were a little girl on your father's farm," said bessie. nurse liked to talk of this, so she began to tell bessie of the time when she was young, and lived at home in far-off england. bessie had heard it all very often, but she liked it none the less for that. franky sat still, now and then pulling up his line, and saying, "not one fis!" and then throwing it out again. suddenly the sound of wheels was heard, and looking round, they saw miss adams' pony carriage, with the lady driving, and the little groom behind. several times since the day when miss adams had teased bessie, and bessie had called her a kitchen lady, she had shown a wish to speak to the little girl; but she could never persuade her to come near her. once or twice, as bessie was passing through the hall of the hotel, miss adams had opened her door and called to her in a coaxing voice; but bessie always ran off as fast as possible, without waiting to answer. as miss adams passed, she nodded, drove on a little way, and then turned back. she pulled in her horses close to nurse and bessie. baby crowed and shook her little hands at the carriage. it was a pretty affair, the low basket, softly cushioned, the black ponies with their bright, glittering harness, and the jaunty groom in his neat livery; but bessie had no wish to get in it when miss adams said, "come, bessie, jump in and take a ride." "no, thank you, ma'am," said bessie, drawing closer to nurse. "yes, come," said miss adams, coaxingly. "i'll give you a nice ride, and bring you back quite safe to your nurse, or take you home, as you like." "i'd yather not," said bessie, taking hold of nurse's dress, as if she feared miss adams might take her off by force. "you don't know how pleasant it is," said miss adams,--"come." "i don't want to yide," said bessie. all this time nurse had been looking very grim. she was quite an old woman, and had lived in the family a great many years, for she had taken care of mrs. bradford herself when she was a little girl. she loved her and her children dearly, and would have done anything in the world for them, and if any one brought harm or trouble to her nurslings, she ruffled up her feathers like an old hen, and thought herself at liberty to do or say anything she pleased. "and she wouldn't be let, if she did want to," she said sharply to miss adams. the young lady looked at the old woman with a sparkle in her eye. "i'll take the baby, too, if you like," she said, mischievously; "i can drive quite well with her on my lap, and bessie can sit beside me." "my baby!" said nurse, who seemed to think the baby her own special property,--"my baby! do you think i'd risk her neck in a gimcrack like that? there isn't one of them i'd trust a hand's breadth with ye, not if ye was to go down on your bended knees." "i'm not likely to do that," said miss adams, turning round and driving off once more, "well, good-by, bessie, since you wont come." she had gone but a short distance, when she drew in the ponies again, jumped out, tossed the reins to the groom, and ran back to the bridge. "bessie," she said, "i want to speak to you; will you come over on the other side of the road?" bessie looked as shy as maggie might have done. "no, ma'am," she answered. "but i have something very particular to say to you, and i shall not tease or trouble you at all. come, dear, that is a good child. if you do not, i shall think you are angry with me still." "no, i'm not," said bessie. "well, i'll go." "not with my leave," said nurse. "if you have anything to say, just say it here, miss. you can't have anything to tell this child her old nurse can't hear." "yes, i have," said miss adams. "come, bessie. i shall not pull your hair. i want to speak to you very much. don't you wish to do as you would be done by?" "i think i'd better go; bett'n't i?" said bessie. "i don't want her to think i'm angry yet." "sit ye still," said nurse, without looking at miss adams. "i sha'n't let ye go to have i know not what notions put into your head." miss adams looked vexed, and bit her lip, then she laughed. "now, don't be cross, nurse. i am not going to say anything to bessie which you or her mother would not approve." "maybe," said nurse, dryly. "and if mrs. bradford were here, i am sure she would let bessie come." "maybe," said nurse again, beginning to trot baby rather harder than she liked. miss adams stood tapping the toe of her gaiter with her riding whip. "i promise you," she said, "that i will let her come back to you in a moment or two, and that i will not do the least thing which could trouble or tease her." "promises and fair words cost nothing," said nurse. "how dare you say that to me?" she said, losing her temper at last. "whatever else i may have done, i have never yet broken my word! bessie,"--she said this in a softer tone,--"don't think that of me, dear. i would not say what was not true, or break a promise, for the world." then to nurse again: "you're an obstinate old woman, and--look at that child!" these last words were said in a startled tone and with a frightened look. nurse turned her head, started up, and then stood still with fear and amazement. finding himself unnoticed, master franky had concluded that he had sat quiet long enough, and slipping off his stone, he had scrambled up the bank and walked upon the bridge. about the centre of this he found a broken place in the railing through which he put the stick and line with which he was playing to fish. putting his head through after it, he saw that it did not touch the water and that just in front of him was the projecting end of one of the logs. here, he thought, he could fish better, and slipping through, he was now where miss adams told nurse to look at him, stooping over, with one fat hand grasping the railing and with the other trying to make his line touch the water. the bridge was four or five feet above the stream, and although a fall from it might not have been very dangerous for a grown person, a little child like franky might easily have been swept away by the current, which was deepest and swiftest where he was standing. "don't speak," said miss adams, hastily, and darting round to the other side of the bridge, she walked directly into the water, and stooping down, passed under the bridge and came out under the spot where franky stood. as she had expected, the moment he saw her, he started and fell, but miss adams was ready for him. she caught him in her arms, waded through the water, and placed him safe and dry on the grass. "oh, you naughty boy!" said nurse, the moment she had done so, "what am i to do with you now?" "nosin' at all; franky dood boy. didn't fall in water." "and whose fault is that i should like to know," said miss adams, laughing and shaking her dripping skirts, "you little monkey? i do not know but i should have done better to let you fall into the water and be well frightened before i pulled you out." "franky not frightened; franky brave soldier," said the child. "you're a mischievous monkey, sir," said the young lady. "that he is," said nurse, speaking in a very different way from that in which she had spoken before. "and where would he have been now but for you and the kind providence which brought you here, miss? what would i have done, with the baby in my arms and he standing there? i'd never have thought of catching him that way. it was right cute of you, miss." "i saw it was the only way," said miss adams. "i knew he would be off that slippery log if he was startled." "i thank you again and again, miss," said the nurse, "and so will his mother; there's your beautiful dress all spoiled." "oh! that's nothing," said miss adams, giving her dress another shake; "it was good fun. but now, when i have saved one of your chickens from a ducking, you cannot think i would hurt the other if you let me have her for a moment." "surely i will," said nurse; "but you are not going to stand and talk in such a pickle as that? you'll catch your death of cold." "no fear," said miss adams, "i am tough. come now, bessie." she held out her hand to the little girl, and now that she had saved her brother, she went with her willingly. she was not afraid of her any more, though she wondered very much what the lady could have to say to her which nurse might not hear. "you'll excuse me for speaking as i did before, miss, but i'm an old woman, and cross sometimes, and then you see--" nurse hesitated. "yes, i see. i know i deserved it all," said miss adams, and then she led bessie to the other side of the road. "suppose i lift you up here, bessie; i can talk to you better." she lifted her up and seated her on the stone wall which ran along the road. "now," she said, leaning her arms upon the wall, "i want to ask you something." "i know what you want to ask me," said bessie, coloring. "what is it, then?" "you want me to say i'm sorry 'cause i said that to you the other day, and i am sorry. mamma said it was saucy. but i didn't mean to be saucy. i didn't know how to help it, you asked me so much." "you need not be sorry, bessie. i deserved it, and it was not that i was going to speak about. i wanted to ask you to forgive me for being so unkind to you. will you?" "oh, yes, ma'am! i did forgave you that day, and mamma told me something which made me very sorry for you." "what was it? would she like you to repeat it?" "i guess she wont care. she said your father and mother died when you were a little baby, and you had a great deal of money, more than was good for you, and you had no one to tell you how to take care of it; so if you did things you ought not to, we ought to be sorry for you, and not talk much about them." miss adams stood silent a moment, and then she said, slowly,-- "yes, if my mother had lived, bessie, i might have been different. i suppose i do many things i should not do if i had a mother to care about it; but there is no one to care, and i don't know why i should myself. i may as well take my fun." "miss adams," said bessie, "hasn't your mother gone to heaven?" "yes, i suppose so," said the young lady, looking a little startled,--"yes, i am sure of it. they say she was a good woman." "then don't she care up there?" "i don't know. they say heaven is a happy place. i should not think my mother could be very happy even there, if she cared about me and saw me now." "do you mean she wouldn't like to see you do those things you say you ought not to do?" "yes." "then why don't you do things that will make her happy? i would try to, if my mother went to heaven." "what would you do?" "i don't know," said bessie. "i suppose you would not pull little girls' hair, or tease them, or behave like a kitchen lady." "please don't speak of that any more," said bessie, coloring. "and your mother thinks i have too much money; does she? well, i do not know but i have, if having more than i know what to do with is having too much." "why don't you give some away?" bessie asked. "i do, and then am scolded for it. i drove down the other day to take some to those shipwrecked people, and the next day mr. howard came to me with his long face and told me i had done more harm than good; for some of them had been drinking with the money i gave them, and had a fight and no end of trouble. that is always the way. i am tired of myself, of my money, and everything else." bessie did not know what to make of this odd young lady, who was talking in such a strange way to her, but she could not help feeling sorry for her as she stood leaning on the wall with a tired, disappointed look on her face, and said these words in a troubled voice. "miss adams," she said, "why don't you ask our father in heaven to give you some one to take care of you and your money, and to make you--" bessie stopped short. "well," said miss adams, smiling, "to make me what?" "i am afraid you would not like me to say it," said bessie, fidgeting on her hard seat. "i think i had better go to nurse." "you shall go, but i would like to hear what you were going to say. to make me what?" "to make you behave yourself," said bessie, gravely, not quite sure she was doing right to say it. but miss adams laughed outright, then looked grave again. "there are plenty of people would like to take care of my money, bessie, and there are some people who try, or think they try, to make me behave myself; but not because they care for me, only because they are shocked by the things i do. so i try to shock them more than ever." bessie was sure this was not right, but she did not like to tell miss adams so. "but i am sorry i shocked you, bessie, and made you think me no lady. now tell me that you forgive me, and shake hands with me. i am going away to-morrow, and may never see you again." bessie put her little hand in miss adams', and lifted up her face to her. "i'll kiss you now," she said, "and i'm sorry i wouldn't that day." the young lady looked pleased, and stooping, she kissed her two or three times, then took her hand to lead her back to nurse. nurse was just rising from her seat and looking anxiously up at the sky. "there's a cloud coming over the sun," she said; "i'm afraid it is going to rain." "i expect it is," said miss adams; "i saw there was a shower coming as i drove down the hill, but i did not think it would be here for some time yet." just then the boys and jane came running up to them, jane carrying maggie in her arms. "oh, nursey!" called maggie, "it's going to gust. we thought you would be gone home. why, there's miss adams!"--and maggie stopped. not only she, but all the rest of the party were very much surprised to see miss adams standing there, and seeming so friendly with bessie and nurse. but there was no time to say anything. there was indeed a gust coming. the edge of a black cloud was just showing itself over the woods which had hidden it till now from nurse. "make haste!" cried harry; "i never saw a cloud come up so fast." "quick, nurse!" said miss adams; "jump into the pony carriage with the little ones, and we will be home in less than no time. quick, now!" nurse made no objections now to the "gimcrack." she thought of nothing but how to get her babies home before the storm should overtake them. she bundled into the carriage with baby, while miss adams, laughing as if she enjoyed the fun, packed in maggie, bessie, and franky beside her. "hurry up, now, tip!" she said to the groom, and giving the ponies a crack with her whip, away they dashed down the road. "now, boys, try if we can outrun the clouds. see who'll be first at the bend in the road. one, two, three, and away!" and off she went, with fred and harry after her, while jane stood still for a moment in amazement at the pranks of this strange young lady, and then followed as fast as her feet could carry her. meanwhile, on went the carriage with its precious load, nurse, as soon as they were fairly started, wishing they were all out again, and every minute begging tip to drive carefully, and not upset them, to which he did not pay the least attention. but they reached home without accident, and found papa and uncle john setting out to meet them. it was growing very dark now. the black cloud had covered nearly the whole sky, and a white line was moving swiftly along the water, showing that a furious wind was sweeping over the waves. in another minute they were in the house, and right glad was the anxious mother to see her little ones. "but where are harry and fred?" she said; "and how came you home in that?" looking at the carriage. "miss adams sent us," said maggie, "and the boys are coming with her." "and she didn't let him fall in, mamma," said bessie, "and she is all wet. but she only laughed. she's been talking to me, and i was sorry for her, and she's sorry 'cause she pulled my hair. i kissed her, so we are friends now." "miss adams!" said mrs. bradford, in great surprise. "yes, ma'am, miss adams," said nurse, giving baby to her mother, "and surely i think she's turned over a new leaf. she's been talking to bessie as tame as a lamb, and making friends with her, and that after me giving her a piece of my mind. and she saved that boy there (oh, you naughty fellow!) from drowning; for what could i have done?" "saved my boy from drowning!" said mrs. bradford, turning pale. then nurse told how miss adams' presence of mind had saved franky from a fall, and probably from being carried away and drowned. just as she finished her story, the young lady and the boys came up. mr. and mrs. bradford went out on the piazza, to meet miss adams, but she did not mean to come in, nor could she be persuaded to do so, though the large drops of rain were beginning to plash heavily down; nor would she listen to any thanks from mrs. bradford. "but you are heated with your run," said mrs. bradford, "come in and have some dry clothes. you will be drenched in this pouring rain, and will take cold." "no fear," said miss adams, laughing. "the second wetting will do me no harm; nothing ever hurts me. good-by. good-by, dear little bessie." she stooped to kiss her, and running down the bank, snatched the reins from the groom, jumped into the carriage, and kissing her hand, drove away through all the rain. "strange, wild girl," said mrs. bradford, with a sigh, as she turned into the house. "but there must be some good in her, mamma, when she gave up her carriage to the children, and walked or rather ran all the way here," said harry; "and she didn't seem to think she'd done anything at all. how she did scud though! i don't like to see a woman act the way she does, and i can't quite forgive her about carlo and bessie; but i do think there's some good in her." "ah, harry," said his mother. "there is some good in every one, if we only knew how to find it." xxi. _the colonel in trouble._ "bessie," said harry, as the children were at their supper, and he saw his little sister sitting with her spoon in her hand and her eyes fixed on the table as if she had forgotten the bread and butter and berries before her,--"bessie, what are you thinking of." "of miss adams," said the little girl. "nurse said she was talking to you ever so long," said fred; "what was she saying?" "i don't think she meant me to talk about it," said bessie; "she didn't want nurse to hear, and so i shall only tell mamma and maggie. you know i must tell mamma everything, and i couldn't help telling my own maggie." "she is a queer dick," said fred, "pulling your hair, and tormenting you out of your life one time, and telling you secrets another. the idea of a grown woman telling secrets to a little snip like you!" "no snip about it!" said maggie; "and if i was everybody, i'd tell bessie every one of my secrets." "that's right, maggie. you always stand up for bessie and fight her battles; don't you?" "but, bessie," said harry, "did miss adams tell you you mustn't repeat what she said?" "no," said bessie. "then there's no harm in telling." "oh, harry!" said fred. "if bessie knows miss adams don't want her to talk about it, she ought not to tell any more than if she had promised; ought she, father?" "certainly not," said mr. bradford; "it would be unkind as well as dishonorable." "yes," said maggie; "it is not to do to others as i would that they should do to me." "exactly, little woman," said her father, "and remember, dear children, that is a very safe rule to be guided by, when we do not feel sure whether a thing is fair or not." "bessie," said fred, "tell us what ails the colonel. i suppose you know, for all the grown-uppers seem to be telling you their secrets." "why, that's not a secret! his leg is cut off." "don't think i don't know that. i mean, what makes him so grumpy? he isn't like the same fellow he was when he first came down here." "fred," said bessie, giving him a reproving look, "you're not polite at all to talk that way about my soldier. he's not a fellow, only boys are fellows, and he's a big gentleman. and he's not that other thing you called him,--i sha'n't say it, because it is a very ugly word." "and it's saucy to say it about the colonel," said maggie. "i don't care," said fred. "it's true; isn't it, hal? he used to be the best company in the world,--always ready to tell us boys stories by the hour, and full of his fun and jokes. but for the last few days he has been as solemn as an owl, with no fun to be had out of him, and if one can get him to talk, it always seems as if he were thinking of something else. he's as cross as a bear too. now don't fire up, bess; it's so. starr, his man, says he was never half so impatient or hard to please all the time he was sick as he has been for the last ten days." "fred," said mrs. bradford, "you should not talk to a servant of his master's faults." "he didn't, mother," said harry,--"at least, not in a way you would think wrong. the colonel was dreadfully dull and out of sorts the other day, though he declared that nothing ailed him, and seemed quite provoked that we should ask, though any one could see with half an eye that something was the matter. starr was hanging round, bringing him this and that, books and newspapers, coaxing him to have something to eat or drink. at last he asked him if there was _nothing_ he could do for him, and the colonel thundered at him and said, 'yes, leave me alone.' then he got himself up on his crutches and went off, and would not let starr help him. the man looked as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. so fred told him he didn't believe the colonel meant anything. starr said he was sure he did not, for he was the best master that ever lived. but he was troubled about it, for he was sure that something was wrong with him. fred said perhaps his wounds pained him worse; but starr said no, the wounds were doing nicely, and the colonel was not a man to make a fuss about them if they did pain him, for all the time he was suffering so dreadfully that no one thought he could live, he never heard a complaint or a groan from him. and it was then he said the colonel was far harder to please, and more impatient than when he was so ill." "maybe he wants to get back to his regiment," said fred. "no, it is not that,--at least, mrs. rush says it is not; for this morning, when i was standing in the hall, the doctor came out of the room with mrs. rush, and he said her husband had something on his mind, and asked if he were fretting to be with his regiment. and she said, 'oh, no, the colonel never frets himself about that which cannot be.'" "didn't she tell him what it was?" asked fred. "no, but i guess she, too, thinks there's something wrong with him, for the doctor told her she must not let anything worry him, and she did not say a word. and when he went, and she turned to go back to her room, her face was so very sad." "she's just the sweetest little woman that ever was made," said fred, who was a great admirer of mrs. rush, "and i don't know what he can have to make him fret. i should think he had everything a man could want." "except the one great thing," said grandpapa duncan, in a low voice to himself. mr. bradford, who had been listening to what his children were saying, but had not spoken, now walked out on the piazza, where he stood watching the clearing away of the storm. in a moment or two bessie followed him, and silently held out her arms to him to be taken up. "papa," she said, as he lifted her, "do you think my soldier has a trouble in his mind?" "i think he has." "wont you help him, papa?" said bessie, who, like most little children, thought her father able to help and comfort every one. "i could only show him where he could find help, my darling, and i do not think he cares to have me tell him." "then is there no one that can help him, papa?" "yes, there is one who can give him all the help he needs." "you mean the one who lives up there?" said bessie, pointing to the sky. "yes. will my bessie pray that her friend may receive all the help he needs from that great merciful father?" "oh, yes, papa, and you'll ask him, and my soldier will ask him, and he'll be sure to listen; wont he?" mr. bradford did not tell his little girl that the colonel would not ask such aid for himself; he only kissed her and carried her in. bessie did not forget her friend that night when she said her evening prayers. maggie and bessie went over to the hotel the next morning with their mother. after making a visit to their grandma, they thought they would go to see the colonel, so they ran away to his room. mrs. rush was there busy, and she told them the colonel was out on the piazza. he was reading the newspaper, but threw it down when they came, and was very glad to see them. bessie looked at him earnestly, to see if she could see any signs of trouble about him. but he seemed much as usual, laughing and talking pleasantly with them. but she could not forget what harry had said, and she turned her eyes so often upon him with a questioning look that he noticed it, and said, "well, my pet, what is it? what do you want to know?" "does something trouble you?" asked bessie. "trouble me!" he repeated. "what should trouble me?" "i don't know," she answered; "but i thought maybe something did." "what have i to trouble me?" he again asked, carelessly. "have i not the dearest little wife and two of the dearest little friends in the world, as well as pretty much everything else a reasonable man could want? to be sure, another leg would be a convenience, but that is a small matter, and we will see what palmer can do for me one of these days; he will make me as good as new again." bessie was not quite satisfied. though the colonel spoke so gayly, she felt sure there had been something wrong, if there was not now. she still watched him wistfully, and the colonel, looking into her loving eyes, said, "if i were in any trouble, you would help me out of it, bessie; would you not?" "if i could," she answered; "but i couldn't do very much, i'm too little. but we know who can help us; don't we? and we can tell him. mamma has a book named 'go and tell jesus.' aint that a pretty name? i asked her to read it to me, and she said i couldn't understand it now. when i am older, she will; but i can understand the name, and i like to think about it when i have been naughty or have a trouble." "may your troubles never be worse than they are now, little one," said the colonel fondly, with a smile; "and one of your troubles is done with, bessie. do you know that your enemy, miss adams, is gone?" "oh, she is not my enemy any more," said bessie; "we are friends now, and i am glad of it, for i don't like to be enemies with people." "ho, ho!" said the colonel. "how did that come about? i thought she wanted to make it up with you, but i did not see how it was to come about when you were off like a lamp-lighter every time she came near you." then bessie told how miss adams' presence of mind had saved franky from falling into the stream, "and then we talked a little," she said, "and i told her i was sorry i had been saucy, and kissed her, and so we are all made up." "that was the way; was it?" said the colonel. "i do not think you were the one to ask pardon." "oh, she did too," said bessie; "she said she was sorry she teased me." "and what else did she say?" "i don't think she meant me to talk about it, 'cause she didn't want nurse to hear." "then i wont ask you, honorable little woman." "and she sent us home in the pony-carriage when the rain was coming, and ran all the way to our house herself, and mamma was very much obliged to her," said maggie. "well," said the colonel, "i suppose i shall have to forgive her too, since she saved you from a wetting, and took a bad cold in your service. we all wondered how she came to be so drenched, but she would not tell us how it happened." "did she take cold?" asked maggie. "mamma said she would, but she said nothing ever hurt her." "something has hurt her this time. they say she was really ill when she went away this morning, and some of the ladies tried to persuade her to wait until she was better. but go she would, and go she did. here comes mrs. rush to take me for a walk. will you go with us?" the children were quite ready, and, mamma's permission gained, they went off with their friends. but although this was the last they saw of miss adams, it was not the last they heard of her. mrs. bradford was right. miss adams had been wet to the knees in the brook, and much heated by her long run; and then again thoroughly drenched in the rain, and when she reached home, the foolish girl, for the sake of making people wonder at her, would not change her clothes. she took a violent cold, but, as the colonel had said, insisted on travelling the next morning, and went on till she was so ill that she was forced to give up. she had a long illness, from which it was thought she would never recover, but she afterwards said that this was the happiest thing that had ever happened to her in her life. sometime after this, about christmas time, came a letter and a little parcel to bessie. the letter said,-- "my dear little bessie,-- "tell your mother i scorned her advice the day we were caught in the rain, and paid well for my folly, for i was very ill; but there was a good, kind doctor, who came and cured me, and now he is going to 'take care of me and my money, and make me behave myself.' he thinks he can make the 'kitchen lady' less of a mad-cap; but i do not know but that my long illness has done that already. while i lay sick, i had time to think, and to feel sorry that i had acted so wildly and foolishly as to leave myself without a true friend in the world. i shall never forget you, bessie, and i hope you will sometimes think kindly of me, and that you may do so, will you ask your mother to let you wear this bracelet in remembrance of clara adams." the little parcel contained a very beautiful and expensive bracelet with a clasp which made it smaller or larger, according to the size of the arm of the wearer. but mrs. bradford did not think it a suitable thing for her little girl, and she told bessie she should put it away till she was grown up. "i sha'n't wear it then, mamma," said bessie; "she never sent maggie one, and i don't want to wear what she don't. we can both look at it sometimes, and then we can both think of miss adams: but we can't both wear it, and we don't want to be dressed _different alike_." xxii. _the broken nose._ "there comes mamma with mamie stone," said maggie, as they were going back to the hotel with colonel and mrs. rush. when mamie saw the little girls, she ran to meet them, saying she was going home to spend the morning with them; and mrs. bradford took them all back with her. while maggie and bessie said their lessons, mamie amused herself with franky and nellie and the baby; and she was delighted when nurse made her sit down on the floor, and putting the baby in her lap, let her hold her for a few minutes. afterwards they all had a good play together, a doll's tea-party, and a fine swing. mamie stayed to dinner, and was very good all day; and very soon after dinner, mr. stone came to take his daughter home. he was a grave, serious man, and it was rather unusual to see him with such a bright smile, and looking so happy. he said a few words in a low tone to mrs. bradford and mrs. duncan, and they seemed pleased too, and shook hands with him. "yes," he said, in answer to something mrs. bradford said to him, "i am glad of it; it is the best thing in the world for mamie." "what is it, papa?" said mamie, springing forward; "have you got something for me?" "yes," he answered. "will you come home and see it?" "what is it,--a new toy?" "the very prettiest plaything you ever had in your life," he answered, with a smile. mamie clapped her hands. "can maggie and bessie come too?" she asked, turning to mrs. bradford. "not to-day," said mrs. bradford, "but they shall come soon." mamie went away with her father, while maggie and bessie stood and watched her as she went skipping along by his side, looking very happy and eager. but when an hour or two later they went down on the beach and found mamie, she seemed anything but happy. indeed, she looked as if nothing pleasant had ever happened to her in her life. she was sitting on a stone, the marks of tears all over her cheeks and now and then giving a loud, hard sob. it was more than sulkiness or ill-humor; any one who looked at the child could see that she was really unhappy. martha, her nurse, was sitting a little way off knitting, and not taking the least notice of her. maggie and bessie ran up to her. "what is the matter, mamie?" asked maggie. "my nose is broken," sobbed mamie, "and my father and mother don't love me any more." "oh," exclaimed maggie, paying attention only to the first part of mamie's speech, "how did it get broken?" "baby did it." "what baby? not ours?" "no, an ugly, hateful little baby that's in my mother's room." "how did it do it?" "i don't know; but martha says it did, and she says that's the reason my papa and mamma don't love me any more." "don't they love you?" asked bessie. "no, they don't," said mamie, passionately. "mamma tried to push me away, and papa scolded me and took me out of the room. he never scolded me before, and he was so angry, and it's all for that hateful little baby. oh, dear, oh, dear! what shall i do?" "wasn't you naughty?" asked maggie. "i sha'n't tell you," said mamie. "then i know you was. if you hadn't been, you'd say, 'no!'" mamie did not answer. bessie walked round her, looking at her nose, first on one side, then on the other. "i don't see where it's broken," she said. "it looks very good. will it blow now?" "i don't know," said mamie. "i'm afraid to try. oh, dear!" "does it hurt?" asked bessie. "no, not much; but i expect it's going to." "maybe we can feel where it's broken," said maggie. "let's squeeze it a little." "i wont let you," said mamie. "but i'll let bessie, 'cause she's so softly." bessie squeezed the nose, first very gently, then a little harder, but it seemed all right, and felt just as a nose ought to feel. then mamie let maggie squeeze; but she pinched harder than bessie had done, and hurt it a little. "oh, you hurt! go away!" said mamie, and set up an angry cry. martha, who had been talking to jane, rose at this. "come, now," she said, "just have done with this. i wont have any more crying, you bad child." "go away!" screamed mamie, as martha came near; "you're bad yourself. oh, i want my mamma!" "your mamma don't want you then, little broken nose. have done with that crying." "i'll tell mamma of you," said mamie. "oh, you needn't be running with your tales now. your mamma has got some one else to attend to." "that's a shame, martha," said jane. "she's just teasing you, miss mamie; your mamma does care for you." "martha," said bessie, "i'm glad you're not my nurse; i wouldn't love you if you were." "there's no living with her. she'll be cured of her spoiled ways now," said martha, as she tried to drag the struggling, screaming child away. but mamie would not stir a step. she was in a great rage, and fought and kicked and struck martha; but just then mrs. bradford was seen coming towards them. "what is the matter?" she asked. "she's just going on this way because of the baby, ma'am," said martha. "mamie," said mrs. bradford, "you don't look like the happy little girl who left us a short time ago." mamie stopped screaming, and held out one hand to mrs. bradford, but martha kept fast hold of the other, and tried to make her come away. "let her come to me, martha," said the lady; "i want to speak to her." martha looked sulky, but she let go of mamie, and walked away muttering. mrs. bradford sat down on the rock and took mamie on her lap. "now, mamie, what is the matter?" she asked, kindly. "i thought i should find you so pleasant and happy." "my nose is broken," sobbed mamie, "and oh, dear! my papa and mamma don't love me any more. i would not care if my nose was broken, if they only loved me." "they do love you just as much as they ever did," said mrs. bradford, "and your nose is not broken. how should it come to be broken?" "there's an ugly baby in mamma's room," said mamie. "the bad little thing did it." "oh, nonsense!" said mrs. bradford, "how could such a little thing break your nose? even if it were to give you a blow, which i am sure it did not, that tiny fist could not hurt you much." "martha said it did," said mamie. "then martha told you what was not true. that is a very foolish, wicked way which some people have of telling a little child that its nose is broken, when a baby brother or sister comes to share its parents' love. and it is quite as untrue to say that your father and mother do not love you any longer. they love you just as much as they ever did, and will love you more if you are kind to the baby, and set it a good example." "but i don't want it to be mamma's," said mamie. "i'm her baby, and i don't want her to have another." "but you are six years old," said mrs. bradford. "you surely do not want to be called a baby now! why, franky would be quite offended if any one called him a baby. this morning, when you were playing with my little annie, you said you did wish you had a baby at home, to play with all the time; and now, when god has sent you the very thing you wanted, you are making yourself miserable about it." "but it isn't a nice, pretty baby like yours," said mamie. "it don't play and crow like little annie, and it don't love me either. it made a face and rolled up its fist at me." "poor little thing!" said mrs. bradford, "it did not know any better. such very small babies do not know how to play. for some time this little sister must be watched and nursed very carefully by its mother, for it is weak and helpless; but when it is a little older, though it must be cared for still, it will begin to hold up its head and take notice, and play and crow, as annie does. then she will know you, and be pleased when you come, if you are kind to her. by and by you may help to teach her to walk and talk. think what a pleasure that will be! the first words franky spoke were taught to him by maggie, and the first one of all was 'mag.'" mamie stopped crying, and sat leaning her head against mrs. bradford as she listened. "but i know my father and mother don't love me so much now," she said. "mamma did try to push me away, and papa scolded me so, and he never did it before." "then i am sure you deserved it. i am afraid you must have been very naughty. now tell me all about it," said mrs. bradford, smoothing back mamie's disordered hair, and wiping her heated, tear-stained face with her own soft, cool handkerchief. "perhaps we can cure some of your troubles by talking a little about them. when your father came for you this afternoon, it seemed to me that half his own pleasure came from the thought that the baby was to bring so much happiness to you. that did not look as if he did not love you; did it?" "no, but he was angry with me." "tell me what happened after you went home with him?" mamie put her finger in her mouth and hung her head, but after a moment she looked up and said,-- "he took me into mamma's room, and there was a woman there i did not know, and that baby was in the bed with mamma." "and what then?" "mamma told me to come and see my darling little sister, and i cried and said i would not have her for my sister, and she should not stay there. and papa said i was naughty, and that woman said she would not have such a noise there, and i must go away if i was not quiet, and that made me madder. i wasn't going to be sent out of my own mamma's room for that baby. if she was its nurse, she could take it away. it hadn't any business there, and then--then--" mamie was beginning to feel ashamed, and to see that the most of her trouble came from her own naughtiness. "well, dear," said mrs. bradford, gently, "and then?" "and then i tried to pull the baby away, and i tried to slap the bad little thing." "oh, mamie!" exclaimed maggie and bessie. "that was the reason your papa was angry, was it not?" asked mrs. bradford. "yes, ma'am. mamma pushed me away, and papa carried me out of the room, and oh, he did scold me so! he called martha, and told her to take me away. then she said my nose was broken, and papa and mamma would not love me any more, because the baby had come. oh! i would be good, if they would let me go back to mamma, and she would love me." "she does love you just as much as ever. you see, my child, you frightened and disturbed her when you tried to hurt that tender little baby. she cares for you just as much as she did before, and i am sure she is grieving now because you were naughty, and had to be sent away from her. and your papa, too, when you see him, only tell him you mean to be a good child, and kind to the baby, and you will find you are still his own little mamie, whom he loves so dearly, and for whose comfort and pleasure he is always caring. i am sorry martha has told you such cruel, wicked stories. there is not a word of truth in them, and you must always trust your father and mother. i am sure your dear little sister will be as great a delight to you as annie is to maggie and bessie, and that you will learn to love her dearly; but you must be kind and loving yourself, dear, not selfish and jealous, if you should have to give up a little to baby. it was jealousy which made you so unhappy. jealousy is a wicked, hateful feeling, one which is very displeasing in the sight of god, and which makes the person who gives way to it very miserable." "it was martha who made her jealous," said maggie. "martha is a very bad nurse; she is not fit to have the care of a child. nurse said so, and that she told wicked stories; so she does, for i have heard her myself she is very _deceptious_." "well," said her mother, "i hope mamie will be too wise to mind what martha says after this." "i will try to be good," said mamie, "and i do love you, mrs. bradford. do you think, when the baby is older, i can hold her on my lap like i did annie?" "i have not a doubt of it. i cannot tell you in how many ways she will be a pleasure to you, if you teach her to be fond of you, and she will be, as your father said, the very prettiest plaything you have ever had. there comes your papa now;" and mamie, looking up, saw her father coming towards them. mr. stone looked grave and troubled, and turned his eyes anxiously towards mamie as he spoke to mrs. bradford. "here is a little girl who thinks she has not behaved well, and wishes to tell you so," said mrs. bradford. mr. stone held out his arms to mamie, and in another moment she was clinging round his neck, with her face against his. "oh, i will be good! will you please love me again?" "love you? and who ever thought of not loving you?" said mr. stone. "poor little woman, you did not think your father would ever cease to love his own mamie? not if a dozen daughters came. no, indeed, my pet; and now do you not want to go and see your poor mamma again, and be a good, quiet girl? she is feeling very badly about you." so mamie went off with her father, feeling quite satisfied that her nose was as good as ever, and that her father and mother loved her just as much as they had done before the baby came to claim a share of their hearts. xxiii. _jesus' soldier._ one warm, bright sunday morning, mrs. rush came over to the cottage. old mr. duncan was sitting on the piazza reading to the children. on the grass in front of the porch, lay uncle john, playing with nellie. she shook hands with the gentlemen, and kissed the children--bessie two or three times with long, tender kisses--and then went into the sitting-room to see their mother. there was no one there but mr. and mrs. bradford. "mrs. bradford," said mrs. rush, when she had bidden them good-morning, "i have come to ask you a favor. this is the first sunday morning since we have been here that my husband has been able and willing to have me leave him to go to church, but to-day he is pretty well, and mrs. stanton has offered me a seat in her carriage. i could not leave the colonel quite alone, and he wishes to have bessie. will you let her come over and stay with him while i am gone?" "certainly," said mrs. bradford. "i do not, as you know, approve of sunday visiting for my children, except when they may be of some use or comfort, then, indeed, i should never hesitate to let them go." "bessie can indeed be of use, and oh! i trust a help and comfort to him. dear mrs. bradford," she went on, the tears starting to her eyes, "i think, i am sure, that god's spirit is striving with my dear husband, and he knows not where to look for help. but he has so long hardened his heart, so firmly closed his ears against all his friends could say to him, so coldly refused to hear one word on the subject, that he is now too proud to ask where he must seek it. i am sure, quite sure, that it has been your dear little bessie's unquestioning faith, her love and trust in the power and goodness of the almighty and, more than all, her firm belief that one for whom he had done so much, and preserved through so many dangers, must of necessity have a double share of faith and love, which has touched his heart. he is restless and unhappy, though he tries to hide it, and i think he is almost anxious to have me away this morning, that he may have her alone with him, in the hope that he may hear something in her simple talk which will show him where to go for aid. he will hear and ask from her what he will hear and ask from no one else." "my little bessie! that baby!" said mrs. bradford, in great surprise. "do you mean to tell me that anything she has said has had power with him?" "yes, yes," said mrs. rush. "i think the first thing that roused him was one day when he was very ill, and she was in his room. she thought him asleep, and in her pretty, childish way spoke of the love she thought he had for his saviour, and how he had been spared that he might love and serve him more and more. horace was touched then, and her words took hold of him i could see, though he tried to seem impatient and vexed, and would not permit me to allude to them. so it was again and again. she was always saying some little thing which would not let him forget or keep his heart closed. she was so fond of him, so pretty and sweet in all her ways, that he had not the heart to check her, even when it annoyed him. and besides, i know he could not bear that her trust in him should be shaken by the knowledge that he was not what she thought him,--a christian. then came the day when bessie fell into such trouble with miss adams. annie came to our room, telling of it, and of the poor child's touching repentance. horace sat silent for a good while after annie had gone away; at last he said, 'poor innocent little lamb! and she is so earnestly seeking forgiveness for the trifling fault which is far more the sin of another than her own, while i--' there he stopped, and indeed it seemed as if he had been speaking more to himself than to me. it was the first word i had ever heard from him which showed that he was allowing the thought of his own need of forgiveness, but i dared not speak. i felt that that baby was doing what i could not do. the tiny grain of mustard seed dropped by that little hand had taken root on a hard and stony ground, it might be; but i could only pray that the dews of heaven might fall upon it, and cause it to grow and bring forth fruit. it is years, i believe, since he has opened a bible. he made me move mine from the table, for he said he did not want to see it about. i have almost feared he would forbid me to read it, and here i felt i must resist him. even his wishes or commands must not come between me and the precious words in which i found so much comfort and strength. but the other day i had to leave him alone for a little while. i had been reading my bible, and left it lying on my chair. when i came back, it lay upon the window-ledge. there had been no one there to touch it but my husband, and he must have left his seat to reach it. with what purpose? i thought, with a sudden hope. yesterday it was the same. i had been away for a few minutes, and when i came back, the colonel started from the window where he was standing, and walked as quickly as he could to his sofa. my bible lay where i had left it, but a mark and a dried flower had fallen from it. i was sure now. he had been searching within for something which might help him, but was still unwilling to ask for human or divine guidance. since then i have left it again on his table, but he has not made me move it, as he would have done a month ago. and this morning, when mrs. stanton sent for me, and i asked him if he could spare me, he said so kindly, but so sadly,-- "'yes, yes, go. i fear i have too often thrown difficulties in your way, poor child; but i shall never do so again. only, marion, do not leave your husband too far behind.' "then i said i would not leave him, but he insisted, and went back to his careless manner, and said, if you would let him, he would have bessie for his nurse this morning. i said i would ask, but he had better let starr sit in the room, lest he should want anything she could not do. but he said no, he would have none but bessie, and told me to send starr at once. but i came myself, for i wanted to tell you all i felt and hoped. now, if bessie comes to him, and he opens the way, as he may with her, she will talk to him in her loving, trusting spirit, and perhaps bring him help and comfort." mr. bradford had risen from his seat, and walked up and down the room as she talked. now he stood still, and said, very low and gently, "and a little child shall lead them." when mrs. rush had gone, mrs. bradford called bessie. "bessie," she said, taking her little daughter in her arms and holding her very closely, "how would you like to go over and take care of your soldier this morning, and let mrs. rush go to church?" "all by myself, mamma?" "yes, dear. do you think you will be tired? we shall be gone a good while. it is a long ride to church." "oh, no, i wont be tired a bit," said bessie, "and i'll take such good care of him. mamma, are you sorry about something?" "no, dear, only very glad and happy." "oh," said bessie, "i thought i saw a tear in your eye when you kissed me; i s'pose i didn't." when the wagon started for church with the rest of the family, bessie went with them as far as the hotel, where she was left, and taken to the colonel's room by mrs. rush. "now what shall i do to amuse you, bessie?" said the colonel, when his wife had gone. "why, i don't want to be amused on sunday," said bessie, looking very grave. "franky has his playthings, and baby has her yattle, 'cause they don't know any better. i used to have my toys, too, when i was young, but i am too big now. i mean i'm not very big, but i am pretty old, and i do know better. besides, i must do something for you. i am to be your little nurse and take care of you, mamma said." "what are you going to do for me?" "just what you want me to." "well, i think i should like you to talk to me a little." "what shall i talk about? shall i tell you my hymn for to-day?" "yes, if you like." "every day mamma teaches us a verse of a hymn," said bessie, "till we know it all, and then on sunday we say it to papa. i'll say the one for this week, to-night; but first i'll say it to you. it's such a pretty one. sometimes mamma chooses our hymns, and sometimes she lets us choose them, but i choosed this myself. i heard mamma sing it, and i liked it so much i asked her to teach it to me, and she did. shall i say it to you now?" "yes," said the colonel, and climbing on the sofa on which he sat, she put one little arm over his shoulder, and repeated very slowly and correctly:-- "i was a wandering sheep; i did not love the fold; i did not love my father's voice; i would not be controlled. i was a wayward child; i did not love my home; i did not love my shepherd's voice; i loved afar to roam. "the shepherd sought his sheep; the father sought his child; they followed me o'er vale and hill, o'er deserts waste and wild. they found me nigh to death; famished and faint and lone; they bound me with the bands of love; they saved the wandering one. "jesus my shepherd is; 'twas he that loved my soul; 'twas he that washed me in his blood; 'twas he that made me whole; 'twas he that sought the lost, that found the wandering sheep; 'twas he that brought me to the fold; 'tis he that still doth keep. "no more a wandering sheep, i love to be controlled; i love my tender shepherd's voice; i love the peaceful fold. no more a wayward child, i seek no more to roam; i love my heavenly father's voice; i love, i love his home." "isn't it sweet?" she asked, when she had finished. "say it again, my darling," said the colonel. she went through it once more. "where is that hymn?" asked the colonel. "is it in that book of hymns marion has?" "i don't know," said bessie. "mamma did not say it out of that; but we will see." she slipped down from the sofa, and going for the hymn-book, brought it to the colonel. he began slowly turning over the leaves, looking for the hymn. "why, that is not the way," said bessie; "don't you know how to find a hymn yet? here is the way:" and she turned to the end of the book, and showed him the table of first lines. no, it was not there. "i'll ask mamma to lend you her book, if you want to yead it for yourself," said bessie. "she will, i know." "no, no," said the colonel, "i do not wish you to." "but she'd just as lief, i know." "never mind, darling; i would rather not," said colonel rush, as he laid down the book. "shall i say another?" asked bessie. "i should like to hear that one again," said the colonel, "if you do not mind saying it so often." "oh, no; i like to say it. i guess you like it as much as i do, you want to hear it so many times. i was glad that i learned it before, but i am gladder now when you like it so;" and the third time she repeated the hymn. "the shepherd," she said when she was through; "that means our saviour,--does it not?--and the big people are the sheep, and the children the lambs. maggie and i are his lambs, and you are his sheep; and you are his soldier too. you are a little bit my soldier, but you are a great deal his soldier; are you not?" the colonel did not answer. he was leaning his head on his hand, and his face was turned a little from her. "say, are you not?" repeated bessie,--"are you not his soldier?" "i'm afraid not, bessie," he said, turning his face towards her, and speaking very slowly. "if i were his soldier, i should fight for him; but i have been fighting against him all my life." "why?" said the little girl, a good deal startled, but not quite understanding him; "don't you love him?" "no, bessie." it was pitiful to see the look of distress and wonder which came over the child's face. "don't you love him?" she said again,--"don't you love our saviour? oh, you don't mean that,--you only want to tease me. but you wouldn't make believe about such a thing as that. don't you really love him? how can you help it?" "bessie," said the colonel, with a kind of groan, "i want to love him, but i don't know how. don't cry so, my darling." "oh," said the child, stopping her sobs, "if you want to love him, he'll teach you how. tell him you want to; ask him to make you love him, and he will. i know he will, 'cause he loves you so." "loves me?" said the colonel. "yes; he loves you all the time, even if you don't love him. i think that's what my hymn means. even when we go away from him, he'll come after us, and try to make us love him. i know it's wicked and unkind not to love him, when he came and died for us. but if you're sorry, he wont mind about that any more, and he will forgive you. he will forgive every one when they ask him, and tell him they're sorry. the other day, when i was so wicked and in such a passion, and struck mr. lovatt, i asked jesus to forgive me, and he did. i know he did. i used to be in passions very often, and he helped me when i asked him; and now he makes me better; and he'll forgive you too, and make you better." "i fear there can be no forgiveness for me, bessie. i have lived seven times as long as you, my child, and all that time, i have been sinning and sinning. i have driven god from me, and hardened my heart against the lord jesus. i would not even let any one speak to me of him." "never matter," said bessie, tenderly. "i don't mean never matter, 'cause it is matter. but he will forgive that when he sees you are so sorry, and he will be sorry for you; and he does love you. if he didn't love you, he couldn't come to die for you, so his father could forgive you, and take you to heaven. there's a verse, i know, about that; mamma teached it to me a good while ago. it hangs in our nursery just like a picture, all in pretty bright letters; and we have 'suffer little children,' too. it is 'god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.' mamma says the world means everybody." "could you find that verse for me, bessie?" asked the colonel. "i don't know, sir; i can't find things in the bible,--only a few; but jesus said it to a man named nicodemus, who came to him and wanted to be teached. he'll teach you, too, out of his bible. oh, wont you ask him?" "i will try, darling," he said. "i'll get your bible, and we'll see if we can find that verse," said bessie. "where is your bible?" "i have none," he answered; "at least, i have one somewhere at home, i believe, but i do not know where it is. my mother gave it to me, but i have never read it since i was a boy." "oh, here's mrs. yush's on the table," said bessie; "she always keeps it on the window-seat, and she always made me put it back there; but i s'pose she forgot and left it here." she brought the bible, and sat down by the colonel. "i can find, 'suffer little children,'" she said, turning to the eighteenth chapter of matthew. "i can yead you a little bit, if you tell me the big words: 'suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' isn't it sweet?" "yes; and i can believe it," he said, laying his hand on bessie's head; "of such is the kingdom of heaven." bessie turned to the fifteenth chapter of luke. "here's about the prodigal son," she said, "but it's too long for me. will you please yead it?" he took the bible from her, and read the chapter very slowly and thoughtfully, reading the parable a second time. then he turned the leaves over, stopping now and then to read a verse to himself. "if you want what jesus said to nicodemus, look there," said bessie, pointing to the headings of the chapters. he soon found the third of john, and sat for a long time with his eyes fixed on the sixteenth and seventeenth verses. bessie sat looking at him without speaking. "what are you thinking of, my pet?" he asked at last, laying down the book. "i was thinking how you could be so brave when you didn't love him," she said "didn't it make you afraid when you was in a danger?" "no," he said; "i hadn't even faith enough to be afraid." "and that night didn't you feel afraid you wouldn't go to heaven when you died?" "the thought would come sometimes, bessie, but i put it from me, as i had done all my life. i tried to think only of home and marion and my sister. will you say that hymn again for me, bessie?" "shall i say, 'i need thee, precious jesus'?" she asked, after she had again repeated, "i was a wandering sheep;" "i think you do need our precious jesus." "yes," he said, and she said for him, "i need thee, precious jesus." "shall i ask papa to come and see you, and tell you about jesus?" she said, when her father and mother stopped for her on their way from church. "i am so little, i don't know much, but he knows a great deal." "no, dear, i want no better teacher than i have had," said colonel rush. "who?" asked bessie. but the colonel only kissed her, and told her not to keep her father and mother waiting; and so she went away. but that afternoon there came a little note to mr. bradford from mrs. rush:-- "dear friend,-- "can you come to my husband? he has opened his heart to me, and asked for you. "marion rush." mr. bradford went over directly. the colonel looked pale and worn, and had a tired, anxious expression in his eye. but after mr. bradford came in, he talked of everything but that of which he was thinking so much, though it seemed as if he did not feel a great deal of interest in what he was saying. at last his wife rose to go away, but he called her back, and told her to stay. he was silent for a little while, till mr. bradford laid his hand on his arm. "rush, my friend," he said, "are you looking for the light?" the colonel did not speak for a moment then he said in a low voice,-- "no; i _see_ the light, but it is too far away i cannot reach to where its beams may fall upon me. i see it. it was a tiny hand, that of your precious little child, which pointed it out, and showed me the way by which i must go; but my feet have so long trodden the road which leads to death, that now, when i would set my face the other way, they falter and stumble. i cannot even stand, much less go forward. bradford, i am a far worse cripple there than i am in this outer world." "there is one prop which cannot fail you," said mr. bradford. "throw away all others, and cast yourself upon the almighty arm which is stretched out to sustain and aid you. you may not see it in the darkness which is about you, but it is surely there, ready to receive and uphold you. only believe, and trust yourself to it, and it will bear you onwards and upwards to the light, unto the shining of the perfect day." colonel rush did not answer, and mr. bradford, opening the bible, read the d and th psalms. then he chose the chapter which the colonel and bessie had read in the morning, and after he had talked a little, "marion," said the colonel, after some time, "do you know a hymn beginning 'i was a wandering sheep'?" "yes," said mrs. rush; and in her low, sweet voice, she sang it to him. next she sang, "just as i am," twice over,--for he asked for it a second time,--then both sat silent for a long while. the rosy light of the august sunset died out of the west, the evening star which little bessie had once said looked "like god's eye taking care of her when she went to sleep," shone out bright and peaceful; then, as it grew darker and darker, came forth another and another star, and looked down on the world which god had loved so much, till the whole sky was brilliant with them; the soft, cool sea-breeze came gently in at the windows, bringing with it the gentle plash of the waves upon the shore, mingled with the chirp of the crickets and the distant hum of voices from the far end of the piazza; but no one came near or disturbed them; and still the colonel sat with his face turned towards the sea, without either speaking or moving, till his wife, as she sat with her hand in his, wondered if he could be asleep. at last he spoke, "marion." "yes, love." "the light is shining all around me, and i can stand in it--with my hand upon the cross." 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(orig: lay neatly folded, a tiny affghan.)