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All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol —^ (meaning "CON- TINUED "), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprim^e sont film^s en commengant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, seion le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film^s en commenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbcle — ^> significi "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent etre filmds d des taux de reduction diff6rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour §tre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmd d partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 / / PAULINE ARCHER. / ,^,^ ANNA T/^SADLIER. PS New York, Cincinnati, Chicago: OOPYRiaHT. 1889, BY BBMZIGKR BROTHB|||. Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Paulinb ^ ^^""^ CHAPTER 11. Pauline's Fatheb <* 10 CHAPTER IH. LiTTLK Mabt Kelly oft CHAPTER IV. Ak Unexpected Pleasure ^ CHAPTER V. The Afternoon at the Park aa CHAPTER VI. The Same Story Differently Told sg CHAPTER VII. Little Mary's Last Visit a» •J * Contents, CHAPTER VIII. Why Little Mary Did Not Come ^73 CHAPTER IX. Pauline Gobs Visiting g^ CHAPTER X. Pauline's Cousins gg CHAPTER XI. A Luncheon at Aunt Lulu's 108 CHAPTER XII. A Journey U^ CHAPTER XIIL Rebecca Gets a Fright j26 CHAPTER XIV. A New Playmate ^^^ CHAPTER XV. A Delightful Excursion 143 CHAPTER XVL An Adventure and a Farewell 153 CHAPTER XVn. ^ Conclusion. Pauline at Home 163 PAULIITE ARCHER. CHAPTER I. PAULINE. Pauline had been the daintiest of babies. When she had been taken out in her baby- carriage, the passers-by had noted her big blue eyes and yellow hair with lively admiration. In the second stage of her life's journey, when her uncertain little feet had trodden the pavement, she was still noticeable for a dain- tiness of form, feature, and dress, surrounding her like an atmosphere. From the very first she was upright in her carriage, while her blue eyes seemed to be looking onward and upward into some fairer country. At the age of twelve she was still what the servants and other people of the same class 7 M'i H 8 Pauline. who came in contact with her emphatically called " a little lady." Her parents had taken up their abode in a neighborhood which, with- out being precisely fashionable, was very genteel — one of those up-town streets of New York where there is a quietude in the midst of adjacent bustle, and where the noisy thor- oughfares at either end in no wise disturb the peace which reigns in the middle of the block. On sunny mornings one side of the street was in a blaze of glory, while the other was overshadowed by the great, dark, brown-stone houses. In the glory of this sunshine Pauline was often seen to walk, in the neatest of frocks, with spotless collar, or a frill at her throat and wrists, with carefully brushed shin- ing hair, and hands white, with pink-tipped nails. Sometimes she carried a doll; but about the time when this story opens, when the long, hot summer was soon to give way to autumn and Pauline was about twelve years old, she began to have misgivings. Perhaps a great girl of her age should no longer carry a doll. Still she was very, very loath to part with this cherished companion of babyhood, and her big blue eyes looked sadly down upon its Pauline. 9 Bomewhat faded garments and somewhat bat- tered waxen face. She began to realize that the time for such things was nearly over and that she had almost reached the parting of the wa3's. A tear sometimes forced its way down her cheeks, falling upon her dainty frock, ai* she thought of the desolation in which the doll would some day be left, and how lonely she would then be. She could not always confide her thoughts to any one, for Pauline's mother was an in- valid whom she could see only at intervals, and her father was very busy. But she kept them in her own mind, some very curious little conceits, as she played about in the sun- shine, sometimes skipping, sometimes run- ning very fast, with a deer-like swiftness and lightness, and sometimes pacing up and down in her slow and thoughtful way. She did not know much of the actual chil- dren of the neighborhood. Many of them went to school, so that she rarely saw them. But one of her greatest trials was the oc- casional incursion from some of the avenues, far west, of a horde of street-boys, who perse- cuted her with unwelcome attentions, saluting her with a variety of shouts: 1 10 Pauline. " There goes Miss Proudie ! Say, look at the big baby with he^ doll. Ain't she a daisy ! " The little girl never appeared to take any notice of these proceedings. She would not turn her head to look at her tormentors; and when she encountered them, as they hopped about in front of her mockingly, she only let her eyes rest upon them, not angrily nor haughtily, but only gravely and wonderingly. But it was their taunts that first made her hesitate about bringing out her beloved doll, to whom she used to apologize in her quaint way for having to leave it at home. Once she confided her difficulties with these street arabs to her former nurse, Rebecca, who still in great measure had the care of her. " And why don't you tell them to hold their saucy tongues ? " asked that worthy woman indignantly. " Oh, I wouldn't ! " said Pauline, elevating her brows till '^ey met, in her horror at the idea. " I never speak to any one in the street; Fm too much ashamed." " Well, I guess if I go out to them I'll make some of them ashamed," said the nurse, re- treating into her own room, with a sniff. She ■^. "1 Pauline. 11 was usually occupied now in sewing, as her duties with regard to Pauline were very light. The existence of Rebecca became in some way known to Pauline's enemies, who saluted her with new taunts: "Miss Proudie's got a nurse," they cried. " Oh, a big girl like that with a nurse ! " Pauline walked slowly up and down once or twice, as if to show *^hat she was not so easily driven from the fe id, never looking tow- ards the Eighth A^.( uue contir.j^ent, some of whom were astride the railing of a nei^rh bor- ing stoop. Then sho passed slowly up, and sat down on the top step, near her own door, where the sunshine enfolded her as with a glory. She was feeling very lonely, for her little heart had failed her when she ihous:ht of taking out her doll. It would only expose her to new jeers. The boys, tired of their sport, presently ran away, and Pauline went into the house to get some crumbs for a tame pigeon who came from a neighboring house every day to be fed and petted by the little maiden. His feathers glimmered in the morning light, and Pauline stroked them gently with her delicate fingera as she gave him pieces of bread. 12 Pauline. ** I wonder if pigeons are ever thinking of anything," she said to herself reflectively. " This one must remember that he gets bread here or he wouldn't come. If I didn't give him any, perhaps he wouldn't come any more." Pauline often held curious conversations with her nurse, who was a Presbyterian. She was fond of Pauline in her own way, and the little girl from long habit was much attached to her. " Rebecca," said Pauline to her in the nursery — it was the evening of that very day when the street-boys had reproached her with having a nurse — "you don't like Holy Mary ? " " How do you know that ? " growled Re- becca, who affected to be very busy searching in the bureau for something. She had never spoken of religion to the child, as Mrs. Archer had made this an express condition of her re- maining after Pauline reached the age of rea- son. " Rebecca," continued Pauline solemnly, " if you go to heaven, you'll have to see her tip there." " Hurry, now, and get undressed." said the ■■■ ai i .,j iii|i j | | ! .| i| l 1il» B i ' i Pauline. m nurse, who was anxious to change the sub- ject. But Pauline was in an argumentative mood. " I'm afraid perhaps you won't go to heaven at all," she said, " because you never go to Confession." "You're the plaguiest child," said the nurse, " talking about sich things when you ought to be asleep." "It would be awful to go into hell-fire," said the child. This was a quaint expression which she had picked up from the nurse her- self. " So you'd better go to Confession." With this parting shot, Pauline knelt down to say her prayers, and the nurse was very soon free to descend to the kitchen with her budget of complaint. " Land's sake, what a child ! " she observed to the cook. " She sends a cold shiver down my back with her talk. She's the most out- landish one to take care of. She's 'most al- ways in good humor, 'cept once in a way she gets a bad turn; but she makes me creep with them big eyes of hers lookin' straight into you.'* " Oh, it's herself has the purty face," said the cook, with whom Pauline was a special favorite. li 14 Pauline. " Yes, she's mighty pretty," said the nurse with a kind of professional pride; " not that she seems to set any store by her good looks." " I'm afeard it's too good for this world she is," said the cook. " Oh, she'll grow out of all that," said the housemaid; " lots o' them are just like that at the start. But I must say she's got a sweet way about her." From that time forth, Pauline talked no more about religion in the nursery; for, hav- ing repeated the conversation to her mother, who was the gentlest, the most refined and long-suffering of invalids, that lady forbade her to renew the subject. " My dear," she said, " you must not talk religion to your nurse. I have forbidden her to mention the subject to you, and so you see it is unfair that you should say anything to hurt her feelings." Pauline thought for a moment before she answered : " I only told her that perhaps she wouldn't go to heaven. I didn't say she would go into hell-fire, but only that it would be awful to go there.' >f I ,1 Pauline. IS Mrs. Archer could hardly keep from laugh- ing, but she said gravely: " I thiiik you made your meaning very plain indeed, and I feel sorry for your nurse." Pauline was sorry, too, when she thought of it in this light. She disliked nothing so much as hurting anybody's feelings. But what could she do ? She hardly thought it would be right to assure Rebecca that she could go to heaven without Confession. So s'he wisely dropped the subject, and spent a very pleasant evening with her doll, to whom she could speak as freely as she ehose, without fear of wounding its susceptibilities. Ml 1 iiij, i CHAPTER 11. Pauline's father. Patjlinb oould see her mother only at in- tenrals. The doctor permitted but few and brief visits to the invalid, while her father, a very buBy man, was not often in the house. Sometimes Pauline met him on the stairs that summer, and it seemed to surprise him that he could no longer toss her on his shoulder or ride her on his knee, as he had been accus- tomed to do in her eariier years. « Hello ! " he usually said. " What a big giri you have grown, to be sure ! I must take you for a drive one of these Sundays." But when Sunday came, popular Reginald Archer had one engagement or another, and this promise was neglected. One glorious September afternoon, however, when the people were just about beginning to come back to town after the summer, Mr. Archer found himself with nothing in pari;icular to do. As he walked restlessly about the jfi if li' !l Pauline's Father. 17 house, he chanced to catch sight of Pauline, and it struck him as quite a new idea that she was both pretty and distinguished-look- ing. " Would you like to come out on the avenue for a walk with me ? " he called out to her. Pauline was delighted at the suggestion, though she felt rather shy of this big, bearded man whom she saw so seldom. *' Well, get on your toggery, then, and come along," Mr. Archer said carelessly, while Pauline hastened up to the nursery to get ready. " It's about time he took some notice of her," grumbled the censorious Rebecca. " Half the time she might as well have no pa.'*' Pauline, coming out upon the avenue at her father's side, was sensible at once of the great rush of life and movement. The sound of the carriage-wheels and the horses' hoofs upon the pavement, the swift passing of handsome equipages, the hum of voices, and the stream of well-dressed people, all gave the impres- sion of a panorama. Pauline was vaguely pleased with the wonderful costumes that she saw. Something in the little soul within her responded to everything that was beautiful in ' HI'' ' I ill ill! I i Mr i! ill 18 Pauline's Father. life. Her father, who knew a great many of the people and was constantly taking off his hat, was secretly proud of the small figure by his side. Engrossed as he was by the rise and fall of stocks, by coupons and dividends, he had a sixth sense, almost, for what was re- fined and pleasing in womankind. He could not bear anything loud or coarse about them, and it was because of this feeling that he had chosen for his wife the sweet and refined woman who now lay, as he feared, slowly dy- ing in tihe dimness and solitude of her cham- ber. Pauline's costume was charming, simple and fresh, and worn with that indescribable air of daintiness which the child always gave to her clothes. Her father was very much gratified by the admiring looks cast upon his daughter, and the whispers wliich reached him of: *' Isn't she lovely ? Perfectly sweet I " But Pauline was quite unconscious of it all. She walked along at her father's side erect and graceful as a willow, with her blue eyes look- ing into the mysterious something that al- ways seemed before them. " I suppose we may as well go to church," said her father in his indifferent way. *' Would tou care to ? " li: Pauline's Father. 19 Pauline nodded. " Yes, papa," she said softly. But she was somewhat disappointed when he turned away from the avenue. She had expected that they were going into the glori- ous white cathedral, that always reminded her of heaven, and where the music had often thrilled her whole being. They walked eastward for a block or two, and reached an edifice comparatively plain and unadorned exterioriy. Pauline paused a moment at the foot of the steps, while her father called to her from the lop rather impatiently: " I thought you wanted to come in." It cost Pauline an effort to ask the question whidh struggled to her lips. But her con- science was always on the alert, and she felt that she ought to ask it. "Papa," said she hesitatingly, "is it a Catholic church ? " "Why, of course, little goose," he said, looking at her in surprise; and then, laugh- ing: " Do you think I would take you any- where else ? " The exterior of the church had struck Pauline as unfamiliar, and although she knew that her father was a Catholic, and 111 Mi 20 Pauline^s Father. ! I ! if ill 'It Mi 1 I probably thought him a much better one than he really was, still it had vaguely occurred to her that he might be going in just to see this as she thought Protestant church, and she was unwilling to accompany him. She mounted the steps with alacrity when her father had given the assurance that all was right, while he said, with a laugh and another sharp look at her: " I see you are an iron-bound bigot, Miss Pauline Archer." The little girl did not a^ all understand what was meant by the words, but, the church door being now opened, the pealing of the organ and the lights upon the altar showed that Benediction was begun, and this drove the matter from her mind. " This is St. Agnes' Church," whispered the father as they both took holy water. He said it with a view to remove the last trace of doubt from her mind; but the altar, with the sacred Host exposed upon it, would have done that. Pauline knew all about St. Agnes, too, and the story recurred to her mind, filling it with a strange awe, as she seemed to realize what that Christian faith was for which that rr Pauline^ B Father, 21 maiden of the olden time had died. The Benediction over, she walked home in her quiet fashion, not saying a word to her father of the thoughts which occupied her mind. Few people imagine how secretive is much of the life of childhood, how many thoughts are suppressed, how many fancies remain uncon- jectured, even, by the prosaic elders. That evening Reginald Archer said to his wife: "What a strange little creature Pauline is V* " How do you mean, Reginald ? " asked Mrs. Archer somewhat anxiously. He told her what had occurred, and how Pauline had been unwilling to enter the church until she was assured it was a Catholic one. The mother smiled: " She is a thorough little Catholic, at all events, and I am glad of it; aren't you, Reginald ? " " Oh, of course," he assented absently; " but I do think the mite has been too much alone. She has some odd, old-fashioned ways about her." Mrs. Archer sighed. " I fear so," she said, " and it saddens me, for I am so helpless." r- l! ' 'r'l a ii li^, Hi itp fli Pauline's Father. "Don't fret about it," said the husband; " we'll see what can be done. Her cousins are coming home earlier this year, and we'll try and have her with them, for one thing. But, by Jove ! " he added emphatically, " she is awfully pretty, Ada. Half the women on the avenue looked admiringly at her." " I am not sure that beauty isn't a fatal gift for a woman," said Mrs. Archer doubt- fully. " Nonsense, dear ! it's worth more than a fortune to her," said Reginald in his off-hand way. " Why, you yourself were just the pret- tiest creature possible when I saw you first." " My beauty, such as it was," said Mrs. Archer, a little wistfully, " hasn't lasted very long." Reginald Archer scanned his wife's sadly worn and wasted face before he replied cheerily: " When you get strong again, you'll be all right." " If I ever do," she exclaimed almost in- voluntarily; for, though she said little about it, it was a fact borne in upon her constantly that the crowning gift of strength was nevef to be hers on this bright, glorious earth. >^t Pauline's Father. 23 From that day forth, and following upon that conversation, there was a gradual change in Pauline Archer's life. Her father began to occupy himself seri- ously with her. In the first place, it gratified the vanity of this self-absorbed and somewhat Mammon-worshipping stock-broker to have so pretty a daughter, and one who bore the hall-mark of birth and breeding even in the quaint simplicity of her manner and despite her shyness. Then he was very fond of her in his own fashion, and began to understand that she must have rather a lonely time of it. He told her that 'her cousins were expected home very soon, and that that event would make things pleasanter for her. " But perhaps I'll be so ashamed I won't want to speak to them," said Pauline to her nurse, when she had repeated what her father had told her. "If ever I heard of sich an outlandish child ! " said the nurse, holding up her hands in protest. "Ashamed to speak to her own kin!" The Archers were not as wealthy as they had been, owing to some daring speculations on the part of Reginald which had resulted tt!i Is w f'l 24 Pauline^a Father. m it ! li Ml disastrously, so that they no longer lived in the very heart of the fashionable world, and some of their acquaintances were mildly dis- mayed to find them located rather far west and somewhat out of the charmed circle. This was one of the reasons why Pauline had not as- sociated very much with other children. The Archers' immediate circle of friends lived mostly at some distance, and were content to visit and invite them at intervals, so that there was little opportunity for Pauline to form an intimacy with the children of those families. Another and more powerful reason was to be found in Mrs. Archer's unworldly notions and her dread of exposing Pauline to indiscrimi- nate companionship. " When I am not there to watch over her," she used to say, " it makes me doubly anxious; and neither wealth nor high position is a guarantee that a child is a fit associate for my poor little Pauline." Pauline sometimes heard her father say that they were poor. Of course he only meant it in a comparative degree, for the Archers lived very comfortably indeed, and the head of the house spent considerable on himself. In fact, since they had been living quietly, he had r^ Pauline^s Father. 25 couped some of his losses anu was in a fair way to recover lost ground. Of course they no longer kept carriages or horses, and even before Mrs. Archer had become a confirmed invalid she had been somewhat limited as to elegant costumes and costly entertainments. " I am certain that reverses are good for people," she had said to her husband. "It helps one to escape what sometimes degenerates into the vulgarity of wealth, and far graver dangers even than that." Her husband, who did not believe that wealth could ever be an evil, looked at her inquiringly. " I mean, of course, in a spiritual way," she said. " One hardens towards his fellow men, one loses sight of his own lowliness before God, and grows attached to the world and its glitter." Reginald patted her cheek. " No amount of wealth could make you do all that," he said cheerfully. " No one can answer for herself," said she thoughtfully; but she did not pursue the sub- ject, and Reginald was presently off to buy and sell, to struggle and wrestle, as if wealth were " the one thing necessary." t;. 1 9 li II I I 1 > i: "'1 'Mil ill I H IH CHAPTER III. LITTLE MARY KELLY. Pauline, who had her own thoughts upon the subject, said one day to her nuTse: " I don't think we're poor at all, but little Mary Kelly is." " Little Mary Kelly I " echoed the nurse. " "Who in the land's name is she ? " "Her father fixes shoes," Pauline said quietly. " 1 saw him tacking and hammering and doing' like this." Pauline imitated the man's action so ex- actly that the nurse said with a sniff, but with some real curiosity: " A cobbler ! But how came you, missy, to know that he had a child, or what her name was ? " " I saw the boys chasing her to-day," said Pauline, "and I was sorry for her, because they call me names, and perhaps they would 86 ICn Little Mary Kelly. 87 chase me only I am bigger and live in this house. Then I heard one boy say: " * There ! now she's down/ " ' Who ? ' said another. " * Little Mary Kelly, and I guess she's killed. The cops will be coming, and we'd better scoot.' " To the wonder of her nurse, Pauline re- peated the words just as she had heard them, winding up, as she so often did, with a ques- tion: " What's * cops ' ? When they said thej were coming I looked all around, but 1 couldn't see anything." " Never you mind what they are," said the nurse, "and don't you be picking up words from street-boys." " After the boys were gone," said Pauline, '*' I went over to the little girl. She had fallen down and cut her nose, and it was bleeding a grea;t deal." Pauline turned rather pale at the remem- brance, as she had when the sight first met her eyes. But she proceeded: " She was crying very hard, and she didn't seem to have any handkerohief, so that her frock wafi getting all stained. I gave her ■\ i •, 28 Little Mary Kelly. mine. It was quite clean, Rebecca, and I think she was glad to get it." " It's a wonder you made up your mind to speak to any one," said the nurse. " 1 didn't like to, very much," admitted Pauline, " but she was very little and I had to, for fear she might bleed to death." " No danger ! But what did you do next ? " said the nurse. " Did you get back your hand- kerchief ? " " Oh, no," said Pauline with a shudder, re- membering the stain upon it. " I told the little girl that she'd better go home, and 1 would go with her in case the boys came back. She was glad, I think. But I wouldn't have been much use if they had come," sihe wound up with a laugh. " You're right there," Eebecca said, " and I just do wonder what you'd have done if they had come." " I think I'd have stood still and looked at them and held little Mary's hand," said Pau- line. " But I don't know; perhaps I'd have run away." " You took the young one home, any- how ? " inquired Rebecca, her curiosity again gaining the mastery. i!il 'ill (III; Mil Little Mary Kelly. M "Yes, she lived a block away," said Pau- line. " I walked beside her, and all of a sud- den she went down into a cellar. I looked in, and I saw a man fixing shoes there, and she called out to him, so I suppose he was her father." After this recital Pauline stood still pon- dering, and knitting her brows till they met. At last she exclaimed: " It must be awful, Rebecca, to live in a cellar ! " " Well, be thankful you haven't got to do it," returne'^ the nurse shortly, " and keep away from sich places and people." But Pauline's mother, on hearing the story, said: " You did quite right, dear, and I shall tell Eebecca to go with you in the morning to ask if the little girl is quite well again, and you may take her some candy or fruit, if you like." " I might be ashamed to give it to her," ob- served Pauline. " You needn't be; but in any case Rebecca won't mind." Pauline went to sleep that night with a curious, excited feeling. She thought it waa i^ f* If ^ il'i ii |«s #: mr^ i.Mii so Little Mary Kelly. ' W '. ii .1 li' something strange and new and a little bit awful to go down into a cellar, but with Re- becca's support it could be managed. Besides, her mother seemed to wish it, and she really wanted to go herself. Next morning, Rebecca, who had her own thoughts about the proposed expedition, but was too well trained to express them in op- position to her mistress's orders, helped Pau- line to dress, in no very good humor. " I particularly want Pauline la see some- thing of the poor and know something of their lives," Mrs. Archer had said. " There is 8uch danger, in these big, God-forgetting cities, of a child growing up to despise the poor and regard only the rich." Rebecca had made no answer. She felt that her mistress was thinking aloud rather than speaking to her; and besides she could not follow such reasoning at all, and put it down to a "sick body's notions." Poverty was in Rebecca's eyes, if not a disgrace, at least some- thing to be ashamed of, and her long residence in the families of the rich had made her al- most forget that she "^as of the poor herself. Guided by Pauline, Rebecca finally arrived at the head of the celldr steps, where the little r.flni Little Mary Kelly. 31 girl paused with natural timidity, ae well as a delicacy which made her fear to intrude. "Perhaps they won't like it,'* she whis- pered. But Rehecca, who was troubled with no such scruples and wanted to get the visit oyer as 8oon as possible, went briskly down, calling Pauline to come after her. Before they bad reached the foot of the steps, a small figure suddenly emerged from the comparative gloom beyond and, catching sight of Pauline, ran back hastily. As she went, ehe cried out to some one in the background: "Daddy I daddy I it's the little lady. Come and see." Pauline, hearing this, advanced into the cellar, and the cobbler, standing up, received her with a politeness none the less genuine for being unpolished. Rebecca, however, did the talking. "This young lady's mother sent her to know how your little girl is to-day," said R^ becca with the air of superiority she always assumed in dealing with the poor. " My little girl," repeated the cobbler, as if he did not quite understand. " Was she very muc>h hurt when she fell Little Mary Kelly. n h4\ 'M'. down yesterday ? " asked Pauline, her shyness yielding to her desire to seem friendly. " Oh, no, miss, ^he was more frightened than hurt," said the cobbler. " But you must be the little lady that she said picked her up and came home with her." **Yes, I came home with her," said Pau- line. "Ah, then, miss, dear, and I'm entirely obliged to you," said the man, with an emo- tion which made his young guest feel uncom- fortable, " as well as the kind thought you and your mother — God bless her, whoever she is, for a real lady — had in sending to ask." "I was very sorry she got thrown down," Pauline continued. " Oh, little miss," said the cobbler, with a smile on his grim visage, and a note in his voice which would have struck an older person as pathetic, " the children of the poor gets many hard knocks, but mebbe they don't feel them as others do." All this while little Mary had been keeping in the background. Pauline did not like to look around much; it would have seemed very rude. But she thought the cellar a very etrange place, with the cobbler's chair and lik :' i
  • '• ',. I < t 1 ];■'■ iv I CHAPTER V. THE AFTERNOON AT THE PARK. Little Mary Kelly was in a very ecstasy of delight from the moment that she followed Mr. Archer and Pauline in at the Fifth Avenue gate of Central Park till they left it m the glow of the setting sun. There was the "oan^ playing on the Mall, which was full of people — men, women, and children — walking about or sitting on the benches. There was the smooth, velvety grass, varied from time to time by flower-beds and trees of all varieties, the latter meeting overhead at times; there were rocks grown over with creeping plants; curious tunnels, and delightful summer- houses, and the lake, which to little Mary's eyes might have been a sea, so broad it was. Surely it was one of those enchanted places of which her father had told her, and the swans its fairies. She looked at them with something like awe as they glided along over the smooth water, so white, so graceful. 46 ii! r w The Afternoon at the Parlb. 47 " Oh, ain't they lovely ! " she whispered to Pauline. " Yes, they go along so softly and grace- fully," said Pauline. Presently Mr. Archer hailed a swan-boat and put the two children into it, asking the boatman to look after them a bit while he sat down in the shade of a tree to smoke a cigar. Once out upon the water, little Mary was at the height of blissful wonderment and en- joyment. She loolced often at Pauline, who sat erect and demure, her big blue eyes, with their long lashes, shadowed by the leaf of her leghorn, with ii.. simple but elegant trimming, which finished the dainty costume of zephjr gingham enlivened by pretty ribbons. To Mar/s infantile mind recurred her first idea that Pauline might be a fairy or even the queen of the fairies, who commanded all those beautiful white creatures that floated around them. 11 1^1 Pauline was thinking her own tranquil thoughts meanwhile, which were often deeper and truer than those of most children of her age. They touched the why and wherefore, the inner heart of things. She was wondering just then about the swans, if they knew how ^1 I r 48 The Afternoon at the Park. I' m. beautiful they were, and if they ever talked among themselves, or ever went down into silver caverns, as the story-books said they did. She saw the shadows of the drooping trees reflected, and it occurred to her that those old tales might be true about other cities lying buried under the waters. " If the boat were to sink and we went down there," she thought, " perhaps we'd see a lot of strange things." She watched little Mary's chubby dark face framed in its bush of dark hair and forming 6uch a contrast to her own — ^though that she did not realize. She saw the little fat hands clasped every once in a while aa the child gave utterance to cries of delight or began to croooi songs, which caused the stolid boatman to star'^ curiously at her. Once or twice he spoke to her. "Look out," he said, "or you'll go over- board. Don't you lean over there, or the fishes will have you." These remonstrances, though not addressed to her, made Pauline uncomfortable. The man's presence in the boat had been a re- straint on her, keeping her silent, and she thought that she would just hate it if ho TJie Afternoon at the Park. 49 turned round and spoke to her. Little Mary did not mind the man or his speech, but she was very much disturbed at the idea of the oold slimy fishes '* having her "; though, in- deed, her only knowledge of those creatures was the seeing them exposed for sale at a fish-market or brought home to be cooked by her father. So she shrank as far away as possible from the edge of the boat, which presently reached the landing after a com- plete tour of the lake. Mr. A rcher called out from the shore to the children: "I suppose you've had about enough of that. So get out now, and you may have a drive in the goat-carriages and perhaps a donkey-ride, if you care about it." Urged by these alluring promises, the two little people stepped quickly ashore, after one wistful glance at the water they were leaving. They were presently being driven up and down by solemn-faced jehus, to whom the raptures of their childish customers were as the joy of mortals before the gods. Pauline's face was beaming with smiles, and little Mary Kelly laughed aloud with such unaffected glee that her infectious merriment k ■I 1! ll i , "^ 60 The Afternoon at the Park. Si n seized upon Mr. Archer. It was a new ex- perience to him, this giving pleasure to others. Indeed, it is an enjoyment in which the rich far too seldom indulge. They forget how few and simple are the pleasures of tlie poor, and how easy it is to add to them. Keginald Archer had always been very good and devoted to his wife, and before she had become an invalid he had taken her to various places of amusement, spending money lavish- ly, but not always realizing that, though his gentle companion strove hard to enjoy what he enjoyed, her physical ailments made it very difficult and wearisome for her. He had been kind and indulgent to Pauline when she crossed his path. But until the last few weeks he had totally neglected her. So here he found himself providing pleasures that were an unmixed delight to these two simple beings. Pauline was the happier that her little playfellow was so over- joyed. For Mtry it was as a sun rising on her dismal horizon which would never entirely go down. Its light would illumine the cellar for a long time to come. The drive in the goat-wagons was followed by a few turns up and down on the back of i;:r ■! m i! Ttie Afternoon at the 1 ark. 51 the patient donkeys that stood waiting, sad- dled and bridled, for just such riders. These animals, having received an impetus from the driver, trotted oft' after their peculiar fashion. A man ran beside, and in little Mary's case held her on, while Pauline iat upright, the sun making glints in her hair where it fell waving over her shoulders, and her eyes look- ing away into the distance with that look which her nurse called " creepy." She stroked the donkey's head gently as she got down, md the animal, appreciating her soft touch strove to thrust his rough head and long ears towards her again. " Queen Mab and Bottom," said the father, who had just been seeing \he "Midsummer- night's Dream" at Daly's. " Who is Bottom ? " inq aired Pauline. " Oh, the fellow that put on the ass's head," said her father vaguely, " and you were Mab, Queen of the Fairies." Little Mary caught this speech, and it con- firmed her more than ever in the idea about Pauline. " We must see if we car -vt some ice-cream now," said Mr. Archer, " uiuess either of you objects." \ JV C^:ft- m 4 9$ The Afternoon at the Park. " I don't think we will," said. Pauline with her quaint little laugh, and Mr. Archer hailed a Park omnibus. He had never driven in this vehicle before, but it was a day of ne^ periences, and he told the driver to let them off near the Casino. They were soon seated at a marble table, with pink-and-white ices and a heaping plate of cake before them. Little Mary, liiW shy of Mr. Archer, stuck her finger in her mouth and would not begin to eat until that good-natured gentleman, guess* ing what the trouble was and not caring to take ices himself, as he was smoking, moved off to some distance. He lazily watched ^he two, thinking how the dark, gypsy-lik( e of the cobbler's child set off that oi his damty Pauline, who ate slowly and sparingly, with that peculiar grace she lent to every action. She helped little Mary before herself to cake, choosing out the very nicest ones for her. Mary had never tasted ice-cream before, and the coldness of it puzzled her at first, but, encouraged by Pauline's example, she took to it very kindly, and soon made an end of the pink-and-white mound. " We'll take a stroll down to the animals/' ■P The Afternoon at tlie Park. 5a said Mr. Archer next, " and after that well move homewards." So they went down to the enclosures where the dj-er were kept. Mild-eyed fawns came to the railing and thrust out their heads to be petted. Pauline, who had a natural sym- pathy with all living things and seemed to draw them towards her. stroked their heads, accompanying her action with softly spoken, endearing words, while little Mary looked on with breathless interest The great stags, with shining horns, held aloof in their stately fashion, and Piuline, looking at them, said to her companion: " Mamma told me that once there was a saint who went out hunting — I think it was before he was a saint, perhaps; and just when he was goino: to shoot the deer, he saw a cross between its liorns. So he didn't kill that one, and he never shot any more." " What's a deer ? " whispered Mary. "That," said Pauline; and Mary, open- mouthed, looked at the tall stag, with its wonderful horns, upon which Pauline also fixed her blue eyes, saying: ''Aren't boms strange ? It »flust be terrible to have such heavy ones on your head." . II IJ \''l mm \i P^ 91 The Afternoon at IJiP. Park. Pauline took little Mary's hand as Mr. Archer hurried them on to the monkey-house, where the smaller child laughed so explosively that Mr. Archer almost thought of suppressing her, as he said, but it wp.s a pity to spoil sport, and, after all, what did it matter ? " That s a very old cne ^^er there," said Pauline in her 8\ "Wouldn't it be queer if there was no sky ?" said Pauline, trying to conjure up a picture in her own mind. " Very queer indeed," said Mrs. Archer, laughing; " it would be something like a house without a roof, and a dark house at that. Bui tell me some more about your wonderful doings. I want to hear everything." " We went to see the animals," said Pauline, " but not until after we had sailed around the lake, and ridden on the donkeys, and driven in the goat-carriages. The goats ran along very quickly with us; they didn't seem to find The Same Story Differently Told. 63 ns very heavy. But the boys who were driv- ing ran just as fast. Then we got ice-cream, and some time afterwards we began to go round the menagerie. We liked the ele- phants and monkeys best, but the lion was very proud and grand, and he roared very loud. It was terrible to hear him. ' Pauline had not yet finished her detailed description of the various animals, when Mrs. Archer's attendants came to shut out the last glimpse of day and turn on the electric light, softly s'haded for the invalid's tired eyes. So Pauline went up to the nursery, where the story was continued, Rebecca listening, nothing loath, as curiosity was her }. xrticular weakness. Pauline embellished her narrative with additions which her innate sense of pro- priety had prevented her from giving in the sick-room. She was always gentle and quiet there, and spoke in her distinct but softly modulated voice. Mrs. Archer used to say that it rested her to have her near or hear her talk. So she reserved for her nurse's steady nerves, and ears attuned to nurseiy noises, an imitation of the various beasts, the growl- ing of the bears, the laughing of the hyena, and even the roar of the lion„ J; m 64 Hie Same Story Differently Told. 14; Up if" fi ** He went this way," she said, swelling out her chest, throwing back her head, and pulling out her hair to simulate a mane. When the turn of the hippopotamus came, Pauline gave 60 graphic an illustration of that huge animal crawling, tumbling, waddling up to the land and snatching mouth fuls of hay from the pitchfork that Rebecca at length begged her to stop. " Fve a'most split my sides laughin*," she said. " You stop, or you'll give me a right- down pain there.'* Pauline was beginning to be rather tired herself, so she presently permitted Rebecca to help her to undress and to tuck her into bed. "I wonder what it will be like up in heaven," Pauline said, with one of the sudden changes of mood that drove the prosaic nurse nearly to distraction. " But we'll only know when we're dead." " Sich a child ! " said Rebecca testily. She did not want to be reminded of such unpleas- ant truths. In reading her Bible she usually picked out what she called " the cheerfuUest parts " — ^those that gave her a pleasant sense of her own righteousness and did not dwell too muc^h on what was to come. I] The Same Story Differently Told. 65 N " Wait ! " said Pauline, suddenly springing up, just as Rebecca had got her securely tucked in. " I forgot my new prayer to Holy Mary." This was the Memorarc, which she had but lately learned. She knelt at the foot of the bed, more than ever like an angel in her white gown and flowing hair, as she folded her hands and fixed her earnest eyes on the statue. Rebecca turned away, moving about the room, opening and shutting drawers and keep- ing her back to Pauline, as she always did when the child was at prayer. Pauline, standing up, gave a few touches to the vases of flowers which she had put upon the shelf in front of the statue that morning. ** I wonder if Holy Mary has stars for bar crown up in heaven," she said. " Oh, you're always wondering about some- thing, and I wish you'd get into bed again.'' Pauline did so, Rebecca repeating the cere- mony of tucking her in with rather vicious jerks. " Now don't you get up out of there for nothing," said the nurse. If It'* ■N it if 66 The Same Story Differently Told. " I won't get up again," promised Pauline. "Good-night, Rebecca." The little voice sounded somewhat muffled from under the coverlet, and presently the nurse, bending over her charge, saw that the long lashes were lying softly on the fair cheeks, and the blue eyes were hidden in sleep. 5ri- CHAPTER VII. LITTLE Mary's last visit. Some of the Archers' wealthy acquaint- ances, and notably Mr. Arcliei''s sister, who had recently returned to town with her daughters, were greatly shocked when they chanced to hear of Pauline's fancy for little Mary Kelly. " Of course I understand," said his sister, *• that dear Ada is so much of an invalid that your poor child is left very much to the care of nurses and must contract odd ways. But are you not very imprudent, Re^mald, to per- mit such an intimacy ? In the first place, one never knows what infectious diseases children of that sort may bring about the house." " The young cobbler," said Reginald, laugh- ing, " is as sturdy as a colt so far. She looks much stronger than Pauline." " But that apart," continued the worldly- wise matron, " isn't it a little dreadful to have Pauline playing with creatures out of a cellar? Really it is hard to tell what they may be like in any way." 1 I I" ? 1 68 ii^fZe Mary^s Last Visit. ii Oh, she's a mere infant, and well behaved they tell me," said Reginald. " It might be even an undesirable connec- tion hereafter," added the mentor, " when Pauline '3 grown up and going out. What if the girl were to presume on this childish friendship ? " Keginald Archer laughed outright. The idea of poor little Mary advancing any such claim appealed to his keen sense of humor. He had mentioned the circumstance to his sister as a curious, childish freak on Pauline's part, and his wife's relatives had been both amused and interested when tbey heard of it. So that, despite his laughter, he was rather annoyed, and his tone had a note of sharp- ness in it as he said: " How absurd, Lulu ! You fashionable women are too ridiculous, always taking fright at shadows. Why, later on, I intend to take Pauline abroad, and this little waif will dis- appear out of her life more completely than the pigeon they feed together." He was a truer prophet than he knew at the time. His sister, silent but unconvinced, tapped with the pointed toe of her Parisian slipper as Reginald continued to defend his Little Mary's Last Visit, e9 course, but not upon the higher grounds which his more refined wife would have taken. " Why, think how many interests come into every child's life and pass out again; and our little one has been rather lonely. In fact, her mother was getting a bit anxious about her, and I think she was glad when she took so amazingly to this little mite." " Does her mother know ? " asked his sister. " Oh, then, of course there's no more to be said." He quite understood the peculiar intona- tion and the even more expressive changing of the subject immediately, and it vexed him unreasonably. There had never been any sympathy between the sisters-in-law. Mrs. Archer's unvarying courtesy and gentleness had never warmed into cordiality with the L isk, somewhat bustling matron, who had but one thought — 'how best to advance herself and her daughters in the world. Their standards were different, their aims very far apart, and Reginald's sister regarded her brother's wife as somewhat peculiar and far too unworldly. " Ada's a sweet creature," she used to say to her intimates, " but she cares nothing at ail for society. I do think on Reginald's account ;i ( il Hi \\ N ro Little Mary^a Last Visit. !i 41 she ought to make more effort than she does. I'm sure he regrets it, for he is of such a social nature, though he's the soul of loyalty and wouldn't find fault with his wife for the world." When Ada's chronic ill health had made social life an impossibility, her sister-in-law Ibewailed the husband'^ fate still more fre- quently. So, although his sister pursued the subject no farther, Reginald could read her thoughts. He even understood the motive which prompted his sister presently to say: " You must bring Pauline here very often now. Her cousins will enjoy having her, and I'm sure it will be a treat to the child. She has been, as you say, so much alone and is liable to grow up peculiar. Besides, it will be a preparation for later on. She will make suitable acquaintances and acquire something of a society manner. Poor Ada's health will put her at such a disadvantage, and it has kept you both out of everything these last years." Engrossed as Reginald Archer was with the things that make for material prosperity, his perceptions were not so much blunted that he could desire formation for his little Pauline Little Mary's Last Visit 71 after tlie model of those two very advanced youDg ladies, his nieces. They were sitting in the cushioned recesses of the window at the moment, carrying on a very spirited con- versation with a young male visitor. Their discourse, which was pitched in a somewhat high key, was interrupted by peals of laugh- ter, or by a variety of exclamations and a profusion of epithets. Everything was in a superlative degree. They never laughed, according to their own account of things, but shrieked or howled ; they never cried, but biiwled. " No," thought Reginald Archer to himself w^ith some bitterness, " the cobbler's child is preferable as a companion. Her influence would be negative, this other positive." When he rose to take his leave he remarked that the doctor promised, if Ada kept as well as she then was, to let them go South for the winter. " Have you decided where ? " his sister asked. " Either Florida or Bermuda," he an- swered. " Either will be delightful. "But you must really come as often as possible, and bring u a Little Mary's Last Visit. 1- i Pauline with you. We don't see half enough of each other." She was really fond of her brother, this ambitious society woman, and his wife had come of an extremely good family, so that they were very desirable connections. " I will bring Pauline over some day soon to luncheon," he said; "it will be a change for her." " Any time you like. We are nearly al- ways here at luncheon about this season of the year." Reginald exchanged a few words with his nieces, who effusively echoed their mother's invitation. He walked home in a very dis- satisfied mood. His sister had made him feel that he was very hardly treated by fortune. She had, as it were, catalogued his grievances. His wife ill, his child neglected, and he him- self kept out of congenial society by unto- ward events. There was no one to blame, and that rather added to his annoyance. He could not complain of Ada. She had been the best of wives, and he dared not disturb the en- forced quiet of the sick-room by any allusion to his woes. Nor could he find fault with Pauline. So that, having no confidant and { Little Mary' 8 Last Visit, 78 no scapegoat, his ill humor grew with every step he took in the homeward direction. As he approached his own house he saw that Pauline, quite unconscious of his dis- pleasure, sat upon the steps, playing at dolls with little Mary Kelly. His brow darkened, and passing the two children without a word, he entered the house, shutting the door with a bang. He threw his gloves upon the library table impatiently, and hung up his hat with the air of a martjrr. After which he rang the boll for Rebecca, and ordered her to bring Pauline in and send the other child home. " It's much too late in the afternoon for Miss Pauline to be out," he said irritably. " I wonder you don't look after her a little more.'* " Fm to tell the child that's with her to go home," said Rebecca, overlooking the rebuke for the moment, and secretly glad of an op- portunity to gratify her dislike of the cob- bler's daughter. With the quickness of her class she caught some inkling of w'hat was in her master's mind, and said impressively: " 1 didn't never think, Mr. Archer, that it was just the right thing to have that little one coming here, but Miss Pauline she wanted her and—" If s hi III 74 ZriY^/e Mary^s Last Visit. "Never mind that now," said Reginald, waving his hand impatiently, " it's time for the child to go home and for Miss Pauline to come in. That's all." Rebecca, huffed at his manner and disap- pointed that he had declined to discuss the subject with her, opened the door and went out to the children. She revenged herself for her late snubbing by an additional accent of severity in her voice as she addressed the in- nocent object of her dislike. Her face at the moment, too, was so cross and forbidding in expression that little Mary felt inclined to cry as soon as she looked at her, " You take your hat and go home," she said to the little girl. " You ought to have been gone home long ago, instead of being under Mr. Archer's feet when he got home." " She wasn't under his feet," said the truth- ful Pauline; " she was away over here, and I don't think papa even noticed she was there." " Didn't he, though ! " said Rebecca with malicious triumph, " and he ringing the bell till I thought he was going to break it. What for, do you think ? " " I don't know," said Pauline. " To get me to send her home." ii' m '^i\ Idttle Mary's Last Visit. 71 Pauline's face grew crimson to the roots of her hair. She felt the slight to her playmate as though it had been to herself, but she could not think of a word to say. Little Mary looked from one to the other, not fully un- derstanding what was said. But, frightened by Jlebecca's looks, she began to put on her hat. " Yes, you go straightway home," added Eebecca. " How can you be so rude ? " said Pauline, suddenly turning upon her nurse, with a stamp of her little foot. " Mary's going now, and if you don't let her alone I'll tell mamma." Rebecca well knew that nothing would have more seriously displeased her mistress than what she had just done. Besides, the flash in Pauline's eyes told her that she must not go too far. " You'd better talk to your papa about it," she said, turning to go in. " See what he says." Poor little Mary's lip trembled and she be- gan to cry. They had been interrupted in a glorious game of dolls by this cross woman who had told her to go away. She let her head hang down, as was her habit, till her ■ t; ;>V' n Little Mary^s Ztaat Visit. li If If ill! hair, falling over her face, hid her tears, as she began slowly to descend the steps, carry- ing her own poor paintless doll with her. Pauline took her hand and walked down be- side her to the foot of the steps. " Don't cry, Mary," she said gently. " Sometimes Rebecca is cross to me, but 1 don't mind." Pauline, but for her father's commanc' to come into the house, would have walked part of the way with her disconsolate friend. But she watched the tiny figure making its way slowly down the street in its shabby dress, pausing every once in a while to wipe its eyes with its pinafore. Once the tear-stained face was turned backwards, as little Mary stood still to look at her friend standing in the light of the setting sun. " You must come to-morrow, surely," called out Pauline. The child smiled through her tears and walked on. Little Mary did not come next day. In fact, her tiny feet never came up that street again. You may reet in peace, you over-re- spectable nurse and you irritable father. The cobbler's child will trouble you no more. n 'rs Little Mary's Last Visit. 7T But Pauline, for the first time in her short life, stood before her father fearlessly and made complaint of her nurse. " She was cruel to little Mary and made her ^ cry," she began, " and she said that you told ' •* her to do it, and I don't believe it." i v " I said something about it being too late , ^' for either of you to be out," Mr. Archer said -^ uneasily. ' There was something which abashed him in the flash of the blue eyes, usually so gentle, in the indignation which blazed out of the ordinarily quiet face. The affront which had been put upon her playmate and in her com- pany had evidently wounded her to the heart. He regretted his hasty action, the more so that he felt the child was right and that the hum- blest guest should be treated with courtesy. But her resentment against Rebecca was not easily soothed. " If she had told her politely that you said it was rather late to be out," said Pauline. And Reginald Archer, as a result of this con- versation, was quite convinced that there were depths in the child's nature which he, at least, could not sound. If !s 1)1 CHAPTER VIII. WHY LITTLE MARY DID NOT COME. '!■■ ii, i i I Hi! When two or three days had passed and little Mary did not appear, Mrs. Archer re- quested Rebecca to go and inquire what was the reason. Pauline had not said much to her mother of the unpleasant nature of the child's last visit, for she never liked to tell her anything which might disturb her. But she had said enough to make Mrs. Archer fancy that the little one had been hurt or wounded in some way, so that she did not wish to come any more, or else that the cob- bler, hearing of it, had forbidden Mary to re- peat her visits. Pauline was privately of the same opinion, and she begged that she might be allowed to accompany Rebecca, and she herself speak to Mary. Rebecca, who felt somewhat guilty with her mistress's clear gaze fixed upon her face, un- i\ Why Little Mary Did Not Cwne. 79 (lertook the task, nevertheless with reluctance. She regarded little Mar/s non-appcurance in the light of a good riddance. As they reached the head of the cellar steps, Eebecca going first, Pauline remarked bow Btill it seemed to be below. There were no sounds of tacking or stitching, nor of little Mary talking at her play. Scarcely had Re- becca gone down two or three steps when the cobbler came out of the darkness. Catching eight of Pauline, he cried out hoarsely: " For God's sake take her away 1 Don't let Iter come here, whatever you do." Pauline stood still on the upper step, terri- fied. Why should the cobbler cry out to her to go away ? She had always tried to be kind to little Mary, and had invented many little pleasures for her. Even if Mary had told him what Rebecca had said, surely she was not to blame. Her eyes filled with tears. But the next words explained: " My little Mary has the fever, and the doc- tor says she may not live through the night." With something between a sigfi and a groan the cobbler disappeared into the dajkneea, whence his haggaxd face had emerged for an inatant. 80 Why Little Mary Did Not Come. IHV* m i 'U 7' ''M 'II Pauline, still standing and looking after him, heard, as Rebecca came up to hurry her away, a faint, childish voice saying: " Oh, daddy, it's the little lady. So bright ! Is she a fairy, daddy ? " In after years Pauline sometimes thought that she might liave imagined this, that it was but the echo of the words that had been spoken on bf^r first visit to the cobbler^s abode. But now she walked home awe- Btricken by what she had heard, the nurse anxious and flurried — ^to do her justice, more on account of her charge than of herself. She waa deeply sihocked, moreover, for death is as awful in a cellar as in a palace, and her con« science smote her for her late unkindness to the little creature who was so soon to pass away from all their lives. Pauline was awe-stricken, but not, as yet, deeply grieved. It is difficult for a child to realize w'hat death is, or to believe that it can possibly come to one she holds dear. Far- reac'hing as the little girl's thoughts often were, she could not picture little Mary cold and still, as she had once seen a canary-bird. That incident had been long remembered, and gave her even yet a thrill of pain when it re- \'i Why Little Mary Did Not Come. 81 curred to her mind. Grave as she looked walking by Itebecca's side, she had almost per- suaded herself, by the time they reached the door, that little Mary would soon be well again and coming to play with her. Mrs. Archer caused fruit and jellies and other delicacies to be sent down, and even the careless Ileginald, smitten like Rebecca with remorse, sent privately to oti'er the shoemaker some financial assistance if it became neces- sary. One day, when some delicacies had been sent, a message was returned that little Mary no longer needed them. " Then she will be able to play with me soon," said PauJine, not understanding the nature of the communication. " No, dear, little Mary will not be coming to play with you any more," said Mrs. Archer. " Why, mamma ? " asked Pauline, thinking vaguely of her father's displeased expression and her nurse's curt dismissal of her play- mate. " Because God has taken her to Himself/' said Mrs. Archer. Pauline's sensitive nature was completely overcome for the moment. She had grown to feel a real affection for her small playiellow, I 1 I i \h ill ^' III . !ll|. 82 Why Little Mary Did Not Come. and remembered now the little figure and the sad, tear-atained face turned towards her for the last time, with an intensity of grief which alarmed her mother. " Pauline, my dearest Pauline," she said, " doesn't God know beat ? He has taken little Mary from a cellar to His own bright king- dom." The attendant, fearing the result of the child's agitation on her mother, caused her to withdraw, and Mrs. Archer, left alone;, pondeied deeply on the mystery of suffering which this life can never solve. She thought of the childless father in the gloom of his now Bolitary cellar, and the budding existence cut short, while her own was spinning itself weari- ly along. But she seemed later to realize more fully the depth of the poor cobbler's grief from the description which Pauline gave of him. He appeared to liave given up his work, and spent much of his time walking up and dovm on the far side of the street, looking always towards tb^ir house, where his little Maiy had had so many happ3' hours. "He looks very old," Pauline said to her mother, " and all gathered up together. And Why Little Mary Did Not Come. 83 there are places in his face, as if he was al- ways crying." Mrs. Archer thought within herself that it would have given her real pleasure to have been able to go out and speak a few words of sympathy and hope to the forlorn cobbler. But it was impossible. One di\y, as he passed, Pauline was silting on the top step, with her doll and the pigeon beside her, just as Mary had described, lie fled from the sight, a swift pang convulsing his rugged features c.nd a sob rising to his lips. But the second time he saw her he stood still, staring at the little girl with a wistful inten- sity. With a sudden impulse Pauline arose and crossed the street. She did not know very well what to say, but her first words took the form of a whh. " Oh, I wish little Mary was back," she said earnestly, the tears gathering in hor eves. " Don't wish that," said the cobbler in a hoarse voice wbich somehow did not startle Pauline. " Wliatever you wijih, don't wish that. Wish that my heart would stop aching and break at once, but don't ask her back." Pauline's blue eyes gazed wondorinirlv at him, but she intuitively felt the agony which I. i t 84 Tv J i'a..^ Mary Did Not Come. I , '1 was wringing his strong frame, and the team, overflowing, fell down her cheeks unchecked on to her frock. " God bless you, little miss ! From my heart I say it," said the man, trying to speak less roughly. " You gave her 'most all the pleasure she ever had. I did what I could, but, God, she lived and died under the street, in a cellar ! " " But she went to heaven just as quick," said Pauline, " God doesn't care where people live." " It's the only hope we poor have," the man said. "If it weren't for that, how coul'' '/• live at all, at all ? But I'll not keep you, missy," he went on after a pause. "I'm no company for the likes of you, and mebbe they'll be wanting you at home, as I'm want- ing my little Mary — and she'll never come." He turned away with the same sharp agony, so like despair. "I want to tell you," said Pauline, "my mother's sorry, sorry. If she cily could come out, she would tell you so. But she can't; Bhe's always ill." " May God spare her to you I " said the man, " for it was a good mother gave you the 1 1! Why Little Mary Did Not Cf once Perhaps it was a re /elation to the spoiled darlings of fortune who listened that a cob- bler had a heart, much more one that was liable to break. If they had thought of the matter at all, they would have concluded that people of that sort, to use their own vague expression, couldn^t feel anything very keenly. " It was awful to see him," said Pauline; "and I think I would have been afraid of him when he spoke in a queer voice, only that I knew he was just feeling sorry for little Mary and couldn't help speaking like that. Sometimes I speak queerly when I'm sorry about anything. Perhaps he feels better now, though." Pauline concluded her speech with this comforting thought, and went briskly back to the loading of the express-cart, making the :;,! Pauline'' s Cousins. 107 donkey's head wag, too, while she stuffed various small bundles into the panniere at each side of him. " I think I'll play I'm a robber, soon," she said, adding politely, "that is, if you don't mind. I'll be coming on that horse over there to stop a train of provisions." But her cousins being quite willing, those somewhat bored yomig ladies being very much amused by her vagaries, she had assumed a dozen different disguises before luncheon. " You're so original, dear," said Cousin Mollie. " What's that ? " asked Pauline, stopping in the act of doing sentry duty before a fort she had erected out of blocks. " Oh, I don't know, but it's charming." Pauline resumed her sentry-work. She had been afraid for the moment that she might have been making herself disagreeable to her cousins. Luncheon being presently announced, she accompanied her cousins down-stairs. ^*^ t '] 19 r If i ^Ji CHAPTER XL A LUNCHEON AT AUNT LULU'S. As Pauline seated herself at the luncheon- table, Eeginald Archer oould not help casting a swift glance of pride at her. Her cheeks were flushed a little and her eyes bright from her recent experiences in the kingdom of toys up-stairs. " Have you had a pleasant hour with your cousins up-stairs ? '* asked Pauline's aunt in her conventional voice. " Yes, thank you, Aunt Lulu," responded Pauline in a subdued tone. Her shjrness, whic'h had worn off a good deal with her cousins, returned in the presence of her some- what formal aunt. Pauline did not permit herself any reflections disparaging to this lady, whose face, with its artificial smiles and forced kindliness, was still almost an exact copy of her father's. " Did you take her to the nursery, girls ? '* asked Aunt Lulu. 108 A Luncheon at Aunt Lulu's. 109 i( Oh, yes, mamma, and she was so sweet, playing with the toys." Pauline, demurely eating her luncheon off the most exquisite of hand-painted china, peeped from behind the Venetian bowl of late roses which hid her view, to see what her aunt might think of this complimentary refer- ence to herself. But that lady had quite for- gotten the matter, and as she took her iced bouillon from the silver cup she confided to her brother a new scheme which she had in view for the girls. " I think it will be charming, and several of our friends have taken it up for their daughters. If Pauline were a few years older, she might have joined the band. They will sail in January, and travel abroad for a year or so }j But haven't they been over half a dozen times ? " asked practical Reginald, leaning back in his chair to wait for the substantials. " Only three times," corrected his sister. " But hasn't Mollie seen almost everything over there ? " " This is such a cb once, though," said his sister. " A delightful lot of girls going, and with such an experienced person. They are i i';i:tf I I; ■■\ ' 112 A Luncheon at Aunt Lulu's. IP ill! break any, I would have been so ashamed," bringing her brows together expressively. " So 1 touched them all very gently and played carefully with them." " That was the wisest thing to do," said the mother, knowing well that it is not always safe to take people at their word. " One should be always careful in handling other people's things." " Were they ever children ? " asked Pau- line. " Who, your cousins ? Why, of course; they are little more than children now." " Some people seem as if they had always been grown up," said Pauline, " and I think Cousin Mollie would look funny in a pina- fore." She began to laugh, thinking of her cousin's fashion-plate appearance with over-decorated hair. " I'm almost sure she never skipped or ran, or played robbers or anything like that. She says she used to adore dolls ever so long ago.** Pauline's unconscious imitation of her cousin's speech made Mrs. Archer smile as she said: "Mollie's just sixteen now." A Luncheon at Aunt Lulu^s. 113 124 A Journey. At last the green hills of the land they were approaching came in sight. Pauline's father called her to see the first sight of land, and the pilot approaching in a tiny boat. " What is a pilot ? " asked Pauline. " A man that's got to bring us safe through the reefs/' answered her father. Mrs. Archer was also on deck in her steamer-chair comfortably arranged vdth cushions and rugs, so that together they all saw the water with its marvellous ^Teen color, so clear, as it nears the shore, that the coral reef is visible below. " It looks like a great beach where it would be lovely to run," cried Pauline, " and it isn't so very far down." " Oh, isn't it ! " said her father. " The water here is more fathoms deep than you would care to count." Pauline politely said good-by to the captain and the passengers, especially the Japanese, before leaving the ship. She was delighted to land on that lovely shore. They drove along a smooth, level road towards the hoftely and the child had h^^r first glimpse of the wonderful tropical vegetation, the tall palms, the flowering shrubs, the rich bloom of the ,: I, «■ A Journey. 12S South. A black man driving a long two- wheeled cart drawn by a donkey saluted them from under his wide-brimmed straw hat with ft grin. His appearance made Pauline realize that she was really in a foreign land. At the hotel they had splendid rooms looking out over the harbor and far to seaward, and going down to supper Mr. Archer was as charmed with the flavor of the celebrated "angel- fish" as his daughter was with the almo^ magical fruits put before her. It all seemed like a page from the Arabian Nights, and Pauline was eager for the night to be over and another day to begin. m iili - ■ i i, - -* iin !;i.-. { ■i' P' ; ;jr'7-e«- f1 »'l, m I'iJ ^ ^i. •'I • ' ii Cv', ■>! ,t| '!!„-•» CHAPTER XIII. REBECCA GETS A FKIGHT. Pauline had asked Rebecca to wake her very early next morning; but the little girl was really up first, and dressing hastily she made her way to the hotel veranda, which ran all around the building, just outside their rooms. She stood a moment and looked out over the water, dotted with fishing-sails or darkened by the shadows of great vessels. Then, as no one seemed to be astir, she deter- mined to run all around the veranda for exer- cise, going swiftly and lightly on her little feet. " I wouldn't like to wake any people up,'* she said to herself. So began the first long, happy day of her experience in the southland, which was so full of delights, of novelty, of beautiful sights and happy experiences that it would be im- possible in these limits to mention them. In fact, the story of Pauline Archer would have 126 ili-i - ;■! % I .' Rebecca Gets a Fright. 127 to be made very long indeed to detail all that she did and all that occurred to her in the southland. And her pleasure was enhanced by the fact that, almost from the first, her mother began to improve and was able to sit out upon the veranda a great part of every day. Pauline continued her habit of daily talks with her mother, only that these oc- curred more frequently and with less danger of overtiring the invalid. " 1 feel rather as if I had been in a dream," said Pauline, "and might wake any day to find a good many things gone." " 1 am so glad you are enjoying it all," said Mrs. Archer. " And you can enjoy some of it," said Pau- line, " you are so much better. You will be quite well by the time we go back to Nevv York, but then I shall be gone away." For Pauline knew that it had been decided she was to go to school for the winter term. She had an abnormal fear of school, being so shy as to dread being placed among a lot of strange girls. "Don't let that spoil your present enjoy- ment," said Mrs. Archer. " You will find as you grow older that things we dread are never P w Lit! 128 Rebecca Gets a Fright 60 bad as they seem, and everything passes quickly." " After I go to school," said Pauline, with a quaint little air of solemnity, " 1 won't be a little girl any more. It'll be just as if I came to an end and turned into a big person." " What an odd idea ! " said Mrs. Archer; but her smile was sad, and Pauline did not guess at the pain with which she acknowledged to herself the truth of the child's remark. " But don't think of such things now. Try to be as happy as possible while you stay here. Papa is going to take you on some excur- sions very soon." " That will be lovely," said Pauline, and she made a brave effort to please her mother by trying to dismiss all misgivings for the future. " And I am going this afternoon to the Cedar Walk with Rebecca. Oh, I wish you could go there, mamma. The trees just meet over your head — strange, strange trees, not like those we see at home; and some have flowers on them, nnd there's a nice smooth path with places to sit down, and green bushes and things where I can hide." " When I am stronger we shall take some drives," said Mrs. Archer, " and then you can Rebecca Gets a Fr,' \t. 129 show me everything. But here is Rebecca coining to get you." " We are going to pick some bananas/' said Pauline, " and Kebecca is going to take me another day to get some fruit ' with a queer name/ liebecca said." " Pomegranates, perhaps," said her mother. " You will see how very pretty they are." "I once read a lovely story where there were pomegranates," said Pauline; "they sound rather nice and like fairy-stories." As Pauline walked away with liebecca, Reginald Archer strolled over to his wife, seat- ing himself on the rail of the veranda beside her chair. She repeated to him what Pau- line had said about coming to an end when she went to school. " I suppose it's true, in a measure/' he said rather ruefully. " She'll boil down to be like all the others. She's a bit different now." " I fancy she will always have an original mind," said Mrs. Archer, "but I suppose she must lose some of her individuality." Then she added after a pause: "It's hard having to send her away. But I believe it's for the best. She might grow up too self- absorbed and become even morbid." 180 Bebecca Gets a Fright. 1 ? -11 , M ( .'i '1 ■' ;, M- i'A^ " She has too much pluck and grit for that," said Reginald. '* But if she's so soon to come to an end, we must give her a good send-off while she's here. You don't mind my talk- ing slang, Ada ? " " You're incurable in that line, Eeggie," s^id his wife, with her sweet smile. She was really pleased at his appreciation of the finer points of Pauline's character. Men are some- times careless in observing such things. Meanwhile Pauline was at the Cedar Walk, busily engaged with the variety of plays she invented for herself. This new and strange world gave her fancy new scope. The flow- ers were people, the shrubbery was a forest, and she was alternately a hermit, an outlaw, a hunter, or an animal. Sometimes she was even a bird. Rebecca sat sunning herself on one of the benches, with that happy faculty for doing nothing which so many people possess. All the time Pauline darted in and out of the thickets, hiding in the tall grass, standing in the midst of flowering shrubs, or swinging herself on the branches of trees. The heat never seemed to affect her any more than did the sun, peeping under her wide hat, impair Rebecca Gets a Fright. 131 the exquisite fairness of her skin. Rebecca, on the other hand, deciared that the sun and the air made her drowsy and feel " jest like sittin' still." Being engaged, then, in her favorite occupation, and presently nodding asleep, she was startled by a hissing, rustling, and crackling in the grass just behind her. "Hist!" cried she, starting, "what's that?" Her vague fears in these regions were equally divided between wild beasts and snakes. " Sakes alive ! " she muttered, " I hope it's none of them things," Her senses being partially dulled by the forty winks she had been taking, she sat per- fectly still, not daring to look around. On and on it came, nearer and nearer, still hiss- ing and rustling, till at last the terrified wo- man felt a clammy substance touch her neck. " Lord ha' mercy on me ! " she cried, spring- ing to her feet. " I'm bit by a serpent ! " " Yes, I'm a serpent, and I just darted out my fang and bit you." "What's that you say?" cried Rebecca — " * he darted out bis fnng and bit me ' ? Then I'm a dead woman." Pauline was rather puzzl-^d bv Rebecca's pantomimic movements and her terrified |T I' ':» ii m' i;5. ii 1 r- ■J '3 i 1 'i r' Rebecca Gets a Fright, exclamations. She thought her nurse was entering into the play as she had never taken the trouble to do before. " I'm a poisonous snake," said Pauline; " my bite is deadly." " Lord ! Lord ! " groaned Rebecca. *' If I had only stayed in New York ! I seem to feel the poison goinf through my veins/* added she, turning with abject terror towards the little girl. " But," said Pauline, stepping forward, with a change of tone, " there is a doctor pass- ing juf-t now." " Oh, for the land's sake call him ! " cried Rebecca, trembling. " Well, of course. I'm the doctor," said Pauline. " You ? " cried the stupefied Rebecca. " I'm not the snake any more," said Pau- line, " I'm the doctor stepping up to look at your neck and tell you that if he can't find an antidote yon'll he dead in a few minutes." " Great Scott ! " cried the nurse. Then, a sudden thought strikins" her, " Were you only playinsr ?'* she asked, with a trembling eager- ness which astonished Pauline. She noticed, too, that Rebecca looked very pale. Rebecca Gets a Fright. 133 tt Why, of course," said Pauline. In her tum, she began to be a little afraid of Ee- becca. "Perhaps she's going crazy," she thought, " from the heat." " Was it you touched my neck just now ? " " Yes; that was when I was the snake." "But your hands aren't moist and dank- like," said Eebecca doubtfully, " and I heerd a queer noise." "That was when I was just darting my fang at yon," said Pauline. " But the cold, clammy thing ? " persisted the nurse. " It was one of those big leaves there," said Pauline. " The Almighty be praised ! " cried Re- becca, easting up her eyes with sanctimo- nious fervor. Her relief was so great that it was some moments before her wrath began to rise against the innocent cause of her terror. *' The imp of Satan ! " she said to herself furiously, " in another minnit I'd ha' swooned away and died, mebbe, of the fright." Aloud she said: " Now I tell you what, Miss Pauline, •if ever you dare play a trick like that on me again, I'll tell your pa." . "I didn't mean it for a trick," said Pau- 4 r .1^ M 134 Bebecca Gets a Fright. . I line quietly. " I told you I was going to be a snake darting in and out of the grassy but when you fell asleep you must have for- gotten," " I wasn't no more asleep than you were/' said Kebecca angrily. " Weren't you ? " queried Pauline. " Oh, well, 1 just thought you were, because your eyes were closed and your head was down like this." " Well, anyway, you came near havin' my death at your door, and then you'd be a real murderer," said the nurse viciously. " Wouldn't it be fearful to be a murderer," said Pauline, half to herself, " and wake in the morning and know that you were ! Pm very sorry I frightened you, Bebecca." Rebecca's face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. " There's your pa with some gentlemen. I think he wants you. Miss Pauline." " I hope you're not a snake any more," said one of the gentlemen, as Mr. Archer in- troduced his little daughter. Pauline, getting very red, wondered how the gentleman knew. As Mr. Archer, too, looked puzzled, the stranger said; Rebecca Gets a Fright. 135 it I witnessed a very amusing little scene just now, where Miss Pauline was not Mother Eve, but the serpent, who very much dis- turbed the nurse's paradise for a few minutes." ^' How was that, Pauline ? " asked her father. " I was a pretending snake, and Eebecca thought 1 was a real one and got afraid," said Pauline simply. "No wonder," said her father. " You'd better let her know next time before you undertake so startling a role." He spoke somewhat gravely, but Pauline did not try to excuse herself by saying that her nurse had been asleep. The strange gentleman who had witnessed the scene took a farcy to Pauline on the spot, i^rom that time forlh till the end of their stay he showed her many a kindness. As her father had had a letter of introduction to him, this Mr. Thorpe became a very in- timate acquaintance of ti Archers, as did his ^rjfe and daughter. Pauline promised Rebecca that she would always let her know when she was about to assume an alarming part. V ^ — '■ «?i ,' 'Ji.k :i Ifi;; X36 Rebecca Gets a Fright. " When I'm going to be a crocodile snap- ping about, ni tell you before." " I wish you'd snap at something else than me ff " Well, so I can," assented Pauline. " Til pretend those big white flowers are people's heads." V ' J CHAPTER XIV. A NEW PLAYMATE. Mr. Thorpe came to the hotel with his wife and daughter. Mrs. Archer was not well enough to see them, but her husband and Pauline were there. Lucy Thorpe was taller than Pauline and much broader and stouter, with honest brown eyes, and ruddy cheeks that hung down. She was very Kke her mother, a good-natured and easy-going woman who said very little and that in a deep, almost gruff voice. Lucy invited Pauline to come over the next day and play tennis with her. "I don't play very well," said Pauline, '-'but I like it very much, and if mamma says I may, I'll be sure to go." It's good fun," said Lucy. T like anything with running in it," said Pauline. " It makes you feel as if you were flying." m <( tc m mm 138 A New Playmate. ,1 l''f., ( ' " I ean't run very fact," said the bigger girl. " Tm ratlier stout, you see." " How did you get stout ? " inquired Pau- line with interest. " I think Td like to be." " No, you wouldn't," said Lucy. " But papa and mamma are going now. Be sure you come to-morrow afternoon." \^f?r'ine promised, and the next day, just as t an was going down a little, Mr. Archer brougiit Pauline to a long, low house, over the roof of which moi (lower-laden, sweet-smelling trees. Paulino thought she had never seen so delightful a house, as it stood in that shel- tered nook, with deep veWet-like grass all around, interspersed with beds of gorgeous flowers btrange to the little girl, and with an orchard in the background full of rich and carefully cultivated tropical fruits. In the garden Pauline first saw a humming-bird, and could scarcely believe at first he was real, his form was so dainty, his brilliant hues shining like gold enamel in the sunlight as he flitted from bough to bough. She had seen a number of beautiful birds since she came to this region, some of them with many-colored plumage, scarlet or yellow or green, and the sweetest of sweet sounds A Netv Playmate. 139 often reached her ears from the branches of the trees. "I wouldn't catch him if I could," she said to Lucy Thorpe; "it's nicest to see him on the leaves. He's like a bird out of Grimm's. Perhaps he's an enchanted prince." Lucy stared. " What puts all those queer thoughts into your head ? " she inquired. " I don't know," said Pauline reflectively. ^' Are they queer ? " " Come on, catch the ball ! " said Lucy. Pauline was a perfect treasure for tennis. [Ter light and graceful form fairly flew over the sward, and as she was always taking exer- cise in some shape or form, she was what athletes would call in good training. Many an hour was spent in that shaded court in this most fascinating of sports. Mr. Archer, before they left that fir^ after- noon, invited the Thorpes to join them in the excursion which he meant to take next day in a yacht hired for the purpose. " Pve been to all those places before, of course," said Lucy, " because I was born here, you see; but it will be lots of fun to go there over again ^^dth you. And I suppose you'll imagine lots of things." p ' 140 A New Playmate. If: \i ■ tc ■■•ft. Perhaps I may," said Pauline; " I gener- ally do." " You're an old-fashioned crah," responded Lucy in her hearty way, " but I like you." Pauline went home to spend a quiet evening hour with her mother, during which they said the Kosary together, as they often did. " I look forward to these talks," she said gravely. But indeed she had little idea how the talks with her mother had been instrumental in j'jrr.ing her character. In the first place, they were a safety-valve. P^very thought came out freely. Her mother never repressed her, and then there was the opportunity for advice, caution, sympathy. " \ ou always remember, dear, to say your morningand evening prayers," said her mother on this particular afternoon. " Oh, yes," said Pauline, " I always remem- ber. I kneel down before Holy Mary's statue and say them very slowly." "That's right," said Mrs. Archer, "for sometimes, when there are many things to distract us, we forget the one thing neces- sary." " I go to church every day for a visit, if I A New Playmate. 141 can," said Pauline. " And then i read one of those little Lives of the Saints you gave mo. I aJways mark the place carefully in the book, and tell Rebecca not to touch it till I come again." " You leam many "vise things that way," said Mrs. Archer, " more than all the learning of the world." " Are saints always grown up ? " asked Pauline. " No, there have been many children who were saints. They can do God's work just as well." " Does God let children do work for Him ? " the little girl asked, looking awe-struck at the sky, which was full of a tropical richness of colons, mellowing, it seemed, the gorgeous hues of the flowers of the luxuriant earth beneath. " I think He likes their work best of all," said Mrs. Archer. I never did any," said Pauline. What you have just been telling me — your prayers, your visits to the church, your reading — what is all that but God's work ? " Pauline was still, reflecting. " Saints always have light at the back of their head, and sometimes they have things (( (( i 142 A New Playmate. ill' I!' it II 1*5 K is I 'I .1 ,?i I in their hands," she observed presently, " and they hold themselves very straight, like this." Pauline put herself in position, and a ray of the western light fell upon her as an aureola. " But angels," she continued, " are differ- ent. They have wings, and little crowns on their heads, and look this way." She bent forward, assuming the attitude of the heavenly spirits which she had seen in pictures. Mrs. Archer alwaj's lot Pauline talk on as she wished, and more than ever now when the time was drawing near when she would have to find other sympathy and other confidants. She led her on now to speak of her new friend, Lucy Thorpe, and of the projected excursion for the morrow. And then they sat silent a while, the radiance of the sky seeming to melt and blend into the waters till they, too, were as a sea of pearl transfigured. And the glory seemed to enfold the mother and daughter as they sat, apart from all the world for those few moments. It was a type of that spiritual life, the deeper and truer one, which the mother, through the long years of suffer- ing, had planted and fostered in her little daughter. CHAPTER XV. A DELIGHTFUL EXCUKSION. The morning dawned hriglit and fair. Mr. Archer and Pauline were soon joined at the landing by the Thorpes, and it did not take them long to get aboard, that they might en- joy the coolest part of the day. "We will see as much as we can to-day," observed Mr. Archer. " But I mean to take several days^ yacfhting, till Pauline and I have exhausted the sights." " That's right," said Mr. Thorpe, '' and this is about as good and seaworthy a craft as you could get for the purpose. This man Dick is a good sailor, and his son there is an active lad, who assists him excellently." The delights of a yachting trip have been often put on paper, but they must be felt to be thoroug-hly understood. On a fresh, cool day, when the air is brisk and the waiter a little rough, one sails along before the breeze with the feeling that the world is a new place, with 143 1 ' i T 144 A Delightful Excursion. m 'I I 111' , ;:, ( ' ' I. an exhilaration of spirits, a courage, and a dieerfulness scarcely ever to be felt at any other time. Pauline and Lucy sat together at one end of the boat, their elders at the other. They irere both enthusiastic over everything, and communicated their sentiments freely to each other. "I feel as if I couldn't enjoy myself any more," said Pauline. It would take far too long to tell all that they saw, as the yacht sailed in and out among those fairy-like islands, with all their wonders, strange to Northern eyes as some Eastern fable. On one of the islands was a huge arsenal and dockyard which Mr. Archer and Mr. Thorpe found very interesting, but for whioh Pauline did not care very much. They went into an enormous cave, too, hung with stalactites, and the little girl was speech- lees with awe. But what Pauline really enjoyed was when flhe and Lucy were let loose on a coral reef twisted into all sorts of fantastic shapes, and where they heard the history of the busy little insects that work these wonders. There were all sorts of pretty nooks and queer comers A Delightful Excursion. 149 about, and caves wherein «e"a-nymplh8 or mer- maids would have delighted to dwell. They stayed tliere some time, as it had been agreed that the yachting party should take lundheon ashore. Meantime Pauline played at a variety of games, one of which was that efbe was a pirate wlio hospitably entertained a ship- wrecked mariner, in the person of Lucy, in her cavern near the sea. The pirate's table was supplied from the contents of a basket which the children carried, every article of food receiving an appropriate name and being brought out, as Pauline said, from " a hole in the rock, wtiich the pirate had for a cup- board." Pauline had just changed into a mermaid, to the wonder of the prosaic Lucy, and was singing, with a harp made of seaweed stretched upon sticks, when it became time to go aboard the yacht again. They sailed up a beautiful salt lake to explore some places in that direction. "You mu^ have a look at the Devil's Hole," said Mr. Thorpe. " That isn^ a very pretty name for the youn^ ' dies, but they may call it 'Neptune's Grotto,' if they like that better." 146 A Delightful Excursion. ". S\' \ : C' ■| ITe showed them, when they had reached the grotto, what a number and variety of fish were daxting about in the water, which seemed to catch warm tints from the su "11 it glowed like an opal. As the afternoou was fine and the night promised to be a moonlit one, it was arranged that the yacht should land them lor supper at " Fairyland." Tlie name delighted Pauline. How oiten she and little Mary had talked about an imaginary fairy- land ! and now she was going to a real one. The fancy could indeed have painted nothing lovelier than this inlet, framed in a wild mass of mangroves, with many-hued aquatic pla'^ts, making the shore resplendent with < Softly above them waved the mysterious caia- bash-trees sung by the poet. The sky was faintly colored, with streamers of light break- ing rainbow-like into pale violet, green, and pink, reflected in the cool crystalline waters, while the moon, dimly visible, arose as though impatient to climb that exquisite horizon. The ohime of distant bells seemed the dim echo of some far-away country. Children are mistakenly supposed to caie little for natural scenery, but they very often feel its beauty intensely, without being able to A Delightful Excursion. 147 express their feelings. It was so with Pauline. The beauty of the scene lilled her with a strange happiness. But she said nothing. As the yaoht was about to put out from shore for the homeward journey, the moon sent a soft shower of silver over the water. " It's made a path for us just big enough to sail upon," said Pauline to Lucy. Her blue eyes fixed themselves upon the orb of night as though she would penetrate the secret which it has kept from the beginning of the world. "I wonder what it's like up there," she said to Lucy; "if it's a big palace all light, or a city with walls made out of brightness ? " " It's almost as big as our world," said prac- tical Lucy. "I learned that in a book at school." Pauline continued to look intently upwards for some moments, while the yacht flew on under a favoring breeze, making a line of white foam, silver-tipped by the moon. Mr. Archer and the Thorpes were meantime chat- ting .away pleasantly, while at one end of the boat sat Dick, the master of the craft, and near the little girls was his son, both looking intently and impassively out over the water, as at a mystery they could never solve. Pau- Mi- 148 A Delightful Excursion, m ■ I line observed the boy near her from time to time, and what was his share in the manage- ment of the boat. " I wish my mother had been with us to- day/' said Pauline wistful )y; " she would have loved it." " Your mother's nearly always ill, isn't she ? " asked Lucy. " Mine's very strong." Pauline gave a swift glance at the portly figure and mddy cheeks of the matron at the other end of the boat, and said: •* Yes, she looks strong, I think." Mr. Thorpe now called out to her: *' Miss Pauline, I have just been telling your father of some places to which he must take you where you will see very curious things. One of these is monkeyland. We remember that, don't we, Lucy ? " " Oh, yes, papa," said Lucy, laughing. " Well, I want you to give my little favorite an account of our adventures there." Lucy, nothing loiath, began. She was not ordinarily very ready of speech, but this was something so funny, and there was so much to tell, that she did not hesitate. " You know what monkeys are ? " she said to Pauline. A Delightful Excursion. 149 " Ob, yes. I saw some td Central Park, and I liked them; but it would be ever so much nicer to see them in a wood/' " It isn't so nice as you think," said Lucy. *'' We went into a grove on one of the islands, a good way from here, and at first we didn'^t see anything, and 1 was just playing about, when something struck me on the ear. I thought it was papa at first, and jumped up, ^ "t he was quite far off. While I was looking, something caught a ribbon I had at mj throat and almost choked me, and then ^ ;gan to pull my hair. I screamed and ran away. I stood near a tree, I was so frightened, and just then a hairy paw came round from the other side of the tree and began to claw at my pocket, where there were some nuts. I saw that it was a monkey, and I gave him a slap. He ran up the tree and, sitting on a branch above, jabbered down at me just as if he was scolding or calling me names." " But you couldn't understand what he said," said Pauline, mucli interested. " Of course not," said Lucy, " he wasn't speaking any language." " Perhaps he spoke a language that other monkeys can understand." m 160 A Delightful Excursion. m I > J" ' r. ' ■ HI " I don't believe so; it's just jabber, jabber. But J tell you that monkeys are perfect fiends. Another one leaned down from a tree and gave me a horrid pinch. 1 glared at him, but he wa? looking another way, as if he hadn't done anythinj^-. As soon as I turned my back to call papa, he tickle^ my neck with the branch of a tree." " Did he ? " cried Pauline gleefully. " Pana thought we'd better run for it, there were such lots of them about; but as soon as we ran, they began to pelt us from above with all kinds of things. A cocoanut almost smashed papa's hat; his head might easily have been broken, and he got hit on the shoulder and had to keep dodging all the time." Pauline would have liked to laugh, but she wasn't quite sure if it were proper to laugh at a growTi-up person's misfortunes. Lucy had no very strong sense of humor and didn't seem to see the comical part of the adventure. Mr. Thorpe, who had been listening, now joined in laughing so heartily himself that Pauline felt free to laugh as much as she pleased. " I can tell you they peppered us," said Mr. Thorpe, " with nuts, nutshells, and ever}" once A Delightful Excursion. 161 't !e in a, while with a cocoanut. I tried throwing something back at them, but they replied by a perfect volley, as if they were led on by la trained commander. I struck about with my stick, and that kept them quiet for a minute or two. I suppose they changed their quarters, for they presently bing-banged from another direction, striking my shins and playing the drum on Lucy's hat, their faces grinning at us from every direction, as they hung down from the branches above to have a better shot at us. We made a run for a deserted house that stood just outside the grove, but, bless you ! they had a garrison in there, and some big fellows were guarding the door like sentries, and ch -ottering as if they were challenging us. " These last didn't seem to be very actively hostile," continued Mr. Thorpe. " I gave the fellows at the door some nuts J had with me, and they instantly sat down to crack and eat them. Lucy had some candies which bribed the other belligerents, so that they surren- dered at discretion, and we left the whole fortful of them munching away, while we stole out through the door farthest from the grove. So you see. Miss Pauline Archer, what's before you if you go to the country of the monkeys." iii|| •r\; I 152 A Delightful Excursion, '3 'i \ '< M* It may be supposed that Mrs. Archer gv k a detailed account of the day's proceedings, *nd of the funny story that genial Mr. Thorpe had told about the monkeys. Rebecca, who was always curious to hear what was going on, came in for a full share of the narrative. But she got more than she bargained for, Pailine illustrating the subject by suddenly swoop- ing down from a bedpost on the stooping Re- becca, who was engaged in what she called *' tidying up " and giving her just " a teenie, weenie pinch." " Zou're the plaguiest child ! " cried the irate nurse. " I don't think there's a monkey among them could match you for tricks." " If I could wrinkle my face up," said Pau- line, " and if I had long, hairy paws t.Ad kid hands." CHAPTER XVI. AN ADVENTURE AND A FAREWELL. Of course it would be hopeless to attempt to tell all that filled up the ensuing weeks of Pauline's stay in the southland. Her mother was so much stronger that they were able to take a number of drives, in all of which they saw so much that was beautiful and instruc- tive that it would fill a volume. It added to Pauline's pleasure to be able to point out to her mother many of th- places which were al- ready familiar to herself. But the time for her departure had almost come, and the separation was to be a very trying one for both. Mrs. Archer was obliged to remain in the South the rest of the winter, and Pauline's father was to take their little daughter North to the convent near New York, for the open- ing of the winter term. On the day previous to Pauline's departure her father had determined to take her for a 153 WW lii ( ■ 164 An Adventure and a Farewell. ^.i farewell sail, and lie invited Lucy Thorpe to go with her. It was a lovely afternoon, with every promise of fine weather — a promise which proved all too treacherous. They had been out upon the water for about two hours, when ominous-looking clouds began to come up from the southwest, and Dick, the yachts- man, began to look uneasy and to call out strange orders to the boy which Pauline could not understand. She tried to guess from the boy's face what was meant, but, weather- tanned and impassive, it gave no si?n After a consultation with Mr. Archer, the boat was turned homewards. But it no lon'-^r ^ ^v^l gayly over gold-tipped waves, nor did it go so fast, for the wind, though growing every moment stronger, was against them The cloud came rolling up over their heads, like a great battleship ploughing the Avnves. An awful darkness covered the sky. Heavy rain began to fall, lightning to flash, and thunder to growl. Pauline's heart beat quick- ly, but she gave no sisrn of fenr. whii^ T 't^v Tliorpe besran to cry piteously. No one heeded her, for the energies of the two boatmen j^nd Mr. Archer were taxed to the uttermost. The water lashed furiously about them, the white An Adventure and a Farewell. 156 foam dashing over them, wetting all on board to the skin. The \Wnd howled as it came in fierce blasts against them. Suddenly an awful thing happened. A wave, a puff of wind, she knew not what, dashed the boy from the place he had occu- pied, and in a moment Pauline saw his despairing face rising on the waves with an agonized look upon it. ^^ A prayer came swiftly to Pauline's lips : " Sacred Heart, Holy Mary, save him ! " She did not think of herself or of any other for the moment. Lucy Thorpe threw herself down in the bottom of the boat in ahject ter- ror, while a cry was heard above the tumult of the storm: the boatman lamenting his son. " We must put back and try to pick him up," cried Mr. Archer. " But who'll mind the boat ? " cried Dick de^spainngly. " If you take my place, who'll take his ? " " We must try it," said Mr. Archer, as the boatman only too willingly obeyed him. " At all risks, we must try to save him." As they drew near the spot, the yacht hur- rying now before the wind, the fijrure of the boy was seen struggling desperately, but with mtm pp ' / 156 An Adventure and a Farewell. ! i I . .. , f evidently failing strength. The boatman seized a hoat-hook. *' God of heaven, if I could let go a mo- ment I " he cried. " But if I do we're all lost." An inspiration came to Mr. Archer as he glanced at Pauline standing erect and calm, it seemed, as a spirit. " Can you do this one moment ? " he cried, for he had taken the boy's place. " I'll try," she said, and he put the tiller Into her small hands tremblingly, as he rushed to the other end of the vessel to leave Dick free for the attempted rescue. None of them would ever forget that awful moment — the child bending her whole strength to the task, which was no light one for those weak hands in that furious gale. Drenched to the skin, cold, shivering, awe-struck, the brave little heart never quailed. The thought flashed into her mind that perhaps God wanted her to help to save the boy. She had grasped the situa- tion, she knew what was going to be done, and she prayed aloud unconsciously till the boy was thrown into the bottom of the boat, Dick making the first rude attempts at res- toration before he abandoned him to fight the An Adventure and a Farewell. 157 battle which was still to be fought before they could reach the shore. " He will die," he murmured; " but any- wuy he'll be buried like a Christian in the earth, and that's one consolation." " Quick," said Mr. Archer, taking Pauline's place, " here's the flask. Pour some into his mouth and rub his hands with it. Then take that rugfrom under the seat and cover him up." Pauline was beside the prostrate figure, which under other circumstances would have so terrified her, deftly obeying her father's instructions. " She's an angel," murmured the bo-rtman to himself, " and no fear about her any more than if she was j. laying on the beach." Pauline indeed seemed indifferent to the fearful crashes of thunder, w'hich in her nursery at home, at night-time, used to make her cover her face with the bedclothes. The yacht was rocking furiously, the very toy of the waves, and her light figure rolled from side to side as she knelt at her strange task. When the storm was over and the yacht lay at anchor at one of the adjoining islands, the boy was carried into a dwelling, where further efforts were made to restore him. But the I ■'U Mil :*'.'\ 158 An Adventure a?id a Farewell, doctor, hearing what had been done, was of opinion that Pauhne had saved his life. The little girl had the joy of seeing her patient open his eyes before she and her father and Lucy Thorpe left the place. Mr. Archer, hav- ing arranged that no expense should be spared in caring for the lad, and finding that he was out of danger, hurried home as fast as possi- ble, for he feared the effect of prolonged anx- iety on his wife's feeble frame, and he also knew that the Thorpes would be in great dis- tress. It was only Mrs. Archer's firm faith in God which had sustained her during those teiTible hours of suspense. " I never ceased asking God to take care of you both," said Mrs. Archer. "And F" did in a wonderful manner," said Reginald Archer with unusual solemnity. " If you had been there you would have thought it little short of a miracle. And Pau- line is an out-and-out heroine. Only for her pluck we'd all have been drowned." " You won't tell her so, dearest," requested Mrs. Archer with some anxiety. " Say, if you like, that she did her duty well and bravely, but say no more. » ! An Adventure and a Farewell. 159 But indeed the heroism of the little girl was on every tongue, llebeeca was con- stantly finding herself the centre of an en- thusiastic group in which the praisee of her young charge were sung and in which she joined with gratified pride. The Thorpes, needless to say, fairly wept for joy and grati- tude. Pauline was quite unmoved by all this demonstration ; in fact, she did not under- stand it, nor, even to the day of her death, could she feel that she had done anything ex- traordinary. The time of her departure was postponed to give her time to recover from tho fatigue and excitement and lest any bad effects might follow upon the long exposure to the elements. But her frame, if fragile of mould, was sturdy, and she was soon her own bright self, playing merrily in the sunshine and weaving her pretty fancies. When at la&t the dreaded day came, the re- gret at leaving these lovely scenes and her new friende, the Thorpes, was all swallowed up in the acute sorrow of parting with her mother. When she went down to get into the car- riage with her father and Rebecca, who was It '■/ 160 An Adventure and a Farewell, r« I ' ' 1 i i to accompany her, quite a crowd had assem- bled to Bee her off. Among them were the Thorpes, Lucy and Mrs. Thorpe crying. " You must come and see us in New York/' flaid Pauline to Lucy, trying to compose her tear-stained face before all these strangers. They promifled, mother and daughter, kissing her effueively. Then it was Mr. Thorpe's torn, end the tears were not far from his eyes as he pressed into the child's hand a little parcel. When she opened it afterwards, she found that it was a level/ ring with a minia- ture upon it set in pearls. *' Bemember, you will always have a friend in me," cried the kindly gentleman, " for you saved my Lucy's life, aa Diok here tells me. So, good-by and God bless you, Pauline Archer." His words found an echo and were pres- ently repeated in a hoarse voice close by: "And 80 sriys I from my heart; and over again I says it, Qod bless you, Pauline Archer." It was the boatman, Dick, who spok^, ^f^ father of the boy who had been sa^ ' iough as was his appearance and uncoc lonal his words, it was plain that he indeeu . . oke rom An Adventure and a Farewell. 161 the depfhs of a grateful heart. The crowd, in which was a strong contingeait of fisher- folk who had come to have a look at the littlo heroine, with a few sailors and soldiers frojia the neighboring fort, took up the cry. For a gallant deed, though it be done by a child, al- ways appeals to the human heart. So the cry was raised and repeated till it rang like a clarion note: " God bless Pauline Archer ! Three cheers for Pauline Archer ! " Pauline shrank back into the carriage " ter- ribly ashamed," as she confided to Rebecca. But her father's f?co glowed with pride, Re- becca smirked, and the cry went straight to one lonely heart. The mother, a soliiary fig- ure, leaned over the railing of the upper bal- cony, bearing still another of the trials of which her life had been full. It cheered her and gave her hope and confidence, and it i^rought back to her, by a curious association of ideas, the blessing of the cobbler for her and for Pauline. Surely the benedictions of simple, grateful heari;s were a rare treasure for her little daughter to take away with her into that unknown future now beginning. As the carriage drove rapidly away, she saw Pan- J- ' ^ m 162 An Adventure and a Farewell. u I I !■•!,* if:. . 1 in 1 I line leaning out for a last glimpse of her, and caught her farewell wave of the hand. She sark back into her chair, murmuring softly to herself: " ' rt : o oms ai? if I would come to an end when I go to school and turn into a big per- son. ' >f CHAPTER XVIL CONCLUSION. PAULINE AT HOME. It is only necessary to record here that be- fore entering on her new life and becoming a big person Pauline stopped for a day and a night at her home in New York. She found everything the same, only that the house had a queer look of being lonely and neglected, and when the sunshine forced its way into the rooms it seemed to lie there quietly, as it does on Sunday mornings. When she' went out upon the steps, there were some of the street-boys, who greeted her with a kind of mocking pleasure, as if she were something that belonged to them. This rather cheered her, though she thought with swelling heart that it would be long before they could call out to her again. The cook reported that the pigeon was in excellent condition and faithful to his old habit of coming at a certain hour to be fed 163 ' 164 Conclusion. Pauline at Home. I'! 'i' t\ ^ '• 1 It' • though she did not relate that he often had to go away disappointed when she and her niece were taking the air. Pauline waited till it came, and caressed it, and let her tears fall, as of old, while she confided her sorrows to it and bade it farewell, saying solemnly that she would never, never forget it, even when she was big. As she raised her head, she caught sight of the cobbler watching from the foot of the steps, a ray of joy lighting up his worn face like a sunbeam through clouds. " I'm glad, glad to see you once more, missy," eaid he, "and many's the day I've walked past the house hoping for a sight of you." Pauline went down the steps and held out her hand to him. " I'm very glad to see you, too, and I haven't forgotten little Mary," she said. "I often thought of her while 1 was away." " Did you, now ? " cried the man with eagerness, as if it gladdened him to know that some one else than himself had given a thought to that vanished presence. " I thought mebbe you'd like to have this," he said, unfastening a little parcel. Pauline stood by, watching with interest. Conclusion, Pauline at Home. 165 her blue eyes fixed upon the package, waiting to see what it contained, it was a rougli and highly colored photograph of '' little Mary/' which 'he put tremblingly into her hand. " 1 got just the two/' he said, " there's no one else to care." Pauline was silent. It gave her a strange feehng to see this representation, rude though it was, of her little playmate. " ril keep it always, even when I'm big," she said solemnly. And the cobbler, being unable to speak from t;motion, squeezed the little hand she held out to him hard, and going down the street, vanished out of her life. But Pauline kept her word. She put away that poor photograph among her most precious treas- ures, keeping it always, in memory of that tiny friend of her youth. Pauline was soon glad to go in, for the air was sharp and frosty, and she felt the cold more after the genial climate »he had been enjoying. ^^ " It's winter now here," she said to Rebecca, " and summer where mamma is. It seems like a dream." Bebecca was very kind to the child. In her m V: 166 Conclusion. Pauline at Home. heart she was fond of her little charge^, and sorry at her approaching departure. " It'll soon be summer now," she said by way of consolation, " and you'll be coming home again for the holidays." " It will never be the same again," said Pauline, shaking her head. " You're the most outlandish child," said Rebecca, vexed and depressed by the forebod- ing. " What difference does a month or two make ? " Pauline did not argue the matter. But she knew, and her eyes looking out of the nursery wmdow seemed trying to penetrate the future which she felt was beginning. Then she asked Eebecca to get her pen and paper and, tired as she was, she wrote a little letter, in a childish, scrawling hand, to her mother, telling her about the journey, about the arrival home, and the simple news of the familiar street. She mentioned Mr. Thorpe's beautiful gift, but, in her loyalty to her little dead friend, she dwelt far more upon the gift which the cobbler had brought her. Her father came up to the nursery to bid her good-night, and was all kindness and good-nature. Then she lay quietly in her Conclusion. Pauline at Home. 167 little railed bed, thinking of her mother's solitary figure on the veranda of the hotel which seemed so far away, and of the Thorpes and the cobbler and little Mary. Just as she was falling asleep she thought some one said to her: " To-night you'll come to an end, to-mor- row you'll be some one else." And as a drowsy hum sounded in her ears the voices of the fisher-folk, crying: " God bless Pauline Archer." PRINTED BY BBNZIOBR BROTHERS, KKW YORK.