THE ONE I 
 "flNEW THC 
 .BEST OF ALI 
 
 .FRANCK HODGSON; 
 l BURNETT I 
 
 #-*-;, 
 
 ^qv;,;
 
 r LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 THE ONE I KNEW THE 
 BEST OF ALL
 
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 THE SMALL PERSON AND THE SECRETAIRE.
 
 THE ONE I KNEW THE 
 BEST OF ALL 
 
 * 
 H /l&emoi s of tbe /l&ino of a Cbilo 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 REGINALD B. BIRCH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1893
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 
 TROW OICTOHr 
 
 I AND BOOKBINDING COM 
 NEW YORK
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I SHOULD feel a serious delicacy in present 
 ing to the world a sketch so autobiographical as 
 this if I did not feel myself absolved from any 
 charge of the bad taste of personality by the fact 
 that I believe I might fairly entitle it " The Story 
 of any Child with an Imagination." My impres 
 sion is that the Small Person differed from a world 
 of others only in as far as she had more or less 
 imagination than other little girls. I have so often 
 wished that I could see the minds of young things 
 with a sight stronger than that of very interested 
 eyes, which can only see from the outside. There 
 must be so many thoughts for which child courage 
 and child language have not the exact words. So, 
 remembering that there was one child of whom I 
 could write from the inside point of view, and 
 with certain knowledge, I began to make a little 
 sketch of the one I knew the best of all. It was
 
 viii Preface 
 
 only to be a short sketch in my first intention, but 
 when I began it I found so much to record which 
 seemed to me amusing- and illustrative, that the 
 short sketch became a long one. After all, it was 
 not myself about whom I was being diffuse, but a 
 little unit of whose parallels there are tens of 
 thousands. The Small Person is gone to that un- 
 discoverable far-away land where other Small 
 Persons have emigrated the land to whose re 
 gretted countries there wandered, some years ago, 
 two little fellows, with picture faces and golden 
 love-locks, whom I have mourned and longed for 
 ever since, and whose going with my kisses on 
 their little mouths has left me forever a sadder 
 woman, as all other mothers are sadder, whatso 
 ever the dearness of the maturer creature left be 
 hind to bear the same name and smile with eyes 
 not quite the same. As I might write freely 
 about them, so I feel I may write freely about 
 her. 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 
 
 MAY, 1892.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 The One I Knew the Best of All, . 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Flower Book and Testament, . 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Back Garden of Eden, 
 
 PAGE 
 / 
 
 21 
 
 2 9
 
 x Contents 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Literature and the Doll, 44 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Islington Square, 70 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 A Confidence Betrayed, 90 
 
 CHAPTER Vll. 
 The Secretaire, 709 
 
 CHAPTER Vlll 
 The Party, 729 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The Wedding, 742 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Strange Thing, 756 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 " Mamma " and the First One, . . . .776
 
 Contents xi 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Edith Somerville" and Raw Turnips, . . 208 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Christopher Columbus, ...... 228 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Dryad Days, ....... 257 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 " My Object is Remuneration " .... 286 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 And So She Did, ....... 313
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 77/6 Small Person and the Secretaire, . Frontispiece 
 
 Vignette, Contents ix 
 
 " / am not holding her," She Said, c? 
 
 " Yes," He Said, " / s/iould have to pick you up and carry 
 
 you at once to prison" ...... 20 
 
 \Vhcn She Stood by Her Grandmamma s Knee, . , 23 
 
 " Tha needn t say nowt about it," Said Emma, . . j>/ 
 
 She Confessed Herself to Him, ...... 41 
 
 As She Brutally Lashed a Cheerfully Hideous Black 
 
 Gtttta-percha Doll, ....... jj 
 
 " Sitting on the Lamp Post," ...... 72 
 
 But the Girl Walked Calmly Before Him, . . 83 
 
 " Is it a very new one ? " They Asked, . . . . 98
 
 xiv List of Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Three Unrestrainable Small Persons in Various 
 
 Stages of Undress, /j> 
 
 " Will you dance this waltz with me ?" .... /j>p 
 
 The two Pink Silk Frocks lay upon the Bed, . . . 14-7 
 
 She put out Her Hand and Touched the Unsmiling 
 
 Cheek, ify 
 
 And She Bent Over and Kissed Her Round Check, . . 174 
 
 " What is Improving, Mamma ?" . . . . . ij8 
 
 She Laughed a great deal as She was Doing It, . . 202 
 
 " // -why, it is so clever / " 206 
 
 The Woes and Raptures of Edith Somerville, . . . 220 
 
 The Poor were Starving, ....... 239 
 
 The First Bales of Cotton 242 
 
 The Small Person Looked upon her with Deference and 
 
 Yearning, 245 
 
 " Good-by" He Said. " I hope you will like America" . 248 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Now Tin going to America," . . . 230 
 
 " I have found a Pimpernel 7" 239
 
 List of Illustrations xv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 // Became one of he? Pleasures to Watch a Bird Light 
 
 upon a Low Branch, 2 7* 
 
 With the Little Cat Curled up in her Left Arm, . . 288 
 
 They Chased about the Warm, Yellowing Woods like 
 
 Wild Things 39 
 
 " Thirty-five dollars" He Said, Staring at Her, . . 3 2 4
 
 THE ONE I KNEW THE BEST OF ALL 
 
 A MEMORY OF THE MIND OF A CHILD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 I HAD every opportunity for knowing her 
 well, at least. We were born on the same day, we 
 learned to toddle about together, we began our 
 earliest observations of the world we lived in at 
 the same period, we made the same mental re 
 marks on people and things, and reserved to our 
 selves exactly the same rights of private personal 
 opinion. 
 
 1 have not the remotest idea of what she looked 
 like. She belonged to an era when photography 
 was not as advanced an art as it is to-day, and no 
 picture of her was ever made. It is a well-authen 
 ticated fact that she was auburn-haired and rosy, 
 and I can testify that she was curly, because one 
 of my earliest recollections of her emotions is a 
 memory of the momentarily maddening effect of a 
 sharp, stinging jerk of the comb when the nurse
 
 was absent-minded or maladroit. That she was 
 also a plump little person I am led to believe, in 
 consequence of the well-known joke of a ribald boy 
 cousin and a disrespectful brother, who averred 
 that when she fell she " bounced " like an india- 
 rubber ball. For the rest, I do not remember 
 what the looking-glass reflected back at her, 
 though I must have seen it. It might, conse 
 quently, be argued that on such occasions there 
 were so many serious and interesting problems to 
 be attended to that a reflection in the looking- 
 glass was an unimportant detail. 
 
 In those early days I did not find her personally 
 interesting in fact, I do not remember regarding 
 her as a personality at all. It was the people about 
 her, the things she saw, the events which made up 
 her small existence, which were absorbing, excit 
 ing, and of the most vital and terrible importance 
 sometimes. It was not until I had children of my 
 own, and had watched their small individualities 
 forming themselves, their large imaginations giv 
 ing proportions and values to things, that I began 
 to remember her as a little Person; and in going 
 back into her past and reflecting on certain details 
 of it and their curious effects upon her, I found 
 interest in her and instruction, and the most 
 serious cause for tender deep reflection on her as 
 a thing touching on that strange, awful problem 
 of a little soul standing in its newness in the great
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 3 
 
 busy, tragic world of life, touched for the first 
 time by everything that passes it, and never 
 touched without some sign of the contact being 
 left upon it. 
 
 What I remember most clearly and feel most 
 serious is one thing above all: it is that I have no 
 memory of any time so early in her life that she 
 was not a distinct little individual. Of the time 
 when she was not old enough to formulate opi 
 nions quite clearly to herself I have no recollec 
 tion, and I can remember distinctly events which 
 happened before she was three years old. The 
 first incident which appears to me as being inter 
 esting, as an illustration of what a baby mind is 
 doing, occurred a week or so after the birth of 
 her sister, who was two years younger than her 
 self. It is so natural, so almost inevitable, that 
 even the most child-loving among us should find 
 it difficult to realize constantly that a mite of 
 three or four, tumbling about, playing with india- 
 rubber dogs and with difficulty restrained from 
 sucking the paint off Noah, Shem, Ham, and Ja- 
 phet, not to mention the animals, is a person, and 
 that this person is ten thousand times more sensi 
 tive to impression than one s self, and that hearing 
 and seeing one, this person, though he or she may 
 not really understand, will be likely, in intervals 
 of innocent destruction of small portable articles, 
 to search diligently in infant mental space until
 
 4 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 he or she has found an explanation of affairs, to 
 be pigeon-holed for future reference. And yet I 
 can most solemnly declare that such was the 
 earliest habit of that "One I knew the best of all." 
 
 One takes a fat, comfortable little body on one s 
 knee and begins to tell it a story about " a fairy " 
 or "a doggie" or "a pussy." And the moment 
 the story begins the questions begin also. And 
 with my recollection of the intense little Bogie 
 whom I knew so well and who certainly must 
 have been a most e very-day-looking little person 
 age, giving no outward warning of preternatural 
 alertness and tragic earnestness, my memory leads 
 me to think that indeed it is not a trifle to be suf 
 ficiently upright and intelligent to answer these 
 questions exactly as one should. This first inci 
 dent, which seems to me to denote how early a 
 tiny mind goes through distinct processes of 
 thought, is a very clear memory to me. 
 
 I see a comfortable English bedroom, such as 
 would to-day seem old-fashioned without being 
 ancient enough to be picturesque. I remember 
 no articles of furniture in the room but a rather 
 heavy four-posted carved mahogany bed, hung 
 with crimson damask, ornamented with heavy 
 fringe and big cords and tassels, a chair by this 
 bedside I think it was an arm-chair covered 
 with chintz and a footstool. This was called " a 
 buffet/ and rhymed with Miss Muffet eating her
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 5 
 
 curds and whey. In England Miss Muffet sat on 
 "a buffet," on the blood-curdling occasion when 
 
 " There came a big spider 
 And sat down beside her 
 And frightened Miss Muffet away." 
 
 This buffet was placed upon the hearth-rug be 
 fore the fire, and a very small being was sitting 
 upon it, very conscious, in a quiet way, of her 
 mamma lying on the crimson-draped bed, and the 
 lady friend who was sitting in the chair by her, 
 discussing their respective new babies. But most 
 of all was the Small Person on the buffet conscious 
 of their own personal new baby who was being 
 taken care of by a nurse just near her. 
 
 Perhaps the interest of such recollections is 
 somewhat added to by the fact that one can only 
 recall them by episodes, and that the episodes 
 seem to appear without any future or any past. 
 Not the faintest shadow of the new baby seems 
 to appear upon the camera, up to this moment, 
 of the buffet, and I have no remembrance of any 
 mental process which led to the Small Person s 
 wishing to hold it on her knee. Perhaps it was 
 a sudden inspiration. 
 
 But she did wish to hold it, and notified as 
 much, apparently with sufficient clearness, to the 
 nurse. 
 
 The shadow of the nurse has no name and
 
 6 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 no special individuality. She was only a figure 
 known as " The Nurse." 
 
 But she impresses me in these days as having 
 been quite definite in her idea that Persons not 
 yet three years old w r ere not to be trusted en 
 tirely with the new-born, however excellent their 
 intentions were. 
 
 How the Small Person expressed herself in 
 those days I do not know at all. Before three 
 years articulation is not generally perfect, but if 
 hers was not I know she was entirely unaware 
 of her inadequacies. She thought she spoke just 
 as other people did, and I never remember her 
 pronunciation being corrected. I can recall, 
 with perfect distinctness, however, what she 
 thought she expressed and what her hearers 
 seemed to understand her to say. 
 
 It was in effect something like this : 
 
 " I want to hold the New Baby on my knee. " 
 
 " You are too little," said the Nurse. 
 
 " No, I am not too little. The New Baby is 
 little, and I am on the buffet, and I will hold her 
 tight if you will put her on my knee." 
 
 " She would slip off, I am afraid." 
 
 " No, I will hold her tight with both arms, just 
 like you do. Please give her to me." And the 
 Small Person spread her small knees. 
 
 I don t know how long the discussion lasted, 
 but the Nurse was a good-natured person, and at
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 7 
 
 last she knelt down upon the hearth-rug by the 
 buffet, holding the white-robed new baby in her 
 arms, and amiably pretended to place it in the 
 short arms and on the tiny knees, while she was 
 really supporting it herself. 
 
 " There," she said. " Now she is on your 
 knee." She thought she had made it all right, 
 but she was gravely mistaken. 
 
 " But I want to hold her myself" said the Small 
 Person. 
 
 " You are holding her," answered the Nurse, 
 cheerfully. " What a big girl to be holding the 
 New Baby just like a grown-up lady." 
 
 The Small Person looked at her with serious 
 candor. 
 
 " I am not holding her," she said. " You are 
 holding her." 
 
 That the episode ended without the Small Per 
 son either having held the New Baby, or being 
 deceived into fancying she held it, is as clear a 
 memory to me as if it had occurred yesterday ; 
 and the point of the incident is that after all the 
 years that have passed I remember with equal 
 distinctness the thoughts which were in the Small 
 Person s mind as she looked at the Nurse and 
 summed the matter up, while the woman imag 
 ined she was a baby not capable of thinking at all. 
 
 It has always interested me to recall this be 
 cause it was so long ago, and while it has not
 
 8 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 faded out at all, and 1 see the mental attitude as 
 definitely as I see the child and the four-post bed 
 with its hangings, I recognize that she was too 
 
 young to have had in her vocabulary the words 
 to put her thoughts and mental arguments into 
 and yet they were there, as thoughts and mental
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 9 
 
 arguments are there to-day and after these many 
 years I can write them in adult words without 
 the slightest difficulty. I should like to have a 
 picture of her eyes and the expression of her baby 
 face as she looked at the nurse and thought these 
 things, but perhaps her looks were as inarticulate 
 as her speech. 
 
 " I am very little," she thought. " I am so little 
 that you think I do not know that you are pre 
 tending that I am holding the new baby, while 
 really it is you who are holding it. But I do know. 
 I know it as well as you, though I am so little 
 and you are so big that you always hold babies. 
 But I cannot make you understand that, so it is 
 no use talking. I want the baby, but you think I 
 shall let it fall. I am sure I shall not. But you 
 are a grown-up person and I am a little child, and 
 the big people can always have their own way." 
 
 I do not remember any rebellion against an idea 
 of injustice. All that comes back to me in the 
 form of a mental attitude is a perfect realization 
 of the immense fact that people who were grown 
 up could do what they chose, and that there was 
 no appeal. against their omnipotence. 
 
 It may be that this line of thought was an in 
 fant indication of a nature which developed later 
 as one of its chief characteristics, a habit of ad 
 justing itself silently. to the inevitable, which was 
 frequently considered to represent indifference,
 
 io The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 but which merely evolved itself from private con 
 clusions arrived at through a private realization of 
 the utter uselessness of struggle against the Fixed. 
 
 The same curiosity as to the method in which 
 the thoughts expressed themselves to the small 
 mind devours me when I recall the remainder of 
 the bedroom episode, or rather an incident of the 
 same morning. 
 
 The lady visitor who sat in the chair was a 
 neighbor, and she also was the proprietor of a 
 new baby, though her baby was a few weeks 
 older than the very new one the Nurse held. 
 
 She was the young mother of two or three 
 children, and had a pretty sociable manner toward 
 tiny things. The next thing I see is that the 
 Small Person had been called up to her and stood 
 by the bed in an attitude of modest decorum, be 
 ing questioned and talked to. 
 
 I have no doubt she was asked how she liked 
 the New Baby, but I do not remember that or 
 anything but the serious situation which arose 
 as the result of one of the questions. It was the 
 first social difficulty of the Small Person the first 
 confronting of the overwhelming problem of how 
 to adjust perfect truth to perfect politeness. 
 
 Language seems required to mentally confront 
 this problem and try to settle it, and the Small 
 Person cannot have had words, yet it is certain 
 that she confronted and wrestled with it.
 
 The One I Knew the Best of AIL 1 1 
 
 "And what is your New Baby s name to be?" 
 the lady asked. 
 
 " Edith," was the answer. 
 
 " That is a pretty name," said the lady. " I 
 have a new baby, and I have called it Eleanor. 
 Is not that a pretty name ? " 
 
 In this manner it was simple as it may seem- 
 that the awful problem presented itself. That it 
 seemed awful actually almost unbearable is an 
 illustration of the strange, touching sensitiveness 
 of the new-born butterfly soul just emerged from 
 its chrysalis the impressionable sensitiveness 
 which it seems so tragic that we do not always 
 remember. 
 
 For some reason it would be impossible to tell 
 what the Small Person did not think Eleanor 
 was a pretty name. On strictly searching the in 
 nermost recesses of her diminutive mentality she 
 found that she could not think it a pretty name. 
 She tried, as if by muscular effort, and could not. 
 She thought it was an ugly name ; that was the 
 anguish of it. And here was a lady, a nice lady, a 
 friend with whom her own mamma took tea, a 
 kind lady, who had had the calamity to have her 
 own newest baby christened by an ugly name. 
 How could anyone be rude and hard-hearted 
 enough to tell her what she had done that her 
 new baby would always have to be called some 
 thing ugly ? She positively quaked with mis-
 
 12 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ery. She stood quite still and looked at the poor 
 nice lady helplessly without speaking. The lady 
 probably thought she was shy, or too little to 
 answer readily or really have any opinion on the 
 subject of names. Mistaken lady : how mistaken, 
 I can remember. The Small Person was wres 
 tling with her first society problem, and trying to 
 decide what she must do with it. 
 
 " Don t you think it is a pretty name ? " the 
 visitor went on, in a petting, coaxing voice, pos 
 sibly with a view to encouraging her. " Don t 
 you like it? " 
 
 The Small Person looked at her with yearning 
 eyes. She could not say " No " blankly. Even 
 then there lurked in her system the seeds of a 
 feeling which, being founded on a friendly wish 
 to be humane which is a virtue at the outset, 
 has increased with years, until it has become a 
 weakness which is a vice. She could not say a 
 thing she did not mean, but she could not say 
 brutally the unpleasant thing she did mean. She 
 ended with a pathetic compromise. 
 
 " I don t think," she faltered " I don t think 
 it is as pretty as Edith." 
 
 And then the grown-up people laughed gayly 
 at her as if she were an amusing little thing, 
 and she was kissed and cuddled and petted. 
 And nobody suspected she had been thinking 
 anything at all, any more than they imagined that
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 13 
 
 she had been translating their remarks into 
 ancient Greek. 1 have a vivid imagination as 
 regards children, but if I had been inventing a 
 story of a child, it would not have occurred to 
 me to imagine such a mental episode in such a 
 very tiny person. But the vividness of my recol 
 lection of this thing has been a source of interest 
 and amusement to me through so many mature 
 years that I feel it has a certain significance as 
 impressing upon one s mind a usually unrealized 
 fact. 
 
 When she was about four years old a strange 
 and serious event happened in the household 
 of the Small Person, an event which might have 
 made a deep and awesome impression on her 
 but for two facts. As it was, a deep impression 
 was made, but its effect was not of awfulness, but 
 of unexplainable mystery. The thing which hap 
 pened was that the father of the Small Person 
 died. As she belonged to the period of Nurses 
 and the Nursery she did not feel very familiar 
 with him, and did not see him very often. 
 " Papa," in her mind, was represented by a gentle 
 man who had curling brown hair and who laughed 
 and said affectionately funny things. These things 
 gave her the impression of his being a most agree 
 able relative, but she did not know that the funny 
 things were the jocular remarks with \vhich good- 
 natured maturity generally salutes tender years.
 
 14 
 
 He was intimately connected with jokes about 
 cakes kept in the dining-room sideboard, and with 
 amiable witticisms about certain very tiny glasses 
 of sherry in which she and her brothers had drunk 
 his health and her mamma s, standing by the table 
 after dinner, when there were nuts and other 
 fruits adorning it. These tiny glasses, which 
 must really have been liqueur glasses, she thought 
 had been made specially small for the accommo 
 dation of persons from the Nursery. 
 
 When " papa " became ill the Nursery was evi 
 dently kept kindly and wisely in ignorance of his 
 danger. The Small Person s first knowledge of 
 it seemed to reach her through an interesting ad 
 venture. She and her brothers and the New 
 Baby, who by this time was quite an old baby, 
 were taken away from home. In a very pretty 
 countrified Public Park not far away from where 
 she lived there was a house where people could 
 stay and be made comfortable. The Park still ex 
 ists, but I think the house has been added to and 
 made into a museum. At that time it appeared 
 to an infant imagination a very splendid and awe- 
 inspiring mansion. It seemed very wonderful 
 indeed to live in a house in the Park where 
 one was only admitted usually under the care of 
 Nurses who took one to walk. The park seemed 
 to become one s own private garden, the Refresh 
 ment Room containing the buns almost part of
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 15 
 
 one s private establishment, and the Policemen, 
 after one s first awe of them was modified, to be 
 come almost mortal men. 
 
 It was a Policeman who is the chief feature of 
 this period. He must have been an amiable Police 
 man. I have no doubt he was quite a fatherly 
 Policeman, but the agonies of terror the One I 
 knew the best of all passed through in conse 
 quence of his disposition to treat her as a joke, 
 are something never to be forgotten. 
 
 I can see now from afar that she was a little 
 person of the most law-abiding tendencies. I can 
 never remember her feeling the slightest inclina 
 tion to break a known law of any kind. Her in 
 ward desire was to be a good child. Without 
 actually formulating the idea, she had a standard 
 of her own. She did not want to be " naughty," 
 she did not want to be scolded, she was peace- 
 loving and pleasure-loving, two things not com 
 patible with insubordination. When she was 
 " naughty," it was because what seemed to her in 
 justice and outrage roused her to fury. She had 
 occasional furies, but went no further. 
 
 When she was told that there were pieces of 
 grass on which she must not walk, and that on 
 the little boards adorning their borders the black 
 letters written said, " Trespassers will be prose 
 cuted," she would not for worlds have set her 
 foot upon the green, even though she did not
 
 i6 
 
 know what " prosecuted " meant. But when she 
 discovered that the Park Policemen who walked 
 up and down in stately solitude were placed by 
 certain awful authorities to " take up " anybody 
 who trespassed, the dread that she might inadver 
 tently trespass some day and be "taken up" 
 caused her blood to turn cold. 
 
 What an irate Policeman, rendered furious by 
 an outraged law, represented to her tender mind 
 I cannot quite clearly define, but 1 am certain that 
 a Policeman seemed an omnipotent power, with 
 whom the boldest would not dream of trifling, 
 and the sole object of whose majestic existence 
 was to bring to swift, unerring justice the juve 
 nile law-breakers who in the madness of their 
 youth drew upon themselves the eagle glance of 
 his wrath, the awful punishment of justice being 
 to be torn shrieking from one s Mamma and in 
 carcerated for life in a gloomy dungeon in the 
 bowels of the earth. This was what " Prison " 
 and being " taken up" meant. 
 
 It may be imagined, then, with what reverent 
 awe she regarded this supernatural being from 
 afar, clinging to her Nurse s skirts with positively 
 bated breath when he appeared ; how ostenta 
 tiously she avoided the grass which must not be 
 trodden upon ; how she was filled with mingled 
 terror and gratitude when she discovered that he 
 even descended from his celestial heights to speak
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 17 
 
 to Nurses, actually in a jocular manner and with 
 no air of secreting an intention of pouncing upon 
 their charges and " taking them up " in the very 
 wantonness of power. 
 
 I do not know through what means she reached 
 the point of being sufficiently intimate with a 
 Policeman to exchange respectful greetings with 
 him and even to indulge in timorous conversation. 
 The process must have been a very gradual one 
 and much assisted by friendly and mild advances 
 from the Policeman himself. I only know it came 
 about, and this I know through a recollection of 
 a certain eventful morning. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning, so beautiful that 
 even a Policeman might have been softened by 
 it. The grass which must not be walked upon 
 was freshest green, the beds of flowers upon 
 it were all in bloom. Perhaps the brightness of 
 the sunshine and the friendliness of nature em 
 boldened the Small Person and gave her giant 
 strength. 
 
 How she got there I do not know, but she was 
 sitting on one of the Park benches at the edge of 
 the grass, and a Policeman a real, august Police 
 man was sitting beside her. 
 
 Perhaps her Nurse had put her there for a mo 
 ment and left her under the friendly official s care. 
 But I do not know. I only know she was there, 
 and so was he, and he was doing nothing alarm- 
 
 2
 
 1 8 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ing. The seat was one of those which have only 
 one piece of wood for a back and she was so little 
 that her short legs stuck out straight before her, 
 confronting her with short socks and plump pink 
 calf and small " ankle-strap " shoes, while her 
 head was not high enough to rest itself against 
 the back, even if it had wished to. 
 
 It was this last fact which suggested to her 
 mind the possibility of a catastrophe so harrow 
 ing that mere mental anguish forced her to ask 
 questions even from a minion of the law. She 
 looked at him and opened her lips half a dozen 
 times before she dared to speak, but the words 
 came forth at last : 
 
 "If anyone treads on the grass must you take 
 them up? " 
 
 " Yes, I must." There is no doubt but that the 
 innocent fellow thought her and her question a 
 good joke. 
 
 " Would you have to take anyone up if they 
 went on the grass ? " 
 
 " Yes," with an air of much official sternness. 
 "Anyone." 
 
 She panted a little and looked at him appeal- 
 ingly. " Would you have to take me up if I went 
 on it? " Possibly she hoped for leniency because 
 he evidently did not object to her Nurse, and she 
 felt that such relationship might have a softening 
 influence.
 
 The One I Knew the Best of All 19 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I should have to take you to 
 prison." 
 
 " But," she faltered, " but if I couldnt help it 
 if I didn t go on it on purpose." 
 
 " You d have to be taken to prison if you went 
 on it," he said. " You couldn t go on it without 
 knowing it." 
 
 She turned and looked at the back of the seat, 
 which was too high for her head to reach, and 
 which consequently left no support behind her 
 exceeding smallness. 
 
 " But but," she said, " I am so little I might 
 fall through the back of this seat. If I was to fall 
 through on to the grass should you take me to 
 prison? " 
 
 What dulness of his kindly nature I feel sure 
 he was not an unkindly fellow blinded the 
 Policeman to the terror and consternation which 
 must in some degree have expressed themselves 
 on her tiny face, I do not understand, but he 
 evidently saw nothing of them. I do not remem 
 ber what his face looked like, only that it did not 
 wear the ferocity which would have accorded 
 with his awful words. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I should have to pick you up 
 and carry you at once to prison." 
 
 She must have turned pale ; but that she sat 
 still without further comment, that she did not 
 burst into frantic howls of despair, causes one to
 
 2o The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 feel that even in those early days she was 
 governed by some rudimentary sense of dignity 
 and resignation to fate, for as she sat there, the 
 short legs in socks and 
 
 _> 
 
 small black " ankle-straps " 
 confronting her, the mar 
 row was dissolving in her 
 infant bones. 
 
 There is doubtless 
 suggestion as to the 
 limits and exag 
 gerations of the 
 
 tender mind in the fact that this incident was an 
 awful one to her and caused her to waken in 
 her bed at night and quake with horror, while
 
 21 
 
 the later episode of her hearing that " Poor Papa " 
 had died seemed only to be a thing of mystery of 
 which there was so little explanation that it was 
 not terrible. This was without doubt because, to 
 a very young child s mind, death is an idea too 
 vague to grasp. 
 
 There came a day when someone carried her 
 into the bedroom where the crimson-draped four- 
 post bed was, and standing by its side held her in 
 her arms that she might look down at Papa lying 
 quite still upon the pillow. She only thought he 
 looked as if he were asleep, though someone said : 
 " Papa has gone to Heaven," and she was not 
 frightened, and looked do\vn with quiet interest 
 and respect. A few years later the sight of a 
 child of her own age or near it, lying in his coffin, 
 brought to her young being an awed realization 
 of death, whose anguished intensity has never 
 wholly repeated itself ; but being held up in kind 
 arms to look down at " Poor Papa," she only 
 gazed without comprehension and without fear.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Little Flower Book and the Broivn Testament 
 
 I DO not remember the process by which she 
 learned to read or how long a time it took her. 
 There was a time when she sat on a buffet before 
 the Nursery fire which was guarded by a tall 
 wire fender with a brass top and with the as 
 sistance of an accomplished elder brother a few 
 years her senior, seriously and carefully picked 
 out with a short, fat finger the capital letters 
 adorning the advertisement column of a news 
 paper. 
 
 But from this time my memory makes a leap 
 over all detail until an occasion when she stood 
 by her Grandmamma s knee by this same tall 
 Nursery fender and read out slowly and with 
 dignity the first verse of the second chapter of 
 Matthew in a short, broad, little speckled brown 
 Testament with large print. 
 
 " When Jesus was born in Bethlehem 
 of Judea," she read, but it is only this first verse 1 
 remember. 
 
 Either just before or just after the accomplish 
 ing of this feat she heard that she was three years
 
 The Flower Book and Testament 23 
 
 old. Possibly this fact was mentioned as notable 
 in connection with the reading, but to her it was a 
 fact notable principally because it was the first 
 
 time she remembered hearing that she was any 
 age at all and that birthdays were a feature of 
 human existence. 
 
 But though the culminating point of the learn-
 
 24 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ing to read was the Brown Testament, the process 
 of acquiring the accomplishment must have had 
 much to do with the " Little Flower Book." 
 
 In a life founded and formed upon books, one 
 naturally looks back with affection to the first 
 book one possessed. The one known as the " Lit 
 tle Flower Book " was the first in the existence of 
 the One I knew the best of all. 
 
 No other book ever had such fascinations, none 
 ever contained such marvellous suggestions of 
 beauty and story and adventure. And yet it was 
 only a little book out of which one learned one s 
 alphabet. 
 
 But it was so beautiful. One could sit on a buf 
 fet and pore over the pages of it for hours and 
 thrill with wonder and delight over the little pict 
 ure which illustrated the fact that A stood for 
 Apple-blossom, C for Carnation, and R for Rose. 
 What would I not give to see those pictures now. 
 But I could not see them now as the Small Person 
 saw them then. I only wish I could. Such 
 lovely pictures ! So like real flowers ! As one 
 looked at each one of them there grew before 
 one s eyes the whole garden that surrounded it 
 the very astral body of the beauty of it. 
 
 It was rather like the Brown Testament in form. 
 It was short and broad, and its type was large 
 and clear. The short page was divided in two ; 
 the upper half was filled with an oblong black
 
 The Flower Book and Testament 25 
 
 background, on which there was a flower, and the 
 lower half with four lines of rhyme beginning 
 with the letter which was the one that " stood 
 for " the flower. The black background was an 
 inspiration, it made the flower so beautiful. I do 
 not remember any of the rhymes, though I have a 
 vague impression that they usually treated of 
 some moral attribute which the flower was sup 
 posed to figuratively represent. In the days when 
 the Small Person was a child, morals were never 
 lost sight of ; no well-regulated person ever men 
 tioned the Poppy, in writing for youth, without 
 calling it "flaunting" or "gaudy;" the Violet, 
 without laying stress on its " modesty ; " the Rose, 
 without calling attention to its " sweetness," and 
 daring indeed would have been the individual 
 who would have referred to the Bee without call 
 ing him " busy." Somehow one had the feeling 
 that the Poppy was deliberately scarlet from im 
 pudence, that the Violet stayed up all night, as it 
 were, to be modest, that the Rose had invented 
 her own sweetness, and that the Bee would rather 
 perish than be an " idle butterfly " and not spend 
 every moment " improving each shining hour." 
 But we stood it very well. Nobody repined, but 
 I think one rather had a feeling of having been 
 born an innately vicious little person who needed 
 laboring with constantly that one might be made 
 merely endurable.
 
 26 
 
 It never for an instant occurred to the Small 
 Person to resent the moral attributes of the flow 
 ers. She was quite resigned to them, though my 
 impression is that she dwelt on them less fondly 
 than on the fact that the rose and her alphabetical 
 companions were such visions of beauty against 
 their oblong background of black. 
 
 The appearing of the Flower Book on the hori 
 zon was an event in itself. Somehow the Small 
 Person had become devoured by a desire to pos 
 sess a book and know how to read it. She was 
 the fortunate owner of a delightful and ideal 
 Grandmamma not a modern grandmamma, but 
 one who might be called a comparatively " early 
 English " grandmamma. She was stately but 
 benevolent ; she had silver-white hair, wore a cap 
 with a full white net border, and carried in her 
 pocket an antique silver snuff-box, not used as a 
 snuff-box, but as a receptacle for what was known 
 in that locality as " sweeties," one of which being 
 bestowed with ceremony was regarded as a re 
 ward for all nursery virtues and a panacea for all 
 earthly ills. She was bounteous and sympathetic, 
 and desires might hopefully be confided to her. 
 Perhaps this very early craving for literature 
 amused her, perhaps it puzzled her a little. I re 
 member that a suggestion was tentatively made 
 by her that perhaps a doll would finally be found 
 preferable to a book, but it was strenuously de-
 
 The Flower Book and Testament 27 
 
 clared by the Small Person that a book, and only 
 a book, would satisfy her impassioned cravings. 
 A curious feature of the matter is that, though 
 dolls at a later period were the joy and the 
 greater part of the existence of the Small Person, 
 during her very early years I have absolutely no 
 recollection of a feeling for any doll, or indeed a 
 memory of any dolls existing for her. 
 
 So she was taken herself to buy the book. It 
 was a beautiful and solemn pilgrimage. Reason 
 suggests that it was not a long one, in considera 
 tion for her tiny and brief legs,* but to her it 
 seemed to be a journey of great length princi 
 pally past wastes of suburban brick-fields, which 
 for some reason seemed romantic and interesting 
 to her, and it ended in a tiny shop on a sort of 
 country road. I do not see the inside of the shop, 
 only the outside, which had one small window, 
 with toys and sweet things in glass jars. Per 
 haps the Small Person was left outside to survey 
 these glories. This would seem not improbable, 
 as there remains no memory of the interior. But 
 there the Flower Book was bought (I wonder if 
 it really cost more than sixpence) ; from there it 
 was carried home under her arm, I feel sure. 
 Where it went to, or how it disappeared, I do not 
 know. For an seon it seemed to her to be the 
 greater part of her life, and then it melted away, 
 perhaps being absorbed in the Brown Testament
 
 28 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 and the more dramatic interest of Herod and the 
 Innocents. From her introduction to Herod 
 dated her first acquaintance with the " villain " in 
 drama and romance, and her opinion of his con 
 duct was, I am convinced, founded on something 
 much larger than mere personal feeling.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 
 
 I DO not know with any exactness where it 
 was situated. To-day I believe it is a place swept 
 out of existence. In those days I imagine it was 
 a comfortable, countrified house, with a big gar 
 den round it, and fields and trees before and be 
 hind it ; but if I were to describe it and its re 
 sources and surroundings as they appeared to me 
 in the enchanted days when I lived there, I should 
 describe a sort of fairyland. 
 
 If one could only make a picture of the places 
 of the world as these Small Persons see them, 
 with their wondrous proportions and beauties 
 the great heights and depths and masses, the gar 
 den-walks which seem like stately avenues, the 
 rose-bushes which are jungles of bloom, the trees 
 adventurous brothers climb up and whose top 
 most branches seem to lift them to the sky. 
 There was such a tree at the bottom of the gar 
 den at Seedly. To the Small Person the garden 
 seemed a mile long. There was a Front Garden 
 and a Back Garden, and it was the Back Garden 
 she liked best and which appeared to her large
 
 30 The One I Kneiu the Best of All 
 
 enough for all one s world. It was all her world 
 during the years she spent there. The Front 
 Garden had a little lawn with flower-beds on it 
 and a gravel walk surrounding it and leading to 
 the Back Garden. The interesting feature of this 
 domain was a wide flower-bed which curved 
 round it and represented to the Small Person a 
 stately jungle. It was filled with flowering shrubs 
 and trees which bloomed, and one could walk be 
 side them and look through the tangle of their 
 branches and stems and imagine the things which 
 might live among them and be concealed in their 
 shadow. There were rose-bushes and lilac-bushes 
 and rhododendrons, and there were laburnums 
 and snowballs. Elephants and tigers might have 
 lurked there, and there might have been fairies or 
 gypsies, though I do not think her mind formu 
 lated distinctly anything more than an interesting 
 suggestion of possibilities. 
 
 But the Back Garden was full of beautiful won 
 ders. Was it always Spring or Summer there in 
 that enchanted Garden which, out of a whole 
 world, has remained throughout a lifetime the 
 Garden of Eden ? Was the sun always shining ? 
 Later and more material experience of the Eng 
 lish climate leads me to imagine that it was not 
 always flooded and warmed with sunshine, and 
 filled with the scent of roses and mignonette and 
 new-mown hay and apple-blossoms and strawber-
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 31 
 
 ries all together, and that when one laid down on 
 the grass on one s back one could not always see 
 that high, high world of deep sweet blue with 
 fleecy islets and mountains of snow drifting slowly 
 by or seeming to be quite still that world to 
 which one seemed somehow to belong even more 
 than to the earth, and which drew one upward 
 with such visions of running over the white soft 
 hills and springing, from little island to little 
 island, across the depths of blue which seemed a 
 sea. But it was always so on the days the One I 
 knew the best of all remembers the garden. This 
 is no doubt because, on the wet days and the windy 
 ones, the cold days and the ugly ones, she was 
 kept in the warm nursery and did not see the 
 altered scene at all. 
 
 In the clavs in which she played out of doors 
 there were roses in bloom, and a score of wonder 
 ful annuals, and bushes with gooseberries and red 
 and white and black currants, and raspberries 
 and strawberries, and there was a mysterious and 
 endless seeming alley of Sweetbriar, which smelt 
 delicious when one touched the leaves and which 
 sometimes had a marvellous development in the 
 shape of red berries upon it. How is it that the 
 warm, scented alley of Sweetbriar seems to lead 
 her to an acquaintance, an intimate and friendly 
 acquaintance, with the Rimmers s pigs, and some 
 how through them to the first Crime of her infancy ?
 
 32 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The Rimmers were some country working- 
 people whose white-washed cottage was near the 
 Back Garden. Rimmer himself was a market 
 gardener, and in his professional capacity had 
 some connection with the Back Garden itself and 
 also with the gardener. The cottage was very 
 quaint and rural, and its garden, wherein cab 
 bages and currant-bushes and lettuces, etc., grew 
 luxuriantly, was very long and narrow, and one 
 of its fascinating features was the pig-sty. 
 
 A pig-sty does not seem fascinating to mature 
 years, but to Six-years-old, looking through an 
 opening in a garden hedge and making the ac 
 quaintance of a little girl pig-owner on the other 
 side, one who knows all about pigs and their 
 peculiarities, it becomes an interesting object. 
 
 Not having known the pig in his domestic 
 circles, as it were, and then to be introduced to 
 him in his own home, surrounded by Mrs. Pig and 
 a family of little Pink Pigs, squealing and hustling 
 each other, and being rude over their dinner in 
 the trough, is a situation full of suggestion. 
 
 The sty is really like a little house. What is Mr. 
 Pig thinking of as he lies with his head half-way 
 out of the door, blinking in the sun, and seeming 
 to converse with his family in grunts ? What do 
 the grunts mean ? Do the little Pink Pigs under 
 stand them ? Does Mrs. Pig really reply when she 
 seems to? Do they really like potato and apple
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 33 
 
 parings, and all sorts of things jumbled together 
 with buttermilk and poured into the trough? 
 
 The little girl whose father owns the pigs is 
 very gifted. She seems to know everything about 
 the family in the sty. One may well cherish an 
 acquaintance with a person of such knowledge 
 and experience. 
 
 One is allowed to talk to this little girl. Her 
 name is Emma Rimmer. Her father and mother 
 are decent people, and she is a well-behaved little 
 girl. There is a little girl whose mother keeps the 
 toll-gate on the road, and it is not permitted that 
 one should converse with her. She is said to be 
 " a rude little girl," and is tabooed. 
 
 But with Emma Rimmer it is different. She 
 \vears a print frock and clogs, and speaks in the 
 Lancashire dialect, but there seems to be no seri 
 ous objection to occasional conversation with her. 
 At some time the Small Person must have been 
 taken into the narrow garden, because of a remem 
 brance of luxuries there revealed. A yard or so 
 from the door of the cottage there was a small 
 wooden shed, with a slanting roof protecting a 
 sort of table or counter, with toothsome delicacies 
 spread upon it for sale. 
 
 They were refreshments of the sort which the 
 working -classes patronize during their Sunday 
 walks into the country. Most of them are pur 
 chasable for one penny, or one halfpenny, in coin
 
 34 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 of the realm. Pieces of cardboard in the cottage 
 
 O 
 
 window announce : 
 
 " Pop. A penny a bottle. 
 Ginger beer 
 Sold here. 
 Also Nettle beer." 
 
 On the stall there are " Real Eccles Cakes. 
 One penny each." " Parkins. A halfpenny." 
 There are glass bottles with " Raspberry Drops " 
 in them, and " Bulls Eyes," and " Humbugs " 
 beautiful striped sticky things which taste 
 strongly of peppermint. If one is capitalist 
 enough to possess a halfpenny, one can spend 
 half an hour in trying to decide what luxury to 
 invest it in. 
 
 There was in those days in the air a rumor 
 for which Emma Rimmer was responsible a sort 
 of legend repeated with bated breath and not re 
 garded with entire confidence of a female Monte 
 Christo of tender years, who once had spent a 
 whole sixpence at a time. But no one saw her. 
 She was never traced and could not have be 
 longed to the neighborhood. Indeed there was 
 an impression in the Small Person s mind that 
 she was somehow connected with someone who 
 worked in factories perhaps was a little factory 
 girl herself. No well-regulated little girl, with a
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 35 
 
 nurse s eye upon her, would have been permitted 
 to indulge in such reckless, even vulgar, extrava 
 gance. 
 
 Through the nearness of these temptations 
 Crime came. The Serpent entered the Back 
 Garden of Eden. The Serpent was innocent lit 
 tle Emma Rimmer. 
 
 There was a day on which the Small Person 
 was playing with Emma Rimmer. Perhaps the 
 air was sharp and hunger-creating, perhaps she 
 had not eaten all her bowl of bread-and-milk at 
 her Nursery breakfast that morning. Somehow 
 she was not in the Back Garden, but in the road 
 outside the big gates which opened into the car 
 riage-way. Why she was without her Nurse is 
 not explained. She seemed to be jumping about 
 and running in a circle with Emma Rimmer, and 
 she became suddenly conscious of a gnawing 
 sense of vacancy under the belt of her pinafore. 
 " I am so hungry," she said ; " I am so hungry." 
 Emma looked at her and then continued to jump 
 up and down. 
 
 Something unusual must have been in the situ 
 ation, because there seemed to be none of the 
 usual methods to fall back upon in the way of 
 going in search of bread-and-butter. 
 
 " I wish I had a halfpenny," she continued. " If 
 I had a halfpenny I would get you to go to your 
 cottage and get me a halfpenny parkin." A parkin
 
 36 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 is a spicy thing made of molasses and oatmeal 
 and flavored with ginger. It can only be found 
 in Lancashire and Yorkshire. 
 
 Emma stopped jumping and looked sharply re 
 flective. Familiarity with commerce had ren 
 dered her daring. 
 
 " Why does na tha go an get a parkin on 
 trust?" she said. " My mother d trust thee for a 
 ha p ny." 
 
 " Ah ! " gasped the Small Person. 
 
 The boldness of the suggestion overwhelmed 
 her. She had never dreamed of the possibility of 
 such a thing. 
 
 " Aye, she would," said Emma. " Tha could 
 just get thy parkin an pay next toime tha had a 
 ha p ny. A moit o people does that way. I ll go 
 an ax Mother fur thee now." 
 
 The scheme seemed so gigantic, so far from re 
 spectable, so fraught with peril. Suppose that 
 one got a parkin " on trust," and never got a half 
 penny, and one s family were consequently in 
 volved in eternal dishonor and disaster. 
 
 " Mamma would be angry," she said ; " she 
 would not let me do it." 
 
 " Tha needn t say nowt about it," said Emma. 
 
 This was not actual duplicity, I am convinced. 
 Her stolid rusticity retained its red cheeks like 
 rosy apples, and she hopped about like a cheerful 
 sparrow.
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 37 
 
 It was doubtless this serene and matter-of-fact 
 unconsciousness of any serious aspect of the mat 
 ter which had its effect upon the Small Person. 
 
 There is no knowing how long- the discussion 
 lasted, or in what manner she was finally per 
 suaded by prosaic, practical argument that to 
 make an investment "on trust" was an every-
 
 38 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 day commercial affair. The end of the matter 
 was that stress of the moment prevailed and 
 Emma went for the parkin. 
 
 But the way of the infant transgressor is hard. 
 The sense of proportion is as exaggerated in re 
 gard to mental as to physical objects. As lilac 
 and rhododendron bushes form jungles, and trees 
 reach the sky, so a nursery law defied assumes the 
 stature of a crime, and surrounds itself with hor 
 ror. I do not think there is a defalcator, an ab 
 sconding bank president, a criminal of any de 
 gree, who is beset by such a monster of remorse 
 as beset the Small Person, when her guilt was 
 so far an accomplished fact that the brown and 
 sticky cake was in her hand. 
 
 The incident is nothing, but its effect, in its il 
 lustration of the dimensions facts assume to the 
 contemplative mind of tender years, has its inter 
 est. She could not eat the "parkin." Her soul 
 revolted against it after the first bite. She could 
 not return it to Mrs. Rimmer with a semicircular 
 piece taken out of its roundness, and the marks of 
 small, Sharp teeth on the edge. In a situation 
 so fraught with agony and so clouded with in 
 famy she could confide in no one. I have never 
 murdered anyone and had the body of my victim 
 to conceal from the public eye, but I know how 
 a murderer suffering from this inconvenience 
 feels. The brown, sticky cake with the scmicir-
 
 The Back. Garden of Eden 39 
 
 cular bite taken out of it, was as awful and as 
 difficult to manage. To dispose of it involved 
 creeping about on tiptoe, with beating heart and 
 reeling brain. It involved looking stealthily for 
 places where evidences of crime might be con 
 cealed. Why the Small Person hit on a specially 
 candid shelf in a cupboard in an undisguised side 
 board in the dining-room, as a good place, it 
 would be difficult to say. I comfort myself by 
 saying that this indicated that she was naturally 
 unfitted for crime and underhanded ways, and 
 was not the least clever in stealth. 
 
 How she separated from her partner in iniquity 
 I do not remember. My chief memory is of the 
 awful days and nights which followed. How 
 many were there ? She thought a thousand it is 
 probable there were two or three. 
 
 She was an infant Eugene Aram, and the body 
 of her victim \vas mouldering in the very house 
 with her. Her anguish, however, did not arise 
 from a fear of punishment. Her Mamma was not 
 severe, her Nurses w^ere not allowed to slap her. 
 It was a mental affair altogether. She felt that 
 she had disgraced her family. She had brought 
 ignominy and dishonor upon her dearest rela 
 tives. She was very fond of her relatives, and 
 her conception of their moral and mental altitude 
 was high. Her Mamma was a lady, and her little 
 daughter had gone and bought a halfpenny par-
 
 40 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 kin "on trust." She would have felt it not the 
 least an undue thing if a thunderbolt had struck 
 her dead in the Back Garden. It was no longer 
 the Back Garden of Eden. A degraded criminal 
 denied it with her presence. 
 
 And the Body was mouldering in the side 
 board, on the second shelf in the little cupboard. 
 
 I think she would have faded away and perished 
 with the parkin, as witch-stricken victims perish 
 with the waxen figure which melts but there 
 came relief. 
 
 She had two brothers older than herself, and so 
 to be revered, as representing experience and the 
 powerful mind of masculinity. (Being an English 
 little girl she knew the vast superiority of the 
 Male.) The younger of the two was a combative 
 little fellow with curly hair, a belted-in round 
 about, a broad white collar, and two broad white 
 front teeth. As she was only a girl, he despised 
 her in a fraternal British way, but as she was his 
 sister he hnd a kind of affection for her, which ex 
 pressed itself in occasional acts of friendly pat 
 ronage. He was perhaps seven or eight years old. 
 
 In some moment of severest stress of anguish 
 she confessed herself to him. It is so long ago 
 that I cannot describe the manner or the occasion. 
 I can only remember the magnificence of his con 
 duct. He must have been a good-natured little 
 fellow, and he certainly had a lordly sense of the
 
 The Back Garden of Eden 
 
 family dignity, even as represented or misrep 
 resented by a girl. 
 
 That he berated her roundly it is not unlikely, 
 but his points of 
 v i e w concerning 
 the crime were not 
 a s disproportion 
 ately exalted as her 
 own. His mascu 
 line vigor would 
 not permit her to 
 be utterly crushed, 
 or the family hon 
 or lost. He was a 
 Man and a Capi 
 talist, as well as a 
 Man and a Brother. 
 He had a penny of 
 his own, he had al 
 so a noble and Na 
 poleonic nature. He went to the cottage of Mrs. 
 Rimmer (to his greater maturity was accorded 
 the freedom of leaving the garden unaccompanied 
 by a nurse) and paid for the parkin. So the blot 
 was erased from the escutcheon, so the criminal, 
 though still feeling herself stained with crime, 
 breathed again. 
 
 She had already begun to have a sort of literary 
 imagination, and it must in some way have been
 
 42 77/6 One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 already fed with some stories of heroic and noble 
 little boys whose conduct was to be emulated and 
 admired. I argue this from the fact that she 
 mentally and reverently compared him to a boy 
 in a book. What book I cannot say, and I am not 
 sure that she could have said herself, but at that 
 time he figured in her imagination as a creature too 
 noble to be anything but a creation of literature 
 the kind of boy who would refuse to steal apples, 
 and invariably gave his plum-cake to beggars or 
 hungry dogs. 
 
 But there was a feature of the melting away 
 of this episode which was always a mystery to 
 her. Her Mamma knew all, so did her Grand 
 mamma, so did the Nurses, and yet she was not 
 treated as an outcast. Nobody scolded her, no 
 body reviled her, nobody seemed to be afraid to 
 leave her with the Baby, for fear she might de 
 stroy it in some mad outburst of her evil in 
 stincts. This seemed inexplicable. If she had 
 been branded on the brow, and henceforth kept 
 under the custody of a strong escort of police 
 men, she would not have been surprised. And 
 yet she was allowed to eat her breakfast bowl of 
 bread-and-milk at the Nursery table with innocent 
 children, and to play in the Back Garden as if her 
 presence would not blight the gooseberries, and 
 the red currants would not shrivel beneath her 
 evil eye.
 
 77/6 Back Garden of Eden, 43 
 
 My opinion is that, hearing the story from the 
 Capitalist in the roundabout, her Mamma and her 
 Grandmamma were privately immensely amused, 
 and felt it more discreet to preserve a dignified 
 silence. But that she was not swept from the 
 earth as she deserved, did not cause her to regard 
 her crime as less. She only felt the wonderful- 
 ness of mercv as embodied in one s Grandmamma 
 
 ./ 
 
 and one s Mamma.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Literature and the Doll. 
 
 WHETHER as impression-creating and mind- 
 moulding influences, Literature or the Doll came 
 first into her life it would be most difficult to 
 decide. But remembering the role the Doll 
 played, and wherein its fascination lay, I see that 
 its way must have been paved for it in some 
 rudimentary manner by Literature, though their 
 clearly remembered existences seem to have be 
 gun at one and the same time. Before the advent 
 of literary influence I remember no Doll, and, 
 curiously enough, there is, before the advent of 
 the Doll, a memory of something like stories 
 imperfect, unsatisfactory, filling her with vague, 
 restless craving for greater completeness of form, 
 but still creating images for her, and setting her 
 small mind at work. 
 
 It is not in the least likely she did not own 
 dolls before she owned books, but it is certain 
 that until literature assisted imagination and gave 
 them character, they seemed only things stuffed 
 with sawdust and made no special impression. 
 
 It is also certain that she cannot have been told
 
 Literature and tJie Doll 45 
 
 stories as a rule. I should say that she did not 
 hear them even as the exception. I am sure of 
 this because I so well recollect her desperate 
 efforts to wring detail of any sort from her 
 nurses. 
 
 The " Slaughter of the Innocents " seems to me 
 to have been the first story impression in her life. 
 A little illustrated scripture history afforded a 
 picture of Jewish mothers rushing madly down 
 broad stone stairways clasping babies to their 
 breasts, of others huddling under the shadow of 
 high walls clutching their little ones, and of fierce 
 armed men slashing with swords. 
 
 This was the work of Herod the King. And 
 "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation 
 and weeping, and great mourning. Rachel weep 
 ing for her children, and would not be comfort 
 ed, because they were not." 
 
 This was the first story, and it was a tragedy- 
 only made endurable by that story of the Star in 
 the East which led the way to the Manger where 
 the little Child lay sleeping with a light about his 
 head the little Child before whom the wise men 
 bent, worshipping and offering gifts of frankin 
 cense and myrrh. She wondered greatly what 
 frankincense and myrrh were, but the wise men 
 were beautiful to her, and she could see quite 
 clearly the high deep dome of blue which vaulted 
 the still plain where the Shepherds watched their
 
 46 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Hocks at night, when the angel of the Lord came 
 to them and glory shone round about and they 
 were " sore afraid," until the angel said unto 
 them, " Fear not, for behold, I bring you good 
 tidings of great joy." 
 
 This part of the story was strange and majestic 
 and lovely, and almost consoled her for Herod 
 the King. 
 
 The Nurse who was the unconscious means of 
 suggesting to her the first romance of her life, 
 must have been a dull person. Even at this dis 
 tance I find myself looking back at her vague, 
 stupid personality with a sense of impatience. 
 
 How could a person learn a couple of verses of 
 a song suggesting a story, and not only neglect to 
 learn more, but neglect to inquire about the story 
 itself ? 
 
 And oh, the helpless torture of hearing those 
 odd verses and standing by that phlegmatic per 
 son s knee with one s yearning eyes fixed on her 
 incomprehensible countenance, finding one s self 
 unable to extort from her by any cross-examina 
 tion the details ! 
 
 Even the stray verses had such wonderful sug 
 gestion in them. They opened up such vistas. 
 At that time the Small Person faithfully believed 
 the song to be called " Sweet Alice Benbolt " 
 Miss Alice Benbolt being, as she supposed, the 
 name of the young lady described in the lines.
 
 Literature and tlie Doll 47 
 
 She was a very sensitive young lady, it appeared, 
 from the description given in the first verse : 
 
 " Ah, don t you remember Sweet Alice Benbolt, 
 
 Sweet Alice with hair so brown, 
 
 How she wept with delight when you gave her a smile, 
 And trembled with fear at your frown ? " 
 
 It did not then occur to the Small Person that 
 Miss Benbolt must have been trying in the do 
 mestic circle ; she was so moved by the tender 
 image of a brown-haired girl who was called 
 " Sw r eet Alice" and set to plaintive music. Some 
 how there was something touching in the way she 
 was spoken of as if people had loved her and 
 were sorry about her for some reason the boys 
 who had gone to the school-house " under the 
 hill," connected with which there seemed to be 
 such pathetic memories, though the Small Person 
 could not comprehend why they were pathetic. 
 But there was a pathos in one verse which broke 
 her heart when she understood it, which she 
 scarcely did at first. 
 
 " In the little churchyard in the valley Benbolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone, 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 
 And Sweet Alice lies under the stone." 
 
 " Why does she lie there?" she asked, "with 
 both hands on the Nurse s knee. " Why does 
 Sweet Alice lie under the stone?"
 
 48 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Because she died," said the Nurse, without 
 emotional compunctions, " and was buried there." 
 
 The Small Person clung rather helplessly to her 
 apron. 
 
 " Sweet Alice," she said, " Sweet Alice with hair 
 so brown?" 
 
 (Why was the brown hair pathetic as well as the 
 name ? I don t know. But it was.) 
 
 " Why did she die ? " she asked. " What did 
 she die for ? " 
 
 " I don t know," said the Nurse. 
 
 " But but tell me some more," the Small 
 Person gasped. " Sing some more." 
 
 " I don t know any more." 
 
 " But where did the boys go ? " 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 " What did the schoolmaster do ? " 
 
 " The song doesn t tell." 
 
 " Why was he grim ? " 
 
 " It doesn t tell that either." 
 
 " Did Sweet Alice go to school to him ? " 
 
 " I dare say." 
 
 " Was he sorry when she died ? " 
 
 " It does not say." 
 
 " Are there no more verses?" 
 
 " I can t remember any more." 
 
 Questioning was of no use. She did not know 
 any more and she did not care. One might im 
 plore and try to suggest, but she was not an
 
 Literature and the Doll 49 
 
 imaginative character, and so the Small Person 
 was left to gaze at her with hungry eyes and a 
 sense of despair before this stolid being, who 
 DiigJit have known the rest and would not. She 
 probably made the woman s life a burden to her 
 by imploring her to sing again and again the stray 
 verses, and I have no doubt that at each repetition 
 she invented new questions. 
 
 " Sweet Alice Benbolt," she used to say to her 
 self. " Sweet Alice with hair so brown." And 
 the words always called up in her mind a picture 
 which is as clear to-day as it was then. 
 
 It is a queer little picture, but it seemed very 
 touching at that time. She saw a hillside covered 
 with soft green. It was not a high hill and its 
 slope was gentle. Why the " school-house under 
 the hill " was placed on the top of it, would be 
 difficult to explain. But there it was, and it 
 seemed to look down on and watch benignly over 
 something in a corner at the foot of it. The 
 something was a slab of the granite so gray ly 
 ing among the soft greenness of the grass. 
 
 " And Sweet Alice lay under the stone." 
 
 She was not a shadow Sweet Alice. She is 
 something far more than a shadow even now, 
 in a mind through which thousands of shadows 
 have passed. She was a tender thing and she
 
 5o 77/6 One 1 Knew the Best of All 
 
 had brown hair and somehow people loved her 
 and she died. 
 
 It was not until Literature in the form of story, 
 romance, tragedy, and adventure had quickened 
 her imagination that the figure of the Doll loomed 
 up in the character of an absorbing interest, but 
 once having appeared it never retired from the 
 scene until advancing years forced the curtain to 
 fall upon the exciting scenes of which it was al 
 ways the heroine. 
 
 That was the truth of the matter it was not a 
 Doll, but a Heroine. 
 
 And some imagination was required to make it 
 one. The Doll of that day was not the dimpled 
 star-eyed creature of to-day, who can stand on her 
 own firm little feet, whose plump legs and arms 
 can be placed in any position, whose attitudes 
 may be made to express emotions in accordance 
 with the Delsarte system, and who has parted 
 lips and pearly teeth, and indulges in features. 
 Not at all. 
 
 The natural advantages of a doll of that period 
 confined themselves to size, hair which was sewn 
 on a little black skull-cap if it was not plastered 
 on with mucilage and eyes which could be 
 jerked open if one pulled a wire which stuck 
 out of her side. The most expensive and magnifi 
 cent doll you could have was merely a big wax 
 one, whose hair could be combed and whose eyes
 
 Literature and the Doll 51 
 
 would open and shut. Otherwise they were all 
 the same. Only the face and neck were of wax, 
 and features were not studied by the manufact 
 urers. All the faces were exactly the same shape, 
 or rather the same shapelessness. Expression and 
 outline would have been considered wanton waste 
 of material. To-day dolls have cheeks and noses 
 and lips and brows, they look smiling or pensive, 
 childlike or sophisticated. At that time no doll 
 was guilty of looking anything at all. In the 
 middle of her smooth, round face was a blunt 
 excrescence which was called a nose, beneath it 
 was a line of red paint which was meant for a 
 mouth, on each side of it was a tight-looking 
 black or blue glass eye as totally devoid of ex 
 pression and as far removed from any resem 
 blance to a real eye as the combined talents of ages 
 of doll manufacturers could make it. It had no 
 pupil and no meaning, it stared, it glared, and was 
 only a little more awful when one pulled the wax 
 lid over it than it was when it was fixed and open. 
 Two arches of brown paint above it were its eye 
 brows, and all this beauty was surmounted with 
 the small black cap on the summit of which was 
 stretched a row of dangling curls of black or 
 brown. Its body was stuffed with sawdust which 
 had a tragic tendency to burst forth and run out 
 through any hole in the white calico which was 
 its skin. The arms and legs were like sawdust-
 
 52 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 stuffed sausages, its arms were covered with pink 
 or blue or yellow or green kid, there being no 
 prejudice caused by the fact that arms were not 
 usually of any of these shades ; its legs dangled 
 painfully and presented no haughty contours, and 
 its toes invariably turned in. 
 
 How an imagination, of the most fervid, could 
 transform this thing into a creature resembling 
 anything human one cannot explain. But nature 
 is very good sometimes to little children. One 
 day, in a squalid London street, I drove by a 
 dirty mite sitting upon a step, cuddling warmly 
 a little bundle of hay tied round the middle with 
 a string. It was her baby. It probably was lily 
 fair and had eyes as blue as heaven, and cooed 
 and kissed her again but grown-up people 
 could not see. 
 
 When I recall the adventures through which 
 the Dolls of the Small Person passed, the trage 
 dies of emotion, the scenes of battle, murder, and 
 sudden death, I do not wonder that at times the 
 sawdust burst forth from their calico cuticle in 
 streams, and the Nursery floor was deluged with 
 it. Was it a thing to cause surprise that they 
 wore out and only lasted from one birthday to 
 another? Their span of life was short, but they 
 could not complain that existence had not been 
 full for them. The Doll who, on November 24th, 
 begins a checkered career by mounting an un-
 
 Literature and t/ie Doll 53 
 
 tamed and untamable, fiercely prancing and 
 snorting steed, which, while it strikes sparks from 
 the earth it spurns with its disdainful hoofs, wears 
 to the outward gaze the aspect of the mere arm 
 of a Nursery Sofa covered with green baize the 
 Doll who begins life by mounting this steed, and 
 so conquering its spirit that it responds to her 
 touch and leaps the most appalling hedges and 
 abysses, and leaves the lightning itself behind in 
 its career ; and having done this on the 24th, is 
 executed in black velvet on the 25th as Mary 
 Queen of Scots, besides being imprisoned in the 
 Tower of London as someone else, and threatened 
 with the rack and the stake because she will not 
 " recant " and become a Roman Catholic a Doll 
 with a career like this cannot be dull, though she 
 may at periods be exhausted. While the two lit 
 tle sisters of the Small Person arranged their doll s 
 house prettily and had tea-parties out of minia 
 ture cups and saucers, and visited each other s 
 corners of the nursery, in her corner the Small 
 Person entertained herself with wildly thrilling 
 histories, which she related to herself in an under 
 tone, while she acted them with the assistance of 
 her Doll. 
 
 She was all the characters but the heroine the 
 Doll was that. She was the hero, the villain, the 
 banditti, the pirates, the executioner, the weep 
 ing maids of honor, the touchingly benevolent
 
 54 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 old gentleman, the courtiers, the explorers, the 
 king. 
 
 She always spoke in a whisper or an undertone, 
 unless she was quite alone, because she was shy 
 of being heard. This was probably an instinct 
 at first, but it was a feeling intensified early by 
 finding out that her habit of " talking to her 
 self," as others called it, was considered a joke. 
 The servants used to listen to her behind doors 
 and giggle when they caught her ; her brothers 
 regarded her as a ridiculous little object. They 
 were cricket -playing boys, who possibly won 
 dered in private if she was slightly cracked, but 
 would have soundly thumped and belabored any 
 other boy who had dared to suggest the same 
 thing. 
 
 The time came when she heard it said that she 
 was " romantic." It was the most crushing thing 
 she had ever experienced. She was quite sure 
 that she was not romantic. She could not bear 
 the ignominy of the suggestion. She did not 
 know what she was, but she was sure she was not 
 romantic. So she was very cautious in the mat 
 ter of keeping to her own corner of the Nursery 
 and putting an immediate stop to her perform 
 ance the instant she observed a silence, as if any 
 one was listening. But her most delightful life 
 concentrated itself in those dramatized stories 
 through which she "talked to herself."
 
 Literature and tlie Doll 
 
 55 
 
 At the end of the entrance hall of the house in 
 which she lived was a tall stand for a candelabra. 
 
 It was of worked iron 
 and its standard was or 
 namented with certain 
 decorative sup 
 ports to the 
 upper part. 
 What were 
 the emo- 
 t i o n s 
 of the 
 
 Small 
 
 Person s 
 
 Mamma, 
 
 who was the 
 
 gentlest a n d 
 
 kindest of her sex, 
 
 on coming upon her 
 
 offspring one day, on descending the staircase, to 
 
 find her apparently furious with insensate rage, 
 
 muttering to herself as she brutally lashed, with
 
 56 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 one of her brother s toy whips, a cheerfully hide 
 ous black gutta-percha doll who was tied to the 
 candelabra stand and appeared to be enjoying the 
 situation. 
 
 " My dear, my dear ! " exclaimed the alarmed 
 little lady, " what arc you doing ? " 
 
 The Small Person gave a little jump and 
 dropped at her side the stalwart right arm which 
 had been wielding the whip. She looked as if 
 she would have turned very red, if it had been 
 possible for her to become redder than her exer 
 tions had made her. 
 
 " I I was only playing," she faltered, sheep 
 ishly. 
 
 " Playing ! " echoed her Mamma. " What were 
 you playing ? " 
 
 The Small Person hung her head and answered, 
 with downcast countenance, greatly abashed. 
 
 " I was only just pretending something," she 
 said. 
 
 " It really quite distressed me," her Mamma 
 said, in discussing the matter afterward with a 
 friend. " I don t think she is really a cruel child. 
 I always thought her rather kind-hearted, but she 
 was lashing that poor black doll and talking to 
 herself like a little fury. She looked quite 
 wicked. She said she was pretending some 
 thing. You know that is her way of playing. 
 She does not play as Edith and Edwina do. She
 
 Literature and the Doll 57 
 
 pretends her doll is somebody out of a story 
 and she is somebody else. She is very romantic. 
 It made me rather nervous the other day when 
 she dressed a baby-doll in \vhite and put it into a 
 box and covered it with flowers and buried it in 
 the front garden. She was so absorbed in it, and 
 she hasn t dug it up. She goes and strews flow 
 ers over the grave. I should like to know what 
 she was pretending when she was beating the 
 black doll." 
 
 Not until the Small Person had outgrown all 
 dolls, and her mother reminded her of this inci 
 dent, did that innocent lady know that the black 
 doll s name was Topsy, but that on this occasion 
 it had been transformed into poor Uncle Tom, 
 and that the little fury with flying hair was the 
 wicked Legree. 
 
 She had been reading " Uncle Tom s Cabin." 
 What an era it w r as in her existence. The cheer 
 ful black doll was procured immediately and 
 called Topsy ; her " best doll," which fortunately 
 had brown hair in its wig, was Eva, and was kept 
 actively employed slowly fading away and dying, 
 while she talked about the New Jerusalem, with 
 a hectic flush on her cheeks. She converted 
 Topsy, and totally changed her gutta-percha nat 
 ure, though it was impossible to alter her gutta- 
 percha grin. She conversed with Uncle Tom 
 (then the Small Person was Uncle Tom) ; she cut
 
 58 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 off "her long golden-brown curls" (not literally; 
 that was only " pretended : " the wig had not 
 ringlets enough on it), and presented them to the 
 weeping slaves. (Then the Small Person was all 
 the weeping slaves at once.) It is true that her 
 blunt-nosed wax countenance remained perfectly 
 unmoved throughout all this emotion, and it must 
 be confessed that at times the Small Person felt a 
 lack in her, but an ability to " pretend " ardently 
 was her consolation and support. 
 
 It surely must be true that all children possess 
 this right of entry into the fairyland, where any- 
 thing cm\ be "pretended." I feel quite sure they 
 do, and that, if one could follow them in the " pre- 
 tendings," one would make many discoveries 
 about them. One day, in the Cascine in Florence, 
 a party of little girls passed me. They were led 
 by a handsome child of eleven or twelve, who, 
 with her head in the air, was speaking rapidly in 
 French. 
 
 " Moi," she said to the others as she went by, 
 and she made a fine gesture with her hand, " Moi 
 je suis la Reine ; vous vous etes ma suite ! " 
 
 It set one to thinking. Nature has the caprice 
 sometimes, we know, to endow a human thing at 
 birth with gifts and powers which make it through 
 life a leader " la rcinc" or "le roi," of whom 
 afterward others are always more or less " la 
 suite." But one wondered if such gifts and
 
 Literature and the Doll 59 
 
 powers in themselves had not a less conscious 
 and imperious air than this young pretender 
 wore. 
 
 The green-covered sofa in the Nursery was an 
 adventurous piece of furniture. To the casual 
 observer it wore a plain old-fashioned, respectable 
 exterior. It was hard and uninviting and had an 
 arm at each end under which was fitted a species 
 of short, stiff green bolster or sausage. But these 
 arms were capable of things of which the cold 
 unimaginative world did not dream. I wonder if 
 the sofa itself dreamed of them and if it found 
 them an interesting variety of its regular Nursery 
 life. These arms were capable of transforming 
 themselves at a moment s notice into the most 
 superb equine form. They were " coal-black 
 steeds " or " snow-white palfreys," or " untamed 
 mustangs ;" they " curvetted," they "caracoled," 
 they pranced, their " proud hoofs spurned the 
 earth." They were always doing things like these, 
 while the Doll " sprang lightly to her saddle " or sat 
 " erect as a dart." They were always untamable, 
 but the Doll in her character of heroine could 
 always tame them and remain smiling and fearless 
 while they " dashed across the boundless plain " 
 or clawed the heavens with their forefeet. No 
 equestrian feat ever disturbed the calm hauteur 
 of the Doll. She issued triumphant from every 
 deadly peril.
 
 60 The One I Knciv the Best of AIL 
 
 It was Sir Walter Scott who transformed the 
 sofa-arms to " coal-black steeds," G. P. R. James 
 and Harrison Ainsworth who made them " snow- 
 white palfreys," and Captain Mayne Reid whose 
 spell changed them to " untamed mustangs " and 
 the Nursery into a boundless prairie across which 
 troops of Indian warriors pursued the Doll upon 
 her steed, in paint and feathers, and with war- 
 whoops and yells, having as their object in view 
 the capture of her wig. 
 
 What a beautiful, beautiful story the " War 
 Trail " was with its white horse of the prairie 
 which would not be caught. How one thrilled 
 and palpitated in the reading of it. It opened the 
 gateway to the world of the prairie, where the 
 herds of wild horse swept the plain, where buffa 
 loes stampeded, and Indian chieftains, magnifi 
 cent and ferocious and always covered with wam 
 pum (whatever wampum might be), pursued heroes 
 and heroines alike. 
 
 And the delight of Ainsworth s " Tower of Lon 
 don." That beloved book with the queer illus 
 trations. The pictures of Og, Gog, and Magog, 
 and Xit the Dwarf, Mauger the Headsman, the 
 crafty Renard, the Princess Elizabeth with Cour- 
 tenay kneeling at her feet, and poor embittered 
 Queen Mary looking on. 
 
 What a place it was for a Small Person to wan 
 der through in shuddering imaginings, through
 
 Literature and the Doll 61 
 
 the dark, dank subterranean passages, where the 
 rats scurried, and where poor rr.ad Alexia roamed, 
 persecuted by her jailer. One passed by dun 
 geons where noble prisoners pined through years 
 of dying life, one mounted to towers where queens 
 had waited to be beheaded, one was led with 
 chilling blood through the dark Traitors Gate. 
 But one reached sometime or other the huge 
 kitchen and servitors hall, where there was such 
 endless riotous merriment, where so much " sack " 
 and " Canary " was drunk, where there were 
 great rounds of roast beef, and " venison pasties," 
 and roast capons, and even peacocks, and where 
 they ate " manchets " of bread and "quaffed " their 
 flagons of nut-brown ale, and addressed each other 
 as " Sirrah " and " Varlet " and " Knave " in their 
 elephantine joking. 
 
 Poor little Lady Jane Grey ! Poor handsome, 
 misguided Guilford Dudley ! Poor anguished, 
 terrified, deluded Northumberland ! 
 
 What tragic, historical adventures the Doll 
 passed through in these days ; how she was 
 crowned, discrowned, sentenced, and beheaded, 
 and what horror the Nursery felt of wretched, 
 unloved, heretic-burning Bloody Mary ! And 
 through these tragedies the Nursery Sofa almost 
 invariably accompanied her as palfrey, scaffold, 
 dungeon, or barge from which she " stepped to 
 proudly, sadly pass the Traitors Gate."
 
 62 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 And if the Nursery Sofa was an endeared and 
 interesting object, how ungrateful it would be to 
 ignore the charms of the Green Arm Chair in the 
 Sitting Room, the Sitting Room Cupboard, and 
 the Sitting Room Table. It would seem simply 
 graceless and irreverent to write the names of 
 these delightful objects, as if they were mere 
 common nouns, without a title to capital letters. 
 They were benevolent friends who lent their aid 
 in the carrying out of all sorts of fascinating epi 
 sodes, \vho could be confided in, as it were, and 
 trusted never to laugh when things were going 
 on, however dramatic they might be. 
 
 The sitting-room was only a small one, but some 
 how it had an air of seclusion. It was not the cus 
 tom to play in it, but when nobody was there and 
 the nursery w r as specially active it had powerful 
 attractions. One could go in there with the Doll 
 and talk to one s self when the door was shut, 
 with perfect freedom from fear of listeners. And 
 there was the substantial sober-looking Arm Chair 
 as sober and respectable as the Nursery Sofa, 
 and covered with the same green stuff, and it 
 could be transformed into a " bark " of any de 
 scription from a pinnace to a gondola, a canoe, or 
 a raft set afloat by the survivors of a sinking ship 
 to drift for weeks upon " the trackless ocean " 
 without water or food. 
 
 Little incidents of this description were continu-
 
 Literature and the Doll 63 
 
 ally taking place in the career of the Doll. She 
 was accustomed to them. Not a hair of her wig 
 turned at the agreeable prospect of being barely 
 rescued from a burning ship, of being pursued 
 all over the Indian Ocean or the Pacific by a " rak 
 ish-looking craft," flying the black flag and known 
 to be manned by a crew of bloodthirsty pirates 
 whose amusement of making captives walk the 
 plank was alternated by the scuttling of ships. It 
 was the head pirate s habit to attire himself almost 
 wholly in cutlasses and pistols, and to greet the 
 appearance of any prepossessing female captive 
 with the blood-curdling announcement, "She 
 shall be mine ! " But the Doll did not mind that 
 in the least, and it only made it thrilling for the 
 hero who had rescued her from the burning ship. 
 It was also the opinion of the Small Person that no 
 properly constituted pirate chief could possibly 
 omit greeting a female captive in this manner it 
 rather took, in fact, the form of a piratical custom. 
 The sitting-room floor on these occasions repre 
 sented mid-ocean the Pacific, the Indian, or the 
 Mediterranean Sea, their waters being so infested 
 with sharks and monsters of the deep (in order 
 that the hero might plunge in and rescue the Doll, 
 whose habit it was to fall overboard) that it was a 
 miracle that it was possible at all to steer the Green 
 Arm Chair. 
 
 But how nobly and with what nautical skill it
 
 64 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 was steered by the hero ! The crew was neces 
 sarily confined to the Doll and this unconquer 
 able being because the Green Arm Chair was not 
 big. 
 
 But notwithstanding his heroic conduct, the 
 cold judgment of maturer years has led me to be 
 lieve that this young man s mind must either have 
 been enfeebled by the hardships through which 
 he had passed, or that the ardor of his passion for 
 the Doll had caused his intellect to totter on its 
 throne. I am led to this conviction by mv dis 
 tinct recollection of the fact that on the occasion 
 of some of their most perilous voyages, when the 
 Doll had been rescued at the peril of his noble 
 life, the sole article which he rescued with her, as 
 being of practical value upon a raft, was a musical 
 instrument. An indifferent observer who had seen 
 this instrument in the hand of the Small Person 
 might have coarsely supposed it to be a tin whistle 
 of an order calculated to make itself specially un 
 pleasant but to the hero of the raft and to the 
 doll it was known as "a lute." Why, with his 
 practical knowledge of navigation, the hero should 
 have felt that a rescued young lady on a raft, with 
 out food or water, might be sustained in moments 
 of collapse from want of nutrition by performances 
 upon the " lute " only persons of deep feeling and 
 sentiment could explain. But the lute was there 
 and the hero played on it, in intervals of being
 
 Literature and the Doll 65 
 
 pursued by pirates or perishing from starvation, 
 with appropriately self-sacrificing sentiments. 
 For myself I have since thought that possibly the 
 tendency the Doll developed for falling into the 
 depths of the ocean arose from an unworthy desire 
 to distract the attention of her companion from his 
 musical rhapsodies. He was, of course, obliged 
 to lay his instrument aside while he leaped over 
 board and rescued her from the sharks, and she 
 may have preferred that he should be thus en 
 gaged. Were my nature more hardened than 
 years have as yet made it I might even say that at 
 times she perhaps thought that the sharks might 
 make short work of his lute or himself and there 
 may have been moments when she scarcely cared 
 which. It must be irritating to be played to on a 
 lute, when one is perishing slowly from inanition. 
 But ah ! the voyages in the Green Arm Chair, 
 the seas it sailed, the shores it touched, the en 
 chanted islands it was cast upon ! The Small 
 Person has never seen them since. They were of 
 the fair world she used to see as she lay upon her 
 back on the grass in the Back Garden of Eden, 
 and looked up into the sky where the white islands 
 floated in the blue. One could long for a no 
 more perfect thing than that ; after the long years 
 of wandering on mere earth, one might find them 
 again, somewhere somewhere. Who knows 
 where ? 
 5
 
 66 
 
 How surprised the governess would have been, 
 how amused the mamma, how derisive in their ri 
 bald way the brothers, if they had known that the 
 Sitting Room Cupboard was a temple in Central 
 America that the strange pigmy remnants of the 
 Aztec royal race were kept there and worshipped 
 as gods, and that bold explorers, hearing of their 
 mysterious existence, went in search of them in 
 face of all danger and difficulty and with craft and 
 daring discovered and took them away. All 
 these details were in a penny pamphlet which had 
 been sold at the hall of exhibition where the two 
 Aztec dwarfs had been on view, the object of the 
 scientific explorer having apparently been to make 
 a good thing of them by exhibiting them at a shil 
 ling a head, children half price. 
 
 The Small Person had not been taken to see 
 them ; in fact, it is possible that the exhibition had 
 not belonged to her time. But at some time, 
 some member of her family must have been of 
 their audience, for there was the pamphlet, with 
 extraordinary woodcuts of the explorers, wood 
 cuts of the Aztecs with their dwarfed bodies and 
 strange receding profiles, and woodcuts of the 
 temple where they had been worshipped as the 
 last remnant of a once magnificent, now practi 
 cally extinct, royal race. 
 
 The woodcuts were very queer, and the Temple 
 was apparently a ruin, whose massive broken and
 
 Literature and the Doll 67 
 
 fallen columns made it all the more a place to 
 dwell upon in wild imaginative dreams. Restored, 
 in the Sitting Room Cupboard, it was a majestic 
 pile. Mystic ceremonials were held there, splen 
 did rites were solemnized. The Doll took part in 
 them, the Small Person officiated. Both of them 
 explored, both discovered the Aztecs. To do so 
 it was necessary to kneel on the floor with one s 
 head inside the cupboard while the scenes were 
 enacted, but this in no wise detracted from the 
 splendor of their effect and the intensity of their 
 interest. Nothing could. 
 
 The Sitting Room Table must have been adorned 
 with a cover much too large for it, or else in those 
 days table-covers were intended to be large. This 
 one hung down so far over the table that when one 
 sat on the floor underneath it with the Doll, it be 
 came a wigwam. The Doll was a squaw and the 
 Small Person a chief. They smoked the calumet 
 and ate maize, and told each other stories of the 
 war-trail and the happy hunting-grounds. They 
 wore moccasins, and feathers, and wampum, and 
 brought up papooses, and were very happy. Their 
 natures were mild. They never scalped anyone, 
 though the tomahawk was as much a domestic 
 utensil as the fire-irons might have been if they 
 had had an Indian flavor. That it was dark under 
 the enshrouding table-cloth made the wigwam all 
 the more realistic. A wigwam with bay windows
 
 68 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 and a chandelier would not have been according 
 to Mayne Reid and Fenimore Cooper. And it 
 was so shut out from the world there, one could 
 declaim in undertones with such freedom. It 
 seemed as if surely outside the wall of the table 
 cloth there was no world at all no real world- 
 it was all under the Sitting Room Table inside 
 the wigwam. Since then I have often wondered 
 what the grown-up people thought, who, coming 
 into the room, saw the table-cloth drawn down, 
 and heard a little voice whispering, whispering, 
 whispering beneath its shadow. Sometimes the 
 Small Person did not know when they came or 
 went, she was so deeply absorbed so far away. 
 
 Ah, the world went very well then. It was a 
 wonderful world so full of story and adventure 
 and romance. One did not need trunks and rail 
 roads ; one could go to Central America, to Cen 
 tral Africa to Central Anywhere on the arm of 
 the Nursery Sofa on the wings of the Green 
 Arm Chair under the cover of the Sitting Room 
 Table. 
 
 There is a story of the English painter Watts 
 which I always remember as a beautiful and 
 subtle thing, though it is only a brief anecdote. 
 
 He painted a picture of Covent Garden Mar 
 ket, which was a marvel of picturesque art and 
 meaning. One of his many visitors a lady- 
 looked at it long and rather doubtfully.
 
 Literature and the Doll 69 
 
 " Well, Mr. Watts," she said, " this is all very 
 beautiful, of course, but / know Covent Garden 
 Market and I must confess / have never seen it 
 look like this." 
 
 "No?" replied Watts. And then, looking at 
 her thoughtfully. " Don t you wish you could ! " 
 
 It was so pertinent to many points of view. 
 
 As one looks back across the thousand years of 
 one s life, to the time when one saw all things like 
 this recognizing how far beyond the power of 
 maturer years it is to see them so again one says 
 with half a smile, and more than half a sigh : 
 
 " Ah, does not one wish one could ! "
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Islington Square. 
 
 IT was one of those rather interesting places 
 which one finds in all large English towns places 
 which have seen better days. They are only in 
 teresting on this account. Their early picturesque- 
 ness has usually been destroyed by the fact 
 that a railroad has forced its way into their neigh 
 borhood, or factories, and their accompanying 
 cottages for operatives, have sprung up around 
 them. Both these things had happened to Isling 
 ton Square, and only the fact that it was an en 
 closed space, shut in by a large and quite impos 
 ing iron gateway, aided it to retain its atmosphere 
 of faded gentility. Such places are often full of 
 story, though they have no air of romance about 
 them. The people who live in them have them 
 selves usually seen better days. They are often- 
 est widowed ladies with small incomes, and nn- 
 widowed gentlemen with large families people 
 who, not having been used to cramped quarters, 
 are glad to find houses of good size at a reduced 
 rent. 
 
 Some of the houses in the Square were quite
 
 Islington Square 71 
 
 stately in proportion, and in their better days 
 must have been fine enough places. But that 
 halcyon period was far in the past. Islington 
 Hall the most imposing structure was a " Select 
 Seminary for young ladies and gentlemen ; " its 
 companion house stood empty and deserted, as 
 also did several others of the largest ones, prob 
 ably because the widowed ladies and unwidowed 
 gentlemen could not afford the corps of servants 
 which would have been necessary to keep them 
 in order. 
 
 In the centre of the Square was a Lamp Post. 
 1 write it with capital letters because it was not 
 an ordinary lamp post. It was a very big one, 
 and had a solid base of stone, which all the 
 children thought had been put there for a seat. 
 Four or five little girls could sit on it, and four or 
 five little girls usually did when the day was fine. 
 
 Ah ! the things which were talked over under 
 the Lamp Post, the secrets that were whispered, 
 and the wrongs that were discussed ! In the win 
 ter, when the gas was lighted at four o clock, 
 there could be no more delightfully secluded spot 
 for friendly conversation than the stone base of 
 the lamp which cast its yellow light from above. 
 
 Was it worldly pride and haughtiness of spirit 
 which gave rise, in the little girls who lived in 
 the Square, to a sense of exclusiveness which 
 caused them to resent an outside little girl s en-
 
 72 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 tering the iron gates and sitting " on the Lamp 
 Post?" They always spoke of it as "sitting 
 the Lamp Post." 
 
 on
 
 Islington Square 73 
 
 " Who is that sitting on the Lamp Post ? " would 
 be said disapprovingly. " She is not a Square 
 girl ; we don t want Street children sitting on our 
 Lamp Post." 
 
 " Street children " were those who lived in the 
 streets surrounding the Square, and, as they were 
 in most cases not desirable young persons, they 
 were not considered eligible for the society of 
 " Square children " and the Lamp Post. 
 
 When the Small Person was introduced to her 
 first copy of the stories of Hans Christian Ander 
 sen, she found a sketch which had a special charm 
 for her. It was called " The Old Street Lamp," 
 and it seemed to be the story of the Lamp 
 in the middle of the Square. It seemed to ex 
 plain a feeling of affection she had always had for 
 it a feeling that it was not quite an inanimate 
 object. She had played about it and sat on the 
 stone, and had seen it lighted so often that she 
 loved it, though she had never said so even to 
 herself. She slept in a front room with her mam 
 ma, in the very fourpost bed which had been a 
 feature in the first remembered episode of her 
 life. Her house exactly faced the Lamp Post, 
 and at night its light shone in at her bedroom 
 
 o o 
 
 window and made a bright patch on the wall. 
 She used to lie and think about things by the 
 gleam of it, and somehow she never felt quite 
 alone. She would have missed it very much if
 
 74 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 it had not watched over her. At that time street 
 lamps were not lighted in an instant by a magic 
 wand. A lamplighter came with a ladder over 
 his shoulder. He placed the ladder against the 
 post and ran up it with what seemed astonishing 
 rapidity, and after lighting the gas ran down 
 again, shouldered his ladder, and walked off. 
 
 How the Small Person adored the novel called 
 " The Lamplighter ; " how familiar the friendly 
 lamp seemed to her, and how she loved old Uncle 
 True ! Was there ever such a lovable old man- 
 were there ever sufferings that moved one to such 
 tears as Gerty s ? 
 
 The Street children, as I have said, were not 
 considered desirable companions for the " Square 
 children." The Square was at that time a sort of 
 oasis in the midst of small thoroughfares and back 
 streets, where factory operatives lived and where 
 the broadest Lancashire dialect throve. It was 
 difficult enough to preserve to children any pu 
 rity of enunciation in a neighborhood of broad 
 est vowels, and as manner of speech is in England 
 a mark of breeding, association with the Street 
 children was not encouraged. 
 
 But the Small Person adored Street children. 
 She adored above all things the dialect they 
 spoke, and the queer things they said. To stray 
 into a forbidden back street and lure a dirty little 
 factory child into conversation was a delight. To
 
 Islington Square 75 
 
 stand at the iron gateway at twelve o clock and 
 see the factory people streaming past> and hear 
 the young women in tied-back aprons and with 
 shawls over their heads, shouting friendly or de 
 risive chaff to the young men and boys in cordu 
 roys, was as good as a play in fact, a great deal 
 better than most plays. 
 
 She learned to speak the dialect as well as any 
 of them, though it was a furtively indulged in ac 
 complishment. She had two or three clever little 
 girl friends who were fluent in it, and who used 
 it with a rich sense of humor. They used to tell 
 each other stories in it, and carry on animated 
 conversations without losing a shade of its flavor. 
 They said, " Wilt tha " and " Wheer art goin ," 
 and " Sithee lass," and " Eh ! tha young besom, 
 tha ! " with an easy -familiarity which they did not 
 display in the matter of geography. There was a 
 very dirty little boy whose family lived rent free, as 
 care-takers in one of the deserted big houses, and 
 this dirty little boy was a fount of joy. He had a 
 disreputable old grandfather who was perennially 
 drunk, and to draw forth from Tommy, in broad 
 est Lancashire dialect, a cheerfully realistic de 
 scription of " Granfeyther " in his cups, was an 
 entertainment not to be despised. Granfeyther s 
 weakness was regarded by Tommy in the light of 
 an amiable solecism, and his philosophical good 
 spirits over the matter presented a point of view
 
 76 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 picturesquely novel to the Small Person and her 
 friends. " Eh ! tha should heer my Granfeyther 
 sweer when he s drunk," Tommy would remark, 
 with an air of triumph suggesting a decent family 
 pride. " Tha shouldst just heer him. Tha never 
 heerd nothin loike it tha didn t ! " with an evi 
 dent sense of the limited opportunities of good 
 society. 
 
 It was the habit of the Small Person to sit upon 
 the floor before one of the drawing-room windows 
 each evening, and learn her lessons for the next 
 day ; and on one of these occasions she saw a creat 
 ure who somehow puzzled and interested her in 
 tensely, though she could not have explained why. 
 
 It was part of an unwritten law that people 
 who did not occupy houses in the Square should 
 not come into it, unless they had business. This 
 possibly arose from the fact that it was not a 
 thoroughfare, and there was really no reason 
 why outsiders should pass the iron gates. 
 
 When they did they were always regarded 
 with curiosity until one knew what they wanted. 
 This limitation, in fact, gave the gravelled en 
 closure surrounded by factories and small streets 
 something the social atmosphere of a tiny, rather 
 gossipy, country town. Each household knew 
 the other, and had a knowledge of its affairs only 
 limited by the characteristics and curiosities of 
 the members.
 
 Islington Square 77 
 
 So, on this particular evening, when the Small 
 Person, hearing- voices, looked up from her geog 
 raphy to see a group of stranger children gath 
 ered about the Lamp Post, she put her elbows on 
 the window-sill and her cheeks on her hands, and 
 looked out at them with interest. 
 
 They were evidently not only " Street children," 
 but they were " Back Street children," a race 
 more exciting to regard as objects, because their 
 customs and language were, as it were, exotic. 
 " Back Street children " always spoke the dialect, 
 and the adult members of their families almost 
 invariably worked in the factories often, indeed, 
 the children worked there themselves. In that 
 locality the atmosphere of the foyer was frequent 
 ly of a lively nature, generally the heads of the 
 families evinced a marked partiality for beer, and 
 spent their leisure moments in consuming " pots" 
 of it at " th Public." This not uncommonly re 
 sulted in argument of a spirited nature, entered 
 into, quite probably, in the street, carried on inco 
 herently, but with vigor, on the door-steps, and 
 settled with the fire-irons or portable domestic 
 articles in the home circle. Frequently these 
 differences of opinion were terminated with the 
 assistance of one or more policemen ; and while 
 the discussions were being carried on the street 
 was always filled with a mob of delighted and 
 eagerly sympathetic neighbors. Feeling always
 
 78 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ran high among the ladies, who usually stood and 
 regarded the scene with arms akimbo. 
 
 " A noice chap he is ! " it would be said some 
 times. " He broke th beer jug ower er ed two 
 weeks sin , an* now he s give her a graidely black 
 eye. He out to be put i th Lockups." 
 
 Or- 
 
 " No wonder he gi es her a hidin . Her spends 
 all his wage at th Black Pig i th beer. She was 
 drunk o Thursday, an drunk o Friday, an now 
 she s gettin ready fur Saturday neet." 
 
 " A row in Islington Court ! " or " A row in 
 Back Sydney Street. Man beating his wife with 
 a shovel ! " was a cry which thrilled the bolder 
 juvenile spirits of the Square with awesome de 
 light. There were even fair little persons who 
 hovered shudderingly about the big gates, or even 
 passed them, in the shocked hope of seeing a 
 policeman march by with somebody in custody. 
 
 And the strangers gathered about the Lamp 
 Post were of this world. 
 
 They were half a dozen girls or more. Most of 
 them factory girls in print frocks, covered by the 
 big coarse linen apron, which was tied all the way 
 down the back to confine their skirts, and keep 
 them from being caught by the machinery. They 
 had no bonnets on, and they wore clogs on their 
 feet. They were all the ordinary type of small 
 factory girl all but one. Why did the Small
 
 Islington Square 79 
 
 Person find her eyes fixed upon that one, and fol 
 lowing her movements ? She was bigger than 
 the others, and seemed more mature, though a 
 child could not have explained why. She was 
 dressed exactly as they were print frock, tied- 
 back apron, clogs, and bare head, and she held 
 a coarse blue worsted stocking, which she was 
 knitting as she talked. It did not occur to the 
 Small Person that she was beautiful. At that age 
 beauty meant to her something with pink cheeks 
 and sparkling blue or black eyes, and sweetly 
 curled hair, and a charming frock. Not a strange- 
 looking, colorless factory girl, knitting a worsted 
 stocking and wearing wooden clogs. Certainly not. 
 
 And yet at that girl she stared, quite forgetting 
 her geography. 
 
 The other girls were the ordinary rough lot, 
 talking loudly, bouncing about and pushing each 
 other. But this one was not playing at all. She 
 stood or moved about a little, with a rather meas 
 ured movement, knitting all the time her blue 
 worsted stocking. She was about sixteen, but 
 of rather massive and somehow majestic mould. 
 The Small Person would have said she was " big 
 and slow," if she had been trying to describe her. 
 She had a clear, colorless face, deep, large gray 
 eyes, slender, but strong, straight black brows, 
 and a rather square chin with a cleft in it. Her 
 hair was dark and had a slight large wave, it
 
 8o The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 was thick and drawn into a heavy knot on the 
 nape of her neck, which was tine and full like a 
 pillar, and held her head in a peculiar stately way. 
 
 The Small Person, as she watched her, came to 
 the decision that there was " something the mat 
 ter with her." 
 
 " What is it?" she said, mentally, with a puzzled 
 and impressed feeling. " She s not a bit like the 
 others. She does not look like a Back Street girl 
 at all, though she has got clogs on. Somehow 
 she s different." 
 
 That was it. She was different. That was 
 why one could not return to one s geography 
 while one could watch her. 
 
 Her companions seemed to appeal to her as if 
 she were a sort of power and influence. She 
 seemed to control them when they made too much 
 noise, though she went on knitting her stocking. 
 The windows were closed, and it was not possible 
 to hear what was said, but occasional loudly spoken 
 dialect words or phrases reached the Small Person. 
 The group did not stay long, and when it went the 
 one who was " different " led it, and the looker-on 
 watched her out of sight, and pondered a mo 
 ment or so with her nose flattened against the 
 glass, before she went back to her geography. 
 
 One evening the next week, at about the same 
 time, the same group appeared again. The Small 
 Person was again on the floor with her lessons on
 
 Islington Square 81 
 
 her knee, the factory girls were still laughing and 
 boisterous, and the one who was different was 
 again knitting. 
 
 The Small Person shuffled all her books off her 
 knee and let them drop in a heap on the carpet. 
 She put her elbows on the window-sill again, and 
 gave herself up to absorbed contemplation. 
 
 That the other girls shouted and giggled was 
 not interesting, but it was interesting to see how, 
 in the midst of the giggles and shouts, the big one 
 seemed a stately, self-contained creature who be 
 longed to another world. Somehow she seemed 
 strangely to suggest a story which one could not 
 read, and of which one could not guess at the plot. 
 
 When she grew older and knew more of people 
 and lives and characters, the Small Person guessed 
 that she was a story this strong, pale creature 
 with the stately head and square-cleft chin. She 
 was that saddest story of all, which is beauty and 
 fineness and power a splendid human thing born 
 into a world to which she does not belong by any 
 kinship, and in which she must stand alone and 
 struggle in silence and suffer. This was what was 
 the matter with her, this was why a ten-year-old 
 child, bearing in her own breast a thermometer 
 of the emotions, dropped her lesson-books to look 
 at her, and gazed restless and dissatisfied because 
 she could not explain to herself why this one was 
 " different." 
 6
 
 82 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 This evening the group did not leave the place 
 as they had done before. 
 
 Some girl, turning round toward the entrance, 
 caught sight of an approaching figure, and has 
 tily, and evidently in some consternation, elbowed 
 a companion. Then they all looked. 
 
 A man was coming toward them an ill-looking 
 brute in corduroys, with his hands in his pockets 
 and a moleskin cap pulled over his brows. He 
 slouched forward as if he were in a bad temper. 
 
 " Here s thy feyther!" cried one of the girls. 
 And she said it to the one who was knitting. She 
 looked at the advancing man and went on knitting 
 as if nothing was occurring. The Small Person 
 would have given all her lesson-books particu 
 larly the arithmetic to know what he had come 
 for. She knew the kind of man. He usually 
 drank a great deal of beer and danced on his wife 
 in his clogs when depressed or irritated. Some 
 times he " punsed " her to death if he had been 
 greatly annoyed, and females were rather afraid 
 of him. 
 
 But the girl with the deep eyes and straight 
 black brows evidently was not. She was also evi 
 dently used to him. He went up to her and 
 addressed her with paternal blasphemy. He 
 seemed to be ordering her to go home. He 
 growled and bullied her, and threatened her with 
 his fist.
 
 Islington Square 83 
 
 The Small Person had a horrible fear that he 
 w T ould knock her down and kick her, as was the 
 custom of his class. She felt she could not bear 
 it, and had a wild idea of dashing out somewhere 
 for a policeman. 
 
 But the girl was different. She looked him 
 straight in the brutal face and went on knitting. 
 Then she turned and walked slowly out of the 
 Square. He walked behind her, threatening her 
 at intervals with his fist and his lifted clo2f.
 
 84 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Dom tha brazent impidence ! " the Small Per 
 son heard him say once. 
 
 But the girl walked calmly before him without 
 a word or a hurried movement. She went on 
 knitting the stocking until she turned the corner 
 and disappeared for the last time from the Small 
 Person s sympathetic gaze. She also disappeared 
 from her life, for the little girl never saw her 
 again. 
 
 But she thought of her often and pondered her 
 over, and felt her a power and a mystery. Not 
 until she had given some contemplative thought 
 to various antique marbles, and had wondered 
 " what was the matter " with the Venus of 
 Milo, did it dawn upon her mind that in this girl 
 in the clogs and apron she had seen and been 
 overpowered by Beauty such as goddesses were 
 worshipped for, and strength such as should be 
 long to one who ruled. She always wanted to 
 know what happened afterward, but there was 
 no end to the story that she ever saw. So it was 
 that some years later she wrote a beginning, a 
 middle, and an end herself. She made the factory 
 operative a Pit Girl, and she called her Joan 
 Lowrie. 
 
 There was such food for the imagination in 
 thus living surrounded by the lives of streets full 
 of people who belonged to another world than 
 one s own a world whose customs, manners, and
 
 Islington Square 85 
 
 language were wholly foreign in one sense 
 where even children got up before daylight and 
 went to their work in the big, whirring, oil-smell 
 ing factories where there was a possibility of be 
 ing caught by the machinery and carried after 
 ward to the Infirmary, followed by a staring, 
 pitying crowd a broken, bleeding heap of human 
 suffering lying decently covered on a stretcher. 
 Such accidents were such horrors that to a child 
 mind they seemed always impending, though 
 their occurrence was not frequent. But the mere 
 possibility of them made one regard these peo 
 ple who lived among the ghastly wheels with 
 awe. 
 
 On the same floor with the Nursery was a room 
 where the governess slept, presiding over an ex 
 tra bed which contained two little girls. There 
 was a period when for some reason the Small 
 Person was one of them. The window of this 
 room, which was at the back, looked down upon 
 the back of the row of cottages in which opera 
 tives lived. When one glanced downward it was 
 easy to see into their tiny kitchens and watch 
 them prepare their breakfasts, and eat them too, 
 if one were curious. 
 
 Imagine, then, the interest of waking very 
 early one dark winter s morning and seeing a 
 light reflected on the ceiling of the Nursery bed 
 room from somewhere far below.
 
 86 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The Small Person did this once, and after 
 watching a little, discovered that not only the 
 light and the window itself were reflected, but 
 two figures which seemed to pass before it or 
 stand near it. 
 
 It was too exciting to watch alone, so she spoke 
 to her sister, who slept at her side. 
 
 " Edith ! " she whispered, cautiously, for fear of 
 disturbing the governess, " Edith, do wake up. 
 I want to show you something." The prospect 
 of being shown something in what appeared to 
 be the middle of the night, was a thing to break 
 any slumbers. 
 
 Edith turned and rubbed her eyes. 
 
 " What is it?" she asked, sleepily. 
 
 " It s a man and a woman," whispered the Small 
 Person, half under the bed-clothes, " Back Street 
 people in their kitchen. You can see them on our 
 ceiling. This ceiling ; just look." 
 
 Edith looked. Back Street people always 
 awakened curiosity. 
 
 " So we can," she said, with a carefully 
 smothered giggle. " There the woman is now ! " 
 
 " She s got something in her hand," said the 
 Small Person. " It looks like a loaf." 
 
 " It s a piece of something" whispered Edith. 
 
 " It must be a loaf," said the Small Person. 
 " They re factory people, and the man s wife must 
 be getting his breakfast before he goes to
 
 Islington Square 87 
 
 work. I wonder what poor people have for 
 breakfast? " 
 
 " There s the man ! " exclaimed Edith, with so 
 much animation that the governess turned in her 
 sleep. 
 
 " Hush," warned the Small Person ; " she ll 
 wake up and scold us for making a noise." 
 
 " The man is washing his face on the dresser," 
 said Edith, in more discreet tones. " We can see 
 what they do when they are near the window. I 
 can see him rubbing and wiggling his head." 
 
 " So can I," said the Small Person. " Isn t it 
 fun ? I hope the roller-towel is near the window." 
 
 The little whispers, cautious as they were, pen 
 etrated the drowsy ears of the governess. She 
 half awakened. 
 
 " Children," she said, " what are you whisper 
 ing about ? Don t be so naughty. Go to sleep ! " 
 All very well for a sleepy governess, but for two 
 little persons awake at four o clock, and with 
 front seats at a Back Street panorama on their 
 own bedroom ceiling, ridiculously out of the 
 question. 
 
 Ah, the charm of it ! The sense of mystery and 
 unusualness. It seemed the middle of the night. 
 In all the bedrooms through the house every one 
 was asleep the servants, the brothers, mamma, 
 the very Doll had had her wire pulled and her 
 wax eyelids drawn down. Being awake had the
 
 88 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 charms of nursery guilt in it. It was naughty to 
 be awake, and it was breaking rules to talk. But 
 how could one go to sleep with the rest when the 
 Back Street woman was awake and getting her 
 husband s breakfast. One s own ceiling reflected 
 it and seemed to include one in the family circle. 
 
 " If they hada fight," whispered Edith, " we 
 could see it." 
 
 There was no end of speculation to be indulged 
 in. What each figure was really doing when it 
 was near enough to the window to be reflected, 
 what it did when it moved away out of the range 
 of reflection, and what it was possible they said 
 to each other, were all things to be excitedly 
 guessed at, and to endanger the repose of the 
 governess. 
 
 " Edith, you are a naughty girl," she said. 
 " Frances, I shall speak to your mamma. Edith 
 would not be whispering if you were not with her. 
 Go to sleep this instant ! " As if going to sleep 
 was a thing done by touching an electric button. 
 
 How they longed to creep out of bed, and peep 
 through the window down into the Back Street 
 people s kitchen itself. But that was out of the 
 question. Neither of them would have dared 
 such an insubordination the first morning, at 
 least. 
 
 But there were other such mornings. It be 
 came a habit to waken at that delightful and un-
 
 Islington Square 89 
 
 canny hour, just for the pleasure of lying awake 
 and watching the Woman and the Man. That 
 was what they called them. They never knew 
 what their names were, or anything about them, 
 except what was reflected during that early break 
 fast hour upon the ceiling. 
 
 But the Small Person was privately attached to 
 them, and continually tried to imagine what they 
 said. She had a fancy that they were a decent 
 couple, who were rather fond of each other, and 
 it was a great comfort to her that they never had
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 
 
 Is the age of seven years an age of special de 
 velopment, or an age which attracts incidents in 
 teresting, and having an effect on life, and the 
 formation of character? As I look back I remem 
 ber so man)- things which seemed to happen to 
 the Small Person when she was seven years old. 
 She was seven, or thereabouts, when she discov 
 ered the Secretaire ; seven when she began to 
 learn the Lancashire dialect, and study Back 
 Street people ; seven when she first saw Death, 
 with solemn, asking eyes, and awe in her soul ; 
 seven when she wrote her first inarticulate story, 
 which was a poem ; and seven when she was first 
 brought face to face with the enormity of a be 
 trayed confidence. 
 
 Thank God, she did not quite realize what had 
 happened to her, and that her innocence gave 
 every reason for hope disappointed, but the true 
 one, that she had been trifled with and deceived ; 
 and thank Heaven, also, that the point involved 
 was not one cruel enough to leave a deep wound. 
 In fact, though it was quite a serious matter with
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 91 
 
 her, she was more mystified and disappointed 
 than hurt, and for some time did not realize that 
 she had been the subject of one of maturity s 
 jokes. 
 
 She had a passion for babies. She seldom pre 
 tended that the Doll was a baby, but a baby a 
 new baby was an object of rapturous delight to 
 her. She liked them very new indeed quite red, 
 and with little lace caps on, and disproportionately 
 long clothes. She never found them so delight 
 ful as when they wore long clothes. When their 
 frocks were made short, and one could see their 
 little red or white shoes kicking, the bloom seemed 
 to have gone off they were no longer real babies. 
 But when the nurse seemed to be obliged to move 
 them carefully lest they should fall into minute 
 fragments, when their mouth always opened when 
 one kissed them, and when they were fragrant of 
 warm flannel, warm milk, and violet powder, they 
 were the loves of her yearning little soul. 
 
 There were one or two ladies in the square who 
 were given to new babies, and when one of their 
 number honored the neighborhood, the Small 
 Person was always one of the first to hear of it. 
 
 " Did you know," it would be said by some 
 little individual, " that Mrs. Roberts has got a 
 new baby ? " 
 
 Then joy would reign unconfined in the Small 
 Person s breast. The Doll would be given a day s
 
 92 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 holiday. Her sawdust interior somehow seemed 
 such an evident thing. She would be left in her 
 chair to stare, while her proprietor hovered about 
 the Roberts house, and walked with friends past 
 it, looking up at the windows, and discussing, 
 with bated breath, as to w r hether the new baby 
 was a girl or a boy. I think she had a predilec 
 tion for girls, feeling somehow that they tended 
 to long clothes for the greater length of time. 
 
 Then some day, having had her hair neatly 
 curled, and a clean tucker put in her frock, she 
 would repair to the Roberts establishment, stand 
 on her tiptoes, cautiously ring the bell, and await 
 with beating heart the arrival of the housemaid, 
 to whom she would say, with the utmost polite 
 ness of which she was capable : 
 
 " If you please, Mamma s compliments, and 
 how is Mrs. Roberts -And if she is as well as can 
 be expected, do you think I might see the new 
 baby?" 
 
 And then, if fortune favored her, which it usu 
 ally did, she would be led up the staircase and 
 into a shaded room, which seemed pervaded by a 
 solemn but beautiful stillness which made her feel 
 as if she wanted to be a good little girl always. 
 And Mrs. Roberts, who perhaps was not really a 
 specially handsome person at all, but who looked 
 somehow rather angelic, would hold out her hand 
 and say gently :
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 93 
 
 " How do you do, my dear? Have you come 
 to see the new baby ? " 
 
 And she would answer in a voice full of respect 
 ful emotion : 
 
 " Yes, if you please, Mrs. Roberts. Mamma 
 said I might ask you if I could see it if you are 
 as well as can be expected and I may only stay a 
 few minutes for fear I should bother you." 
 
 " Give my regards to your mamma, love, and 
 say I am getting on very nicely, and the baby is 
 a little boy. Nurse will let you look at him." 
 
 Oh, to stand beside that lovely bundle and look 
 down at it reverently, as it lay upon the nurse s 
 knee ! Reverence and adoration mingled with 
 awe were the pervading emotions in her small 
 mind. Reverence for Mrs. Roberts and awe of a 
 stately mystery in the shaded room, which made 
 it feel rather like a church, reverence for the 
 nurse who knew all about new babies, reverence 
 for the new baby, whose newness made him seem 
 such a potentate, and adoration pure, deep adora 
 tion of him as a Baby. 
 
 As years before she had known thoughts which 
 even her mind could not have known words to 
 frame, so in these days I well remember that she 
 felt emotions her child-thoughts could give no 
 shape to, and which were still feelings which 
 deeply moved her. She was only a child, who 
 had been kept a child by those who loved her,
 
 94 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 who had been treated always as a child, and 
 who was not in any sense old beyond her brief 
 years. And yet my memory brings clearly to me 
 that by the atmosphere of these shaded rooms she 
 was moved and awed as she was later by the at 
 mosphere of other rooms shaded by blinds drawn 
 down and by the mystery of another stillness 
 a more awful stillness a colder one, in which peo 
 ple always stood weeping as they looked down 
 at Something which was not a life beginning, but 
 a life s end. 
 
 She was too much a little girl to know then that 
 before the shaded stillness of both chambers the 
 human nature of her stood hushed and reverent, 
 confronting Mystery, and the Unanswered Ques 
 tion before which ages have stood hushed just 
 as she did, just as she did though she was only 
 seven years old. She knew no less than all the 
 world. 
 
 If the nurse was a kind one she was allowed to 
 look at the baby s feet, and perhaps to kiss them. 
 Such tiny feet, so pink and tender, and so given 
 to curling up and squirming ! 
 
 " Aren t they weenty," she would say, clasping 
 her hands, " and isn t he beautiful ! Oh, / luisli he 
 was mine ! " 
 
 The unbiassed opinion of maturer years leads 
 me to a tardy conviction that the new babies were 
 not beautiful, that they were painfully creased and
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 95 
 
 grievously red, and had frequently a weird air of 
 eld combined with annoyance; that they had no 
 hair and no noses, and no individuality except to 
 the Mrs. Roberts of the occasion, who saw in them 
 the gifts and graces of the gods. (This being the 
 lovely boon of Nature, whom all women of earth 
 may kneel and bless that she, in some strange, 
 gentle moment, has given them this thing.) 
 
 But it was the serious belief of the Small Per 
 son that a new baby was always Beautiful, and 
 she could not possibly have understood the creat 
 ure who insinuated, even with the most cautious 
 and diplomatic mildness, that it was not. No, 
 that would have been striking at the foundations 
 of the universe. 
 
 And there were Nurses who let her hold the 
 new baby. She was so careful and so full of ten 
 der respect that I think anyone might have trusted 
 her even with twins. When she sat on a low 
 chair and held the white draperied, faintly mov 
 ing bundle which was a new-born human thing, 
 she was an unformed, yearning Mother-creature, 
 her little breast as warm with brooding instincts 
 as a small bird-mother covering her first nest. 
 She did not know this she was too young but 
 it was true. 
 
 She was walking slowly round the Square one 
 lovely summer evening, just after tea (Nursery 
 breakfasts were at eight, dinners at one, tea at
 
 96 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 six), and she had as her companion the little girl 
 who was known as her " Best Friend." One had 
 a best Doll, a best frock, and a best friend. Her 
 best friend was a very sensitive, shy little girl 
 with lovely brown velvet eyes. Her name was 
 Annie, and their souls were one. 
 
 As they walked they saw at length a respect 
 able elderly person dressed in black, and carrying 
 something in her arms. It was something white 
 and with long drapery depending from it. She 
 was walking slowly up and down as if taking the 
 air. 
 
 " There is a lady with a baby," exclaimed the 
 Small Person. " And it looks like a new one." 
 
 " It is a new one," said Annie. " She isn t a 
 Square lady, I wonder who she is." 
 
 It was not easy to tell. She was no one they 
 knew, and yet there she was walking quietly up 
 and down, giving a promenade to a new baby. 
 
 There was no doubt about the matter, she must 
 be approached. They eyed her wistfully askance, 
 and then looked at each other with the same 
 thought in their eyes. 
 
 " Would she think we were rude if we spoke to 
 her?" suggested the Small Person, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Oh, we don t know her," said the little Best 
 Friend. " She might think it very rude." 
 
 " Do you think she would ? " said the Small
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 97 
 
 Person. " She looks kind," examining her with 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Let us walk past her," said the Best Friend. 
 So they walked past her slowly, respectfully re 
 garding the new baby. The elderly lady who 
 carried it did not look vicious in fact, she looked 
 amiable, and after they had walked past her twice 
 she began to smile at them. This was so encour 
 aging that they slackened their pace and the Best 
 Friend gave the companion of her soul a little 
 " nudge " with her elbow. 
 
 " Let s ask her," she said. " You do it." 
 
 " No, you." 
 
 " I daren t." 
 
 " I daren t, either." 
 
 " Oh, do. It s a perfectly new one." 
 
 " Oh, you do it. See, how nice she looks." 
 
 They were quite near her, and just at that junc 
 ture she smiled again so encouragingly that the 
 Small Person stopped before her. 
 
 " If you please," she said, "isn t that a new 
 baby ? " 
 
 She felt herself quite red in the face at her 
 temerity, and there was no doubt an honest im 
 ploring in her eyes, for the lady smiled again. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " Do you want to look 
 at it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, please," they both chimed at once. 
 " We do so love them." 
 7
 
 98 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The baby s face was covered with a white lace 
 veil. The lady bent toward them, and lifting it, 
 revealed the charms beneath. 
 
 " There," she said. 
 
 And they gasped with joy and cried together : 
 
 
 " Oh, isn t it a beautiful one ! " though it was 
 exactly like all the others, having neither hair, 
 features, nor complexion. 
 
 " Is it a very new one ? " they asked. " How 
 new?" And their hearts were rejoiced with the 
 information that it was as new as could possibly
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 99 
 
 be compatible with its being allowed to breathe 
 the air of Heaven. 
 
 In reflecting upon the conduct of this elderly 
 person who was probably a sort of superior 
 monthly nurse I have always felt obliged to 
 class her with the jocular Park policeman who, 
 in the buoyancy of his spirits, caused the blood of 
 the Small Person to congeal in her infancy by the 
 sprightly information that she would be taken to 
 prison if she fell on the grass through the back of 
 the seat. 
 
 This lady also regarded the innocence of tender 
 years as an amusing thing. Though how with 
 the adoring velvet eyes of the Best Friend fixed 
 trustingly on her, and with the round face of the 
 Small Person burning with excited delight as she 
 talked it was quite possible for her to play her 
 comedy with entire composure, I do not find it 
 easy to explain. 
 
 " Are you so very fond of babies ? " she inquired. 
 
 " We love them better than anything in the 
 world." 
 
 "Better than dolls?" 
 
 " Oh, thousands better!" exclaimed the Small 
 Person. 
 
 " But dolls don t cry," said the stranger. 
 
 " If I had a baby," the Small Person protested, 
 " it wouldn t cry, because I should take such care 
 of it."
 
 ioo The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Would you like a baby of your own ? " 
 
 I feel sure the round face must have become 
 scarlet. 
 
 " I would give worlds and worlds for one ! " 
 with a lavishness quite unbiassed by the limits of 
 possession. 
 
 The stranger was allowing the friends to walk 
 slowly by her, one on either side. In this way 
 there seemed to be established some relationship 
 with the baby. 
 
 " Would you like me to give you this one ? " 
 she asked, quite seriously. 
 
 " Give it to me ? " breathless. " Oh, you couldrit" 
 
 " I think I could, if you would be sure to take 
 care of it." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " with rapturous incredulity. " But 
 its mamma wouldn t let you ! " 
 
 " Yes, I think she would," said the lady, with 
 reflective composure. " You see, she has enough 
 of them !" 
 
 The Small Person gasped ! Enough of new ba 
 bies? There was a riotous splendor in such a 
 suggestion which seemed incredible. She could 
 not help being guilty of the rudeness of regarding 
 the strange lady, in private, with doubt. She was 
 capable of believing almost anything else but 
 not that. 
 
 "Ah!" she. sighed, "you you re making fun 
 of me."
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 101 
 
 " No," replied this unprincipled elderly person, 
 " I am not at all. They are very tiresome when 
 there are a great many of them." She spoke as 
 if they were fleas. " What would you do with 
 this one if I gave it to you ? " 
 
 At this thrilling suggestion the Small Person 
 quite lost her head. 
 
 " I would wash it every morning," she said, her 
 words tumbling over each other in her desire to 
 prove her fitness for the boon. " I would wash it 
 in warm water in a little bath and with a big soft 
 sponge and Windsor soap and I would puff it 
 all over with powder and dress it and undress 
 it and put it to sleep and walk it about the room 
 and trot it on my knees and give it milk." 
 
 " It takes a great deal of milk," said the wicked 
 elderly person, who was revelling in an orgy of 
 jocular crime. 
 
 " I would ask Mamma to let me take it from 
 the milkman. I m sure she would, I would give 
 it as much as it wanted, and it would sleep with 
 me, and I would buy it a rattle, and 
 
 " 1 see you know how to take care of it," said 
 the respectable criminal. " You shall have it." 
 
 " But how can its Mamma spare it ? " asked the 
 small victim, fearfully. " Are you sure she could 
 spare it?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, she can spare it. Of course I must 
 take it back to her to-night and tell her you want
 
 102 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 it, and I have promised it to you ; but to-morrow 
 evening you can have it." 
 
 Since the dawning of the Children s Century 
 young things have become much better able to 
 defend themselves, in the sense of being less 
 easily imposed on. I believe that only an Eng 
 lish child, and a child brought up in the English 
 nursery of that period, could have been sufficient 
 ly unsophisticated to believe this Machiavellian 
 Monthly Nurse. In that day one s private rev 
 erence for and confidence in the grown-up per 
 son were things which dominated existence. A 
 grown-up person represented such knowledge 
 and dignity and power. People who could crush 
 you to the earth by telling you that you were 
 "a rude little girl," or "an impertinent child," 
 and who could send you to bed, or give you ex 
 tra lessons, or deprive you of your pudding at 
 dinner, wore an air of omnipotence. To suggest 
 that a grown-up person " a grown-up lady " or 
 gentleman could " tell a story," would have been 
 sheer iconoclasm. And to doubt the veracity of 
 a respectable elderly person entrusted with a new 
 baby would have been worse than sacrilegious. 
 The two friends did not leave her side until she 
 left the Square to take the baby home, and when 
 she went, all details had been arranged between 
 them, and Heaven itself seemed to have opened. 
 
 The next evening, at precisely a quarter-past
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 103 
 
 seven, the two were to go to the corner of a cer 
 tain street, and there they would find the elderly 
 person with the new baby and a bundle of its 
 clothes, which were to be handed over with cere 
 mony to the new proprietor. 
 
 It was to the Small Person the baby was to be 
 given, though in the glow of generous joy and 
 affection it was an understood thing between 
 them that the Best Friend was to be a partner 
 in the blissful enterprise. 
 
 How did they live through the next day ? How 
 did they learn their lessons ? How could they 
 pin themselves down to geography and grammar 
 and the multiplication table ? The Small Per 
 son s brain reeled, and new babies swam before 
 her eyes. She felt as if the wooden form she sat 
 on were a species of throne. 
 
 Momentarily she had been brought down to 
 earth by the fact that, when she had gone to her 
 Mamma, glowing and exalted from the interview 
 with the elderly person, she had found herself 
 confronting doubt as to the seriousness of that 
 lady s intentions. 
 
 " My dear child," said her Mamma, smiling at 
 her radiant little countenance, "she did not mean 
 it! she was only joking!" 
 
 "Oh, no!" the Small Person insisted. "She 
 was quite in earnest, Mamma ! She really was. 
 She did not laugh the least bit. And she was such
 
 IO4 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 a nice lady and the baby was such a beautiful little 
 new one ! I asked her if she was laughing at me, 
 and she said, No, she was not. And I asked her 
 if the baby s Mamma could spare it, and she said 
 she thought she could, because she had enough of 
 them. She was such a kind lady." 
 
 Somehow she felt that her Mamma and the 
 governess were not convinced, but she was too 
 much excited and there was too much exaltation 
 in her mood to allow of her being really discour 
 aged, at least until after the fateful hour of ap 
 pointment. Before that hour arrived she and her 
 friend were at the corner of the street which had 
 been named. 
 
 " It s rather a common street, isn t it? " the two 
 said to each other. " It was funny that she 
 should tell us to come to a back street. That 
 baby could not live here, of course, and neither 
 could she. I wonder why she didn t bring it back 
 into the Square ? " 
 
 It was decidedly a back street being a sort of 
 continuation of the one whose row of cottages the 
 Small Person could see from the Nursery win 
 dow. It was out of the question that the baby 
 could belong to such a neighborhood. The houses 
 were factory people s cottages the kind of 
 houses where domestic differences were settled 
 with the fire-irons. 
 
 The two children walked up and down, talking
 
 in excited under-tones. Perhaps she had men 
 tioned this street because it was near the Square ; 
 perhaps she lived on the Crescent, which was not 
 far off ; perhaps she was afraid it would be trou 
 blesome to carry the baby and the bundle at the 
 same time, and this corner was nearer than the 
 Square itself. 
 
 They walked up and down in earnest faith. 
 Nothing would have induced them to lose sight 
 of the corner for a second. They confined them 
 selves and their promenade to a distance of about 
 ten yards. They went backward and forward like 
 squirrels in a cage. 
 
 Every ten minutes they consulted together as 
 to who could pluck up the courage to ask some 
 passer-by the time. The passers-by were all back 
 street people. Sometimes they did not know the 
 time, but at last the children found out that the 
 quarter-past seven was passed. 
 
 " Perhaps the baby was asleep," said one of 
 them. " And she had to wait until it wakened 
 up before she could put on its bonnet and 
 cloak." 
 
 So they walked up and down again. 
 
 " Mamma said she wasn t in earnest," said the 
 Small Person ; " but she was, wasn t she, Annie? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Annie. " She didn t laugh the 
 least bit when she talked." 
 
 " The house at the corner is a little nicer than
 
 io6 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 the others," the Small Person suggested. " Per 
 haps it is very nice inside. Do you think she 
 might live there ? If she did we could knock at 
 the door and tell her we are here." 
 
 But the house was really not possible. She 
 must live somewhere else with that baby. 
 
 It seemed as if they had walked for hours, and 
 talked for months, and reasoned for years, when 
 they were startled by the booming, regular sound 
 of a church clock. 
 
 " That s St. Philip s bell," exclaimed the Small 
 Person. " What is it striking ? " 
 
 They stood still and counted. 
 
 " One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight." 
 
 The two friends looked at each other blankly. 
 
 " Do you think," they exclaimed simultaneous 
 ly, " she isn t coming? " 
 
 " But but she said she would," said the Small 
 Person, with desperate hopefulness. " If she 
 didn t come it would be a story ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the Best Friend, " she would have 
 told a story ! " 
 
 This seemed an infamy impossible and disre 
 spectful to contemplate. It was so impossible that 
 they braced themselves and began to walk up and 
 down again. Perhaps they had made some mis 
 take there had been some misunderstanding 
 about the time the corner the street anything 
 but the honorable intentions of the elderly person.
 
 A Confidence Betrayed 107 
 
 They tried to comfort each other to be sus 
 tained. They talked, they walked, they watched 
 until St. Philip s clock boomed half-past eight. 
 Their bedtime was really eight o clock. They 
 had stayed out half an hour beyond it. They 
 dare stay no longer. They stopped their walk 
 on the fated corner itself and looked into each 
 other s eyes. 
 
 " She Jiasiit come ! " they said, unconscious of 
 the obviousness of the remark. 
 
 " She said she would," repeated the Small Per 
 son. 
 
 " It must be the wrong corner," said the Best 
 Friend. 
 
 " It must be," replied the Small Person, deso 
 lately. " Or the baby s mamma couldn t spare 
 it. It was such a beautiful baby perhaps she 
 could not ! " 
 
 " And the lady did not like to come and tell us," 
 said the Best Friend. " Perhaps we shall see her 
 in the Square again some time." 
 
 " Perhaps we shall," said the Small Person, 
 dolefully. " It s too late to stay out any longer. 
 Let us go home." 
 
 They went home sadder but not much wiser 
 little girls. They did not realize that the respect 
 able elderly person had had a delightful, relatable 
 joke at the expense of their innocent little mater 
 nal souls.
 
 io8 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Evening after evening they walked the Square 
 together, watching. But they never saw the new 
 baby again, or the sardonic elderly female who 
 carried it. 
 
 It is only a thing not far away from Paradise 
 not yet acclimatized to earth who can so trust 
 ingly believe and be so far befooled.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Secretaire 
 
 I WONDER why it was called the Secretaire? 
 Perhaps it had resources the Small Person never 
 knew of. It looked like a large old-fashioned ma 
 hogany book-case, with a big drawer which formed 
 a ledge, and with a cupboard below. Until she 
 was seven or eight years old she did not " dis 
 cover " the Secretaire. She knew that it existed, 
 of course, but she did not know what its values 
 were. She used to look at its rows and rows of 
 books and sigh, because she knew they were 
 "grown-up books" and she thought there was 
 nothing in them which could interest her. 
 
 They were such substantially bound and serious- 
 looking books. No one could have suspected 
 them of containing stories at least, no inexperi 
 enced inspector. There were rows of volumes 
 called " The Encyclopaedia," rows of stout vol 
 umes of BlackwoocPs Magazine, a row of poets, a 
 row of miscellaneous things with unprepossess 
 ing bindings, and two rows of exceedingly ugly 
 brown books, which might easily have been sus 
 pected of being arithmetics, only that it was of
 
 no The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 course incredible that any human creature, how 
 ever lost, could have been guilty of the unseemly 
 brutality of buying arithmetics by the dozen. 
 
 The Small Person used to look at them some 
 times with hopeless, hungry eyes. It seemed so 
 horribly wicked that there should be shelves of 
 books shelves full of them which offered noth 
 ing to a starving creature. She was a starving 
 creature in those days, with a positively wolfish 
 appetite for books, though no one knew about it 
 or understood the anguish of its gnawings. It 
 must be plainly stated that her longings were 
 not for " improving " books. The cultivation she 
 gained in those days was gained quite uncon 
 sciously, through the workings of a sort of rabies 
 with which she had been infected from birth. At 
 three years old she had begun a life-long chase 
 after the Story. She may have begun it earlier, 
 but my clear recollections seem to date from 
 Herod, the King, to whom her third year intro 
 duced her through the medium of the speckled 
 Testament. 
 
 In those days, I think, the Children s Century 
 had not begun. Children were not regarded as 
 embryo intellects, whose growth it is the pleasure 
 and duty of intelligent maturity to foster and pro 
 tect. Morals and manners were attended to, des 
 perate efforts were made to conquer their natural 
 disinclination to wash their hands and faces, it
 
 The Secretaire 1 1 1 
 
 was a time-honored custom to tell them to "make 
 less noise," and I think everybody knelt down in 
 his night-gown and said his prayers every night 
 and morning. I wish I knew who was the origin 
 ator of the nursery verse which was a kind of 
 creed : 
 
 " Speak when you re spoken to, 
 
 Come when you re called, 
 Shut the door after you, 
 And do as you re told. 
 
 The rhyme and metre were, perhaps, not fault 
 less, but the sentiments were without a flaw. 
 
 A perfectly normal child knew what happened 
 in its own nursery and the nurseries of its cousins 
 and juvenile friends; it knew something of the 
 romances of Mrs. Barbauld and Miss Edgeworth, 
 and the adventures related in Peter Parley s 
 " Annual." Religious aunts possibly gave it hor 
 rible little books containing memoirs of dreadful 
 children who died early of complicated diseases, 
 whose lingering developments they enlivened by 
 giving unlimited moral advice and instruction to 
 their parents and immediate relatives, seeming, 
 figuratively speaking, to implore them to " go 
 and do likewise," and perishing to appropriate 
 texts. The Small Person suffered keen private 
 pangs of conscience, and thought she was a wicked 
 child, because she did not like those books and
 
 1 1 2 
 
 had a vague feeling of disbelief in the children. 
 It seemed probable that she might be sent to per 
 dition and devoured by fire and brimstone because 
 of this irreligious indifference, but she could not 
 overcome it. But 1 am afraid the Small Person 
 was not a normal child. Still she really could not 
 help it, and she has been sufficiently punished, 
 poor thing, even while she has been unduly re 
 warded. She happened to be born, as a clever 
 but revoltingly candid and practical medical man 
 once told her, with a cerebral tumor of the Ima 
 gination. 
 
 Little girls did not revel in sumptuous libraries 
 then. Books were birthday or Christmas pres 
 ents, and were read and re-read, and lent to other 
 little girls as a great favor. 
 
 The Small Person s chase after the Story was 
 thought to assume the proportions of a crime. 
 
 " Have you any books you could lend me?" she 
 always ended by asking a new acquaintance. 
 
 " That child has a book again ! " she used to hear 
 annoyed voices exclaim, when being sent up or 
 down stairs, on some errand, she found something 
 to read on the way, and fell through the tempter. 
 It was so positively unavoidable and inevitable 
 that one should forget, and sink down on the 
 stairs somewhere to tear the contents out of the 
 heart of a few pages, and it was so horrible, and 
 made one s heart leap and thump so guiltily, when
 
 The Secretaire 113 
 
 one heard the voice, and realized how bad, and 
 idle, and thoughtless, and disobedient one was. 
 
 It was like being conquered by a craving for 
 drink or opium. It was being a story-maniac. 
 
 It made her rude, too, and it was an awful thing 
 to be rude ! She was a well-mannered enough 
 child, but when she went to play with a friend 
 in a strange nursery, or sitting-room, how was it 
 possible to resist just looking at a book lying on a 
 table ? Figure to yourself a beautiful, violently 
 crimson, or purple, or green book, ornamented 
 with gorgeous, flaring designs in gilt, and with a 
 seductive title in gilt letters on the back, and ima 
 gine how it could be possible that it should not 
 fill one s veins with fever. 
 
 If people had just understood and had allowed 
 her to take such books and gallop through them 
 without restraint. (She always galloped through 
 her books, she could not read them with reason 
 able calmness.) But it was rude to want to read 
 when people wanted to talk or play with you, and 
 so one could only breathlessly lift the corner of a 
 leaf and devour half a dozen words during some 
 momentary relief from the other person s eye. 
 And it was torment. And notwithstanding her 
 sufferings, she knew that it was her fate to be fre 
 quently discussed among her friends as a little 
 girl who was rude enough " to read when she 
 comes to see you." 
 8
 
 ii4 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 As she did not develop with years into an en 
 tirely unintelligent or unthinking person, there 
 may lie a shade of encouragement to anxious 
 parents in the fact that she was not conscious of 
 any thirst for " improving " reading. She wanted 
 stories any kind of stories every kind any 
 thing from a romance to a newspaper anecdote. 
 She was a simple, omnivorous creature. She had 
 no precocious views about her mind or her intel 
 lectual condition. She reflected no more on her 
 mind than she did on her plump legs and arms 
 not so much, because they were frequently made 
 red and smarting by the English east winds and 
 it did not occur to her that she had an intellectual 
 condition. She went to school because all little 
 girls did, and she learned her lessons because only 
 in that manner could she obtain release at twelve 
 in the morning and four in the afternoon. She 
 seemed always to know how to read, and spell 
 ing had no difficulties for her ; she rather liked ge 
 ography, she thought grammar dull, and she ab 
 horred arithmetic. Roman and Grecian and 
 English history, up to the times of the Georges, 
 she was very fond of. They were the Story she 
 was in chase of. Gods and goddesses, legends 
 and wars, Druids and ancient Britons, painted 
 blue, worshipping in their groves, and fighting 
 with their clubs and spears against the splendid 
 Romans in their chariots -these fed the wolf
 
 The Secretaire 115 
 
 which gnawed her innocent vitals. The poor, 
 half-savage Briton, walking in wonder through 
 the marvellous city of his captors, and saying 
 mournfully, " How could you who have all this 
 splendor wish to conquer and take from me such 
 a poor country as mine " this touched her heart. 
 Boadicea the Queen was somehow a wild, beauti 
 ful, majestic figure Canute upon the sea-shore, 
 commanding the sea to recede, provided the 
 drama and Alfred, wandering in the forest, and 
 burning the cakes in the neat-herd s hut, was 
 comedy and tragedy at once, as his kinghood 
 stood rebuked before the scolding woman, ignor 
 ant of his power. Henry the Eighth, Elizabeth 
 and Bloody Mary, Richard Coeur de Lion, Rich 
 ard the Third, and the poor little Princes in the 
 Tower one could read their stories again and 
 again ; but where the Georges began romance 
 seemed to fade away, and the Small Person was 
 guilty of the base treason of being very slight 
 ly interested in the reign of Her Most Gracious 
 Majesty the Queen. 
 
 " I don t care about the coal and cotton reigns," 
 she said. " They are not interesting. Nothing 
 happens." Lempriere s " Classical Dictionary " 
 was a treasure to be clutched at any moment to 
 keep in a convenient corner of the desk, so that, 
 when one put one s head under the lid to look for 
 pens or pencils, one could snatch just one scrap
 
 u6 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 of a legend about a god or a goddess changed 
 into something as a punishment or to escape 
 somebody or other. 
 
 Remembering these ill-satisfied hungers, her 
 own childhood being a thing of the past, and the 
 childhood of young things of her own waiting for 
 its future, she gave them books as she gave them 
 food, and found it worthy of note that, having 
 literature as daily bread and all within reach be 
 fore them, they chose the "improving" things of 
 their own free will. It interested her to ponder 
 on the question of whether it was because they 
 were never starving and ravenous, or that instruc 
 tion of to-day is made interesting, or whether 
 they were by nature more intelligent than herself. 
 
 It was an indescribably dreary day when she 
 discovered the gold mine in the Secretaire. I 
 have a theory that no one can really know how 
 dreary a rainy day can be until they have spent 
 one in an English manufacturing town. She did 
 not live at Seedley at that time, and as in her rec 
 ollections of the Back Garden of Eden the sun 
 always seemed to have been shining on roses and 
 apple-blossoms, in Islington Square it seemed al 
 ways to be raining on stone pavements and slate 
 roofs shining with the wet. One did not judge 
 of the weather by looking at the sky. The sky 
 was generally gray when it was not filled with 
 dirty but beautiful woolly-white clouds, with
 
 The Secretaire 117 
 
 small patches of deep blue between. It was the 
 custom to judge what was happening by looking 
 at the slates on the roofs. There seemed to be 
 such lots of slates to look out at when one went 
 to a window. 
 
 " The slates are quite wet ! " was the awful sen 
 tence which doomed to despair many a plan of 
 pleasure. They were always wet on the days 
 when one was to be taken somewhere to do some 
 thing interesting. 
 
 Everything was wet on the day when she found 
 the gold mine. When she went to the Nursery 
 window (the Nursery being a back room on the 
 third story) she looked down on the flags of wet 
 back yards her own back yard and those of the 
 neighbors. Manchester back yards are never 
 beautiful or enlivening, but when the flagstones 
 are dark and shining, when moisture makes din 
 gier the always dingy whitewashed walls, and 
 the rain splashes on their coping, they wear an 
 aspect to discourage the soul. The back yards 
 of the houses of the Square were divided by a 
 long flagged passage from the back yards of the 
 smaller houses in what was called a " back street." 
 From the Nursery one looked down on their roofs 
 and chimneys, and was provided with a depressing 
 area of wet slates. It was not a cheering outlook. 
 
 The view from the Sitting-room was no more 
 inspiring and was more limited. It was on the
 
 ii8 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ground floor and at the back also, and only saw 
 the wet flagstones. She tried it and retired. The 
 Drawing-room looked out on a large square ex 
 panse of gravel enclosed by houses whose smoke- 
 grimed faces stared at one with blank, wet win 
 dow eyes which made one low-spirited beyond 
 compare. She tried that also, and breaking down 
 under it, crept upstairs. It was in a room above 
 the Drawing-room that the Secretaire had its 
 place, and it was on turning in despair from the 
 window there, that her eye fell upon its rows of 
 uninviting-looking books. 
 
 Before that particular window there was a 
 chair, and it was a habit of hers to go and kneel 
 by it with her elbows on its seat and her chin on 
 her hands while she looked at the clouds. 
 
 This was because through all her earlier years 
 she had a queer sense of nearness to the sky 
 and of companionship with the clouds when she 
 looked up at them. When they were fleecy and 
 beautiful and floated in the blue, she imagined 
 them part of a wonderful country, and fancied 
 herself running and climbing over them. When 
 there was only a dull lead-colored expanse, she 
 used to talk to it in a whisper, expostulating, ar 
 guing, imploring. And this she did that day. 
 
 " Oh ! " she whispered, " do open and let me see 
 some blue, please do! If you please. You can do 
 it if you like. You miglit do it ! I would do it
 
 The Secretaire 119 
 
 for you if I was a sky. Just a piece of blue and 
 some sun just an island of blue ! Do ! Do ! Do ! " 
 
 But it would not and did not. The rain came 
 drizzling down and the slates became wetter and 
 wetter. It was deadly deadly dull. 
 
 The Nursery Sofa, the Green Armchair, the 
 very Doll itself seemed to have the life taken out 
 of them. The Doll sat in her chair in the Nur 
 sery and glared in a glassy-eyed way into space. 
 She was nobody at all but a Doll. Mary Queen 
 of Scots, Evangeline, and the Aztec royalties 
 seemed myriads of miles away from her. They 
 w r ere in the Fourth Dimension of Space. She 
 was stuffed with sawdust, her nose was a blunt 
 dab of wax, her arms were green kid, her legs 
 dangled, her toes turned in, and she wore an 
 idiotic wig. How could a Small Person " pre 
 tend" with a thing like that! And the slates 
 were wet wet wet ! She rose from her kneel 
 ing posture before the chair and wandered across 
 the room toward the Secretaire, to stare up at 
 the books. 
 
 " I wish I had something to read ! " she said, 
 wofully. " I wish there was something for me to 
 read in the Secretaire. But they are just a lot of 
 fat, grown-up books." 
 
 The bound volumes of Blacfcwood s Magazine 
 always seemed specially annoying to her, because 
 there were bits of red in the binding which might
 
 I2O The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 have suggested liveliness. But " Blackwood s 
 Magazine ! " What a title ! Not a hope of a 
 story in that. At that period cheerfulness in 
 binding seemed to promise something, and the 
 title did the rest. 
 
 But she had reached the climax of childish 
 ennui. Something must be done to help her to 
 endure it. 
 
 She stared for a few moments, and then went 
 to another part of the room for a chair. It must 
 have been heavy for her, because English chairs 
 of mahogany were not trifles. She dragged, or 
 pulled, or carried it over to the Secretaire. She 
 climbed on it, and from there climbed on to the 
 ledge, which seemed at a serious distance from 
 the floor. Her short legs hung dangling as she 
 sat, and she was very conscious that she should 
 tumble off if she were not careful. But at last 
 she managed to open one of the glass doors, and 
 then, with the aid of cautious movement, the 
 other one. And then she began to examine the 
 books. There were a few just a few with lively 
 bindings, and of course these were the first she 
 took down. There was one in most alluring pale 
 blue and gold. It was called, " The Keepsake," 
 or " The Garland," or " The Floral Tribute," or 
 something of that order. When she opened it 
 she found it contained verses and pictures. The 
 verses were beautifully printed plaints about
 
 The Secretaire 121 
 
 ladies eyes and people s hearts. There were 
 references to " marble brows," and " snowy bos 
 oms," and " ruby lips," but somehow these charms 
 seemed to ramble aimlessly through the lines, 
 and never collect themselves together and form a 
 person one could be interested or see a story in. 
 The Small Person feverishly chased the Story 
 through pages of them, but she never came within 
 hailing distance of it. Even the pictures did not 
 seem real. They were engravings of wonderful 
 ladies with smooth shoulders, from which rather 
 boisterous zephyrs seemed to be snatching airily 
 flying scarves. They all had large eyes, high fore 
 heads, exceedingly arched eyebrows, and ring 
 lets, and the gentleman who wrote the verses 
 about them mentioned an ardent wish to " touch 
 his lute " in their praise. Their Christian names 
 were always written under them, and nobody ever 
 was guilty of anything less Byronic than Leonora, 
 or Zulieka, or Haidee, or lone, or Irene. This 
 seemed quite natural to the Small Person, as it 
 would really have been impossible to imagine 
 any one of them being called Jane, or Sarah, or 
 Mary Anne. They did not look like it. But, 
 also, they did not look like a story. 
 
 The Small Person simply hated them as she 
 realized what fraudulent pretences they were. 
 They filled her with loathing and rage. 
 
 "She was capable of strange, silent, uncontrol-
 
 122 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 lable rages over certain things. The baffled chase 
 after the Story was one of them. She felt red 
 and hot when she thrust back the blue and gold 
 book into its place. 
 
 " You are a Beast ! " she muttered. " A Beast 
 Beast Beast ! You look as if you were some 
 thing to read and you re nothing ! " 
 
 It would have been a pleasure to her to kick 
 the Keepsake all over the room, and dance on it. 
 But it was her Mamma s book. The next pretty 
 binding contained something of the same kind. 
 It enclosed the " Countess of Blessington," the 
 " Hon. Mrs. Norton," and " L. E. L." The first 
 two ladies did not interest her, because they 
 looked too much like the Eudoras and Irenes, but 
 somehow L. E. L. caused her to pause. It seemed 
 curious that a young lady should be called L. E. 
 L., but there was something attractive in her 
 picture. She was a slender little young lady in a 
 white muslin frock and a very big belt and buckle, 
 and there was something soft and prettily dreamy 
 in her small face. The Small Person did not 
 know why she looked like a real creature, and 
 made one feel vaguely sad, but it was very thrill 
 ing to discover later that she was like Alice Ben- 
 bolt that she also had been part of a sort of 
 story and that, like Alice, she 
 
 "lay under the stone."
 
 The Secretaire 
 
 It was when she had been put back on the shelf 
 that the Small Person was driven to take down a 
 volume of Blacki^ood s. 
 
 I wonder how much depended upon her tak 
 ing down that particular volume. I am more 
 than inclined to think that it was absolutely 
 necessary that she should have things to read. 
 1 am also aware that no one knew how fierce 
 her childish longings were, and it would have 
 occurred to nobody about her that she had 
 any longings unfulfilled at all, unless it was a 
 desire for more "sweeties" than would have 
 been good for her. The kindly, gentle people 
 who loved her and took care of her thought 
 " Peter Parley s Annual " enough for any little 
 boy or girl. 
 
 Why not? It was the juvenile literature pro 
 vided for that day, and many children throve on 
 it. She was not an intellectually fevered-look 
 ing Small Person at all. She was a plump, red- 
 cheeked little girl, who played vigorously, and 
 had a perfect appetite for oatmeal-porridge, roast 
 mutton, and rice pudding. 
 
 And yet I can imagine that, under some circum 
 stances, a small, imperfect, growing thing, de 
 voured by some rage of hunger it cannot reason 
 about or understand, and which is forever unsatis 
 fied, might, through its cravings, develop some 
 physical fever which might end by stilling the
 
 124 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ever-working brain. But this may only be the 
 fancy of an imaginative mind. 
 
 The Blackwood was a big book and heavy. She 
 opened it on her knee and it opened at a Story ! 
 
 She knew it was a story, because there were so 
 many short lines. That meant conversation she 
 called it " talking." If you saw solid blocks of 
 printed lines, it was not very promising, but if 
 you saw short lines and broken spaces, that meant 
 " talking " and you had your Story. 
 
 Why do I remember no more of that story than 
 that it was about a desolate moorland with an un 
 used, half-forgotten well on it, and that a gentle 
 man (who cannot have been a very interesting 
 character, as he is not remembered clearly) being 
 considered superfluous by somebody, was disposed 
 of and thrown into it in the role of a Body? It 
 was his body which was interesting, and not him 
 self, and my impression is that the story was not 
 specially fascinating but it was a Story, and if 
 there was one in the fat volumes there must be 
 others and the explorer looked with gloating 
 eyes at the roivs of fat volumes two whole rows 
 of them ! 
 
 She took down others, and opening them, saw 
 with joy more " talking." There were stones in 
 all of them some which seemed to be continued 
 from month to month. There was a long one 
 called " The Diary of a Physician," another called
 
 The Secretaire 125 
 
 " Ten Thousand a Year " this last, she gathered 
 in a few glances, contained the history of a person 
 called Tittlebat Titmouse and was about a beau 
 tiful Kate Aubrey, and her virtuous but unfortu 
 nate family and about a certain Lady Cecilia 
 and, oh ! the rapture of it ! 
 
 Her cheeks grew hotter and hotter, she read 
 fast and furiously. She forgot that she was 
 perched on the ledge, and that her legs dan 
 gled, and that she might fall. She was perched 
 in Paradise she had no legs she could not 
 fall. No one could fall from a Secretaire filled 
 with books, which might all of them contain 
 Stories ! 
 
 Before long she climbed up and knelt upon the 
 ledge so that she could be face to face with her 
 treasures, and reach even to the upper shelves. 
 With beating heart she took down volumes that 
 were not Blackwood s, in the wild hope that even 
 they might contain riches also. She was an excit 
 able creature, and her hands trembled as she 
 opened them. Across a lifetime I remember that 
 her breath came quickly, and she had a queer feel 
 ing in her chest. There were books full of poetry, 
 and, oh, Heaven, the poems seemed to be stories, 
 too! 
 
 There was a thing about an Ancient Mariner 
 with a glittering eye, another about St. Agnes s 
 Eve, another about a Scotch gentleman called
 
 126 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Marmion, others about some Fire Worshippers, 
 a Peri at the gate of Eden, a Veiled Prophet, a 
 Corsair, and a splendid long one about a young 
 man whose name was Don Juan. And then a 
 very stout book with plays in it, in queer old- 
 fashioned English. Plays were stories. There 
 were stories about persons called " Othello," 
 " The Merchant of Venice," " Two Gentlemen of 
 Verona," " Romeo and Juliet," and a world of 
 others. She gasped with joy. It would take 
 months to finish them ! 
 
 It was so tragic to finish a book. 
 
 " 1 wish I had something to read," she used to 
 say often. 
 
 " Where is that book I saw you with yester 
 day?" 
 
 " I ve finished it," she used to answer, rather 
 sheepishly, because she knew they would reply : 
 
 " Then you can t have read it properly. You 
 couldn t have finished it in such a short time. 
 You must skip. Read it again." 
 
 Who wanted to read a thing again when a hun 
 ger for novelty was in them ? 
 
 The top row of the shelves looked so unprom 
 ising that she was almost afraid to spoil the 
 happiness by touching the books. 
 
 They looked ancient and very like arithmetics. 
 They were bound in ugly grayish boards with a 
 strip of brown down the back.
 
 The Secretaire 127 
 
 She pulled herself up to read the titles. They 
 all seemed to belong to one edition. The one her 
 eyes seized on first was quite a shabby one. 
 
 " The Fair Maid of Perth," she read. " Waver- 
 ley Novels." 
 
 Novels were stories ! " The Fair Maid of 
 Perth." She snatched it from its place, she sat 
 on the ledge once more with her feet dangling. 
 " The Fair Maid of Perth." And all the rest were 
 like it ! Why, one might read forever ! 
 
 Were the slates still wet? Was the gravelled 
 Square still sopping ? Did the flagged pavement 
 still shine ? Was the Doll still staring in her 
 chair nothing but a Sawdust Thing? 
 
 She knew nothing about any of them. Her 
 feet dangled, her small face burned, she bounded 
 to Perth with the Fair Maid. How long after 
 ward a certain big bell rang she did not know. 
 She did not hear it. She heard nothing until a 
 nursery maid came in and brought her back to 
 earth. 
 
 " You naughty girl, Miss Frances. The tea- 
 bell has rung and you sitting here on your ma s 
 Secretary with a book ! " 
 
 She gathered herself together and scrambled 
 off the ledge. She went down to tea, and the 
 thick slices of bread and butter deemed suitable 
 to early youth but she had the gray and brown 
 volume under her arm.
 
 128 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The governess looked at her with the cold eye 
 of dignity and displeasure. 
 
 " You have a book," she said. " Put it down. 
 You are not allowed to read at table. It is very 
 rude."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Party 
 
 THE Christmas holidays were a time of great 
 festivity, and they began with the " Breaking- 
 up." The " Breaking-up " was a magnificent 
 function, and was the opening and event of the 
 season. 
 
 " We re going to break up in two weeks," little 
 girls of different schools said to each other; "when 
 are you going to break up ? " 
 
 The Breaking-up was the delightful ending of 
 the school days, and the rapturous beginning of 
 the holidays, and it was properly celebrated by a 
 party given by the ladies who were the proprie 
 tresses of the school. 
 
 It was a glorious social event, looked forward 
 to through all the year, but it was not entirely 
 given up to the frivolous caperings of emanci 
 pated youth. It had, indeed, a utilitarian signifi 
 cance and importance in the minds of the host 
 esses. It was, in fact, not all cakes and ale, though 
 cakes were plentiful and ale in the form of ne 
 gus and lemonade flowed freely. 
 
 Not only the " young ladies and gentlemen " of 
 9
 
 130 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 the scholastic establishment were invited, but 
 Mammas and Papas, and it was the Mammas and 
 Papas who were the serious feature of the enter 
 tainment. The Papas did not always appear, but 
 no Mamma was ever absent unless subdued by 
 mortal illness. Nothing- less would have kept 
 one away. Papas were deterred by much less 
 serious reasons. 
 
 Only an ex-pupil, chastened by the seriousness 
 of years, could possibly describe the splendor of 
 the scene. Until thus chastened, his adjectives 
 would get the better of him. 
 
 Something magic was done to the entire estab 
 lishment, which gave it a beautiful, awe-inspiring 
 air of not being the same house, and of having 
 nothing whatever to do with lessons ; in fact, with 
 anything at all but approaching holidays. Car 
 pets were taken up, furniture was moved from one 
 place to another, or whisked out of sight when it 
 was in the way. Holly was hung and wreathed 
 about pictures, there were pink and white paper 
 roses, and from the centre of the ceiling of the 
 transformed drawing-room there hung candidly a 
 fine piece of mistletoe. Round this room, against 
 the wall, sat the Mammas and such stray Papas as 
 had been overcome by a sense of paternal duty or 
 by domestic discipline. The Mammas were al 
 ways attired in their most imposing frocks. They 
 were frocks about which there was nothing frivo-
 
 The Party 131 
 
 lous black, or gray, or purple, or brown silks or 
 satins ; and if they wore caps which they usually 
 did their caps were splendid. My impression is 
 that the English mamma of that day dressed at 
 twenty as she did at fifty, and that gayety and 
 youth expressed themselves merely in caps, which 
 ventured on white lace, and pink or blue ribbon, 
 instead of black lace and purple or dark red. All 
 Mammas appeared the same age to the Small Per 
 son, and were alike regarded with the reverence 
 due to declining years. They formed an imposing 
 phalanx at the " Breaking-up." 
 
 " What are you going to wear at the Party ? " 
 every little girl asked every other little girl 
 some time during the weeks before the festal oc 
 casion. 
 
 What one wore was an exceedingly brief white, 
 or pink, or blue, or mauve frock, exceedingly 
 beautiful stockings, exceedingly new slippers, and 
 an exceedingly splendid sash and one s hair was 
 " clone " in the most magnificent way. Some had 
 crimps, some had curls, some had ribbons, some 
 had round combs. The Small Person had rows 
 and rows of curls, and a round comb to keep them 
 out of her eyes. 
 
 The little boys had Eton jackets, broad and 
 spotless collars, and beautiful blue and red bows 
 for neckties. It was also the fashionable thing 
 for the straight-haired ones to be resplendently
 
 132 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 curled by the hairdresser, which gave a finish 
 ing touch to their impressively shining and gala 
 air. 
 
 The pink and blue and white frocks and sashes 
 only added to the elated delight of the little girls, 
 1 am sure. They enjoyed their slippers and tiny 
 white kid gloves (they had only one button then), 
 and were excited by their little lockets and neck 
 laces, but I do not think the boys enjoyed their 
 collars and new jackets, or ever forgot that their 
 hair had been curled, until they reached the 
 supper-room and were handed oranges and tipsy- 
 cake. 
 
 But these exhilarations were not reached until 
 the serious business of the evening was over. It 
 was very serious to the Small Person. She dis 
 liked it definitely, and never felt that the "Break- 
 ing-up " had begun until her share of it was over. 
 To walk into the middle of the room, to make 
 one s most finished little courtesy, and then, stand 
 ing, surrounded by a circle of Mammas in their 
 best caps, to " say a piece of poetry," was not an 
 agreeable thing. I do not think her performance 
 ever distinguished itself by any special dramatic 
 intelligence. I know she was always devoutly 
 glad when it was over and she could make the 
 final courtesy and hastily retire. She also felt the 
 same sense of relief when she had struck the last 
 chord of the show "piece" she was expected to
 
 The Party 133 
 
 play upon the piano, and reached the last note of 
 her exhibition song. When one reflects that each 
 music pupil was called upon for a like perform 
 ance, and that numberless careful recitations 
 were given, it is, perhaps, not unnatural that 
 Papas were not plentiful. But not a Mamma 
 flinched. 
 
 But after all this was over the Christmas Hol 
 idays had begun. The short frocks and sashes 
 danced quadrilles and round dances with the 
 Eton jackets and spotless broad collars. There 
 was a Christmas-tree in the school -room and 
 upon and beneath it were such prizes as meri 
 torious efforts had gained for accomplishments 
 or good conduct. In the dining-room there were 
 sandwiches and cake and oranges, and crackers 
 with mottoes within expressive of deep and ten 
 der emotions. One jumped very much when 
 they went off, and the daring exchanged mottoes 
 with each other. Cowslip wine flowed freely, 
 and there was negus with bits of lemon floating 
 in it in fact, one felt one s self absorbed in the 
 whirling vortex of society, and wondered how 
 grown-up people, to whom Parties were compar 
 atively every -day affairs, could possibly walk 
 calmly on the surface of the earth. The Break- 
 ing-up was a glittering a brilliant thing. 
 
 And it was only the beginning. 
 
 All through the three weeks holiday there
 
 134 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 were other entertainments almost as brilliant. 
 They would have been quite as brilliant only 
 that they were not the " Breaking-up." Even- 
 little boy or girl, whose Mamma could indulge 
 in such a luxury, gave a Christmas Party. They 
 were all called Christmas Parties during these 
 holidays. And through all these festivities the 
 Small Person was conscious of a curious fatality 
 which pursued her, and which is perhaps worth 
 recording because it was a thing so human, 
 though she did not in the least comprehend its 
 significance. 
 
 Each time that a note arrived " hoping to have 
 the pleasure " of her company and that of her 
 sisters and brothers wild exhilaration reigned. 
 Everybody began to be excited at once. A party 
 seemed a thing it was impossible to wait patiently 
 for. It got into one s head and one s body, and 
 made one dance about instead of walking. I do 
 not think this resulted from anticipation of the 
 polkas and games or the negus and tipsy-cake, or 
 was absolutely a consequence of the prospect of 
 donning the white frock and sash and slippers it 
 was the Party that did it. Perhaps young birds 
 who have just learned to fly, young ducks in their 
 first plunge into a pond, young chanticleers who 
 have discovered they can crow, may feel some 
 thing of the same elation and delight. It was 
 the Party !
 
 7 7ie Party 135 
 
 And when such eventful evenings arrived what 
 a scene the Nursery presented ! How intoxicat 
 ing the toilette was from the bath to the snap 
 ping of the clasp of the necklace which was the 
 final touch ! How one danced about, and broke 
 into involuntary outbursts of romps with one s 
 sisters ! How impossible it was to stand still 
 while one s hair was curled, and how the poor 
 nurse and governess reproached, reasoned, im 
 plored for decorum, and at intervals appealed to 
 one s Mamma, who came in intending to restore 
 order with a word, and entering amid the chaos 
 of frocks and sashes and unbridled rapture, was 
 overwhelmed by its innocent uncontrollableness, 
 and said, without any real severity at all : 
 
 " Now, cJiildren ! You really must be quiet and 
 let yourselves be dressed ! You will never be 
 ready for the Party ! " 
 
 The last awful possibility usually restored order 
 for a few seconds, but it was impossible that it 
 should last long. Nature was too much for one. 
 
 The picture of the Nursery on such occasions is 
 one of those which remain to me. The bright 
 fire, which danced itself, the numberless small 
 garments scattered about, the Party frocks whose 
 sacredness entitled them to places apart which 
 seemed quite like Altars, the sashes lying on top 
 of them, the three unrestrainable small persons 
 darting about in various stages of undress, the
 
 1 36 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 nurse pursuing them with a view to securing 
 buttons or putting on slippers, the mirror in 
 which one saw reflected an excited, glorified 
 Party face, with large, dancing eyes, and round 
 
 cheeks which were no other shade than crimson 
 or scarlet. These are the details. 
 
 But the clasp of the necklace snapped at last, 
 the small white glove was buttoned, the small 
 wrap enfolded one s splendor, and the minute
 
 The Party 137 
 
 after one was rolling through the streets, going 
 to the Party. 
 
 And then one was standing upon the steps and 
 the front door was opened, revealing a glittering 
 scene within, where numberless muslin or tarla 
 tan frocks and Eton jackets passed up and down 
 the enchanted staircase, or hesitated shyly until 
 some hospitable person took charge of their tim 
 idity. 
 
 To-day even in the manufacturing towns in 
 England the entertainments given to youth are 
 probably not of a nature as substantial as they 
 were then. They were not matters of mere ices 
 and fruits and salads then. By no means. The 
 Small Person herself, who was the proprietor of a 
 noble and well-rounded appetite, was frequently 
 conscious of staggering a little under the civilities 
 of hospitality. The sad, the tragic truth which is 
 the sting of life that one can have Enough, and 
 that after it one wants no more more than once 
 touched her with a shade of gentle, though un 
 consciously significant, melancholy. She realized 
 no occult illustration and thought it a mere mat 
 ter of cakes. 
 
 First there was tea. One sat with all the Party 
 at long tables. There were very buttery muffins 
 and crumpets and Sally-lunns, and preserves and 
 jellies and marmalade, and currant cake, and pot 
 ted shrimps and potted beef, and thin bread-and-
 
 138 77ie One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 butter and toast, and tea and coffee, and biscuits, 
 and one was asked to eat them all, whether one 
 was capable of it or not. 
 
 " Have another piece of muffin, dear," the 
 mamma of the occasion would say, with pressing 
 bounteousness. " Oh, come, you must, love just 
 one piece and some more strawberry jam ; you 
 have not made a good tea at all. Jane," to the 
 parlor-maid, " muffins and strawberry jam for 
 Miss Frances." And her voice was always so 
 amiable, and it was so hard to persist in saying, 
 " No, thank you, Mrs. Jones," with all the Party 
 looking on, that one tried again until it could only 
 have been through a special intervention of Provi 
 dence that appalling consequences did not ensue. 
 And then when that was over one went into the 
 drawing-room, which was decorated with holly 
 and mistletoe, and where the party frocks and 
 Eton jackets at first exhibited a tendency to fight 
 shy of each other and collect in polite little groups 
 until somebody grown up interfered and made 
 them dance quadrilles or play " Hunt the Slipper" 
 or " Old Soldier." After that they began to en 
 joy themselves. They were not precociously con 
 ventional young persons. His first awkwardness 
 worn off, the Eton Jacket had no hesitation in 
 crossing the floor to the particular White Frock 
 seeming desirable to him. 
 
 " Will you dance this waltz with me ? " he
 
 The Party 
 
 would say. Upon which the White Frock would 
 either reply : 
 
 " Yes, I will," or, " I ve promised Jemmy Daw- 
 son," in which latter case the Eton Jacket cheer 
 fully went and invited somebody else. 
 
 There were a great many polkas and schot- 
 tisches. These, in fact, were rather the popular 
 dances. They 
 were considered 
 better fun than 
 quadrilles. The 
 Party danced 
 them until it be 
 came quite hot, 
 and the Eton 
 jackets were con 
 strained to apply 
 handkerchiefs to 
 their heated 
 brows. To sub 
 due this heat and 
 
 sustain exhausted nature, trays of lemonade and 
 negus and oranges and little cakes appeared, 
 borne by servant-maids in Party caps with rib 
 bons. It was not supposed that a party could 
 subsist on air and supper would not be an 
 nounced until nearly eleven. The oranges were 
 cut in quarters and halves so that they might be 
 easily managed, the negus was usually in a re-
 
 i.|o 77/6 One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 splendent bowl with a ladle in it. Then the danc 
 ing began again and there were more games and 
 the festivities became more and more brilliant. 
 The White Frocks whirled about with the Eton 
 Jackets, they were candidly embraced under the 
 mistletoe, the grown-up people looked on and 
 commented upon them in undertones and some 
 times laughed a great deal. Sometimes in danc 
 ing past a group one heard some one say, " Em 
 my dances very well," or " How pretty Ma 
 rian is ! " or " Very fine boy, Jack Leslie ! " 
 And if one were Emmy or Marian or Jack 
 one blushed and tried to look as if one had not 
 heard. 
 
 It was generally in the midst of this whirl of 
 frocks and sashes, the gay strains of the dance- 
 music, the chattering, laughing voices, that the 
 Small Person found herself beset by that fatality 
 which has been referred to. It was a curious 
 thought Avhich gave her a sense of restlessness 
 she did not like. 
 
 She was very fond of dancing. She was an 
 excitable Small Person, and the movement, the 
 music, the rhythm of it all exalted her greatly. 
 She was never tired and was much given to en 
 tering into agreements with other White Frocks 
 and Eton Jackets to see which could outdance 
 the other. It was an exciting thing to do. One 
 danced until one s cheeks w r ere scarlet and one s
 
 The Party 141 
 
 heart beat, but one never gave up until some one 
 in authority interfered. 
 
 Having stopped laughing and panting and 
 standing with her hand against her little side as 
 she watched the kaleidoscopic whirl, the music 
 and voices and laughter filling her ears, she so 
 often found she was asking herself a question, " Is 
 this the Party ? " 
 
 It seemed as if something in her insisted on 
 realizing that the joy looked forward to with 
 such excitement had absolutely materialized. 
 
 " Is this really the Party ?" she would say men 
 tally. And then, to convince herself, to make it 
 real, " Yes, this is the Party. I am at the Party. 
 I have my Party frock on they are all dancing. 
 This is the Party." 
 
 And yet as she stood and stared, and the gay 
 sashes floated by, she was restlessly conscious of 
 not being quite convinced and satisfied, and of 
 something which was saying, 
 
 " Yes we are all here. It looks real, but 
 somehow it doesn t seem exactly as if it was the 
 Party." 
 
 And one does it all one s life. Everybody 
 dances, everybody hears the music, everybody 
 some time wears a sash and a necklace and 
 watches other White Frocks whirling by but 
 was there ever any one who really went to the 
 Party ?
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TJic Wedding 
 
 A " GROWN-UP young lady " was a very won 
 derful being. She wore a long frock, sometimes 
 with numbers of flounces, she went to church in 
 a bonnet made of tulle and flowers, or velvet and 
 little plumes, she had rings on and possessed a 
 watch and chain. It was thrilling to contemplate 
 her from afar. It seemed impossible that one 
 could ever attain such dazzling eminence one s 
 self. She went to Balls. No one knew what a 
 Ball was, but it was supposed to be a specially 
 magnificent and glorified kind of Party. At Balls 
 grown-up gentlemen in dress suits, and with rare 
 flowers in their buttonholes, danced with the 
 young ladies w r ho wore ethereal dresses, and per 
 haps wreaths, and who carried bouquets. These 
 resplendent and regal beings talked to each other. 
 One did not know what they talked about, but 
 one was sure that their conversation was at once 
 sparkling, polished, and intellectual beyond meas 
 ure, something like grammar, geography, and 
 arithmetic set with jewels of noble sentiment and 
 brilliant repartee. Only the most careful applica-
 
 The Wedding 143 
 
 lion to the study of one s lessons, one s morals, 
 and one s manners could fit one to presume to 
 think that in coming ages one might aspire to 
 mingle with such society. 
 
 The proprietresses of the school at which the 
 Small Person spent her early educational years 
 were young ladies. But no one in the school 
 would have been irreverent enough to realize 
 this. Representing as they did education, author 
 ity, information of the vastest, and experience of 
 the most mature dignity, one could not connect 
 the insignificance of youth with them. One of 
 them was perhaps twenty-three, the other twenty- 
 four or five, and though neither wore caps, and 
 both wore ringlets, as the Mammas all seemed of 
 equal age, so these two young ladies seemed to be 
 of ripe years. One day, indeed, there was a grave 
 discussion among the little girls as to what age 
 these dignified persons had attained, and one of 
 them heard it. 
 
 She was really a rounded, sparkling - eyed, 
 rather Hebe-like little creature, with a profusion 
 of wonderful black ringlets. It was the hour of 
 ringlets. 
 
 " And how old do you think I am ? " she in 
 quired of one of her pupils. 
 
 She was looking at them from behind her table, 
 with rather amused eyes, and suddenly the Small 
 Person, who was regarding her, became subtly
 
 144 The One I Knew tJie Best of All 
 
 conscious of a feeling that it was possible that she 
 was younger than the Mammas. " How old ? " 
 said the girl who had been asked. " Well 1 
 should think of course I don t know, but I should 
 think about forty." 
 
 It was interesting, but seemed rather unnatural 
 that their friends and companions seemed to be 
 real young ladies. Was it possible that there 
 were real young ladies whose recreation consisted 
 in talking about Roman emperors, the boundaries 
 of Europe, the date when Richard I. began to 
 reign, Lindley Murray s impressions on the sub 
 ject of personal pronouns, and the result of the 
 " coming over " of William the Conqueror ? 
 Could it be that when they took tea together 
 they liked to be asked suddenly, " Who was the 
 first King of all England ? " or " What is Mac- 
 clesfield noted for?" or "Where are the Oural 
 Mountains?" 
 
 It seemed as if it would be more than human 
 nature could endure to have such delicate ques 
 tions as these pressed and dwelt upon, in com 
 bination with muffins and thin bread-and-butter, 
 but what else could they talk about ? Uneducated 
 flippancies were impossible. 
 
 A faint suggestion of other possibilities was 
 shadowed forth in the imaginative mind of the 
 Small Person by her introduction one day to two 
 pink silk dresses. Thev were shown to her bv
 
 The Wedding 145 
 
 the little sister of the two teachers, and they were 
 to be worn by these sedate persons to a Ball. 
 
 The ladies were the elder daughters of one of 
 the unwidowed gentlemen in reduced circum 
 stances. He had begun life as a presumable heir 
 to an old estate and fortune. Fate had played 
 him a curious trick which disinherited him, and 
 ended in his living in the Square, and in his 
 daughters keeping a " select seminary for young 
 ladies and gentlemen." But they had relatives 
 on whom Fate had not played tricks, and there 
 were some young ladies in beautiful little bonnets, 
 who were their cousins, and who came to see 
 them, in a carriage, and were considered radiant. 
 
 " The carriage from Grantham Hall is standing 
 before the Hatleigh s door," some child would 
 announce to another. " Let us go and walk past. 
 It is Miss Eliza who is in it, and you know she s 
 the prettiest. She has a lavender silk frock on 
 and a lace parasol." 
 
 There were legends of marvellous enjoyments at 
 Grantham Hall. Perhaps they were all results of 
 the imaginations of tender years, but they con 
 tinually floated in the air. Perhaps the younger 
 sisters were rather proud of the possession of 
 cousins who went to Balls and had such bonnets. 
 
 But it is a fact without doubt that the two pink 
 silk frocks were preparation for some gala event 
 at Grantham. 
 10
 
 146 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The Best Friend was one of the younger sisters 
 (their name was legion), and it was she who first 
 imparted to the Small Person the thrilling con 
 fidence that Sister and Janey had each a beautiful 
 pink frock to wear at the party at Grantham. 
 
 " They are both lying on the bed in the spare 
 bedroom," said the Best Friend. " The party is 
 to-night, and they are all ready to put on. I 
 wish Sister would let me take you in to look at 
 them." 
 
 The little lady who was supposed to be forty 
 was always called " Sister." She was the eldest 
 of a family of nine. On being appealed to she 
 was sufficiently indulgent to give permission to 
 the Best Friend to exhibit the festal glories. 
 
 So the Small Person was taken into the spare 
 bedroom. It was no trivial incident. The two 
 pink silk frocks lay upon the bed, the waiting 
 wings of two brilliant butterflies, at the moment 
 setting copies in a chrysalis state. They had 
 numberless tiny flounces " pinked out" in lovely 
 little scallops round the edge, they had short 
 puffs for sleeves, and they had low bodices with 
 berthas of tulle and tiny rosebuds around them. 
 
 The Small Person positively blushed with ad 
 miration and rapture. How could Sister, being 
 attired in a thing like this, lift her dark eyes to 
 the grown-up gentleman waltzing with her and 
 say to him with proper firmness :
 
 The Wedding 
 
 " Fifteen from fifty-seven and how many re 
 main ?" 
 
 The Small Person felt it would be impossible, 
 though she knew nothing whatever of the circum 
 stances under which it was 
 not impossible for a very 
 bold grown-up gentleman 
 to say : 
 
 " My charming Sis 
 ter, my education 
 has been neglect 
 ed, but if you 
 will give me !j.;| 
 
 the fifty-sev 
 en and per- 
 m i t m e
 
 148 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 to take the fifteen away, 1 will endeavor to calcu 
 late." 
 
 It might easily have been Sister and Janey who 
 were the principal features of the two marriages 
 which were the first nuptial ceremonies appear 
 ing upon the stage of the Small Person s existence. 
 But it was two of the cousins who were the 
 brides two of the young ladies from Grantham 
 Hall. 
 
 Rumors of the approaching ceremonies being 
 whispered in the school-room, the most thrilling 
 interest was awakened. The prospect was more 
 exciting than the breaking-up itself. There was 
 something at once festive and imposing about 
 it. Opinions as to the nature of the ceremony 
 were numerous and varied. No one had ever 
 attended a wedding, and yet somehow nearlv 
 everyone could supply some detailed informa 
 tion. 
 
 Whispered conversation on the subject could 
 not be wholly repressed, even by authority. 
 From some mysterious reliable source it was as 
 certained that the principal features of the sacred 
 contract were that the grown-up young lady wore 
 a singularly resplendent and ethereal white frock, 
 that she was wreathed with orange-blossoms and 
 adorned with a white veil accompanied by a 
 splendid bouquet and a grown-up gentleman. 
 The grown-up gentleman was not dwelt upon par-
 
 77ic Wedding 149 
 
 ticularly ; one always asked of the bride, " Is she 
 pretty ? " but nobody ever inquired if he was 
 pretty. He seemed immaterial, so to speak, and 
 when not slurred over he seemed somehow to be 
 regarded with some slight vague distrust. 
 
 Every pupil knew what the bride was going to 
 be dressed in, what her veil was made of, what 
 flowers were to compose her bouquet, but no in 
 terest whatever was felt in the possible costume 
 of the grown-up gentleman. 
 
 The Small Person, while interested in him as a 
 mystery, was conscious that he was regarded as a 
 sort of necessary flaw in the occasion. The Story 
 gave him interest to her. She had never seen 
 him, but recollections of Ernest Maltravers, Quen- 
 tin Durward, and the Master of Ravenswood gave 
 him a nebulous form. The wedding was to be a 
 double one, the two sisters being married at once, 
 consequently there were two grown-up gentlemen 
 involved, and it was rather soul-stirring to hear a 
 vague rumor that one of them who was very 
 handsome, having dark eyes and a straight nose 
 was not smiled upon by the bride s papa, and 
 that he had forced his way to the altar through 
 serious parental opposition. He was not consid 
 ered a sufficiently staid and well-to-do grown-up 
 gentleman. There were suggestions of the Mas 
 ter of Ravenswood in this. 
 
 " I wonder if they like each other very much ? "
 
 150 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 this sentimental little Person rather timidly in 
 quired. 
 
 But no one seemed to know anything beautiful 
 and romantic about it, so she combined with his 
 straight nose and dark eyes the misfortunes and 
 attributes of all the heroes in the " Secretaire," 
 and found it thrilling that he was on the point of 
 leading to the shrine the veil and the orange-blos 
 soms, and thus being made happy forever after. 
 
 What a morning it was when the wedding took 
 place. There were no lessons. The two young 
 teachers were to be among the bridemaids. They 
 were to wear veils and wreaths themselves, and 
 several of the most decorous little girls were 
 going to the church to look at them. They went 
 in a body, attired in their best frocks and feeling 
 quite light-headed with their exalted sense of an 
 ticipation. 
 
 The sun was shining brilliantly, everything was 
 shining brilliantly one felt. The cabs and omni 
 buses seemed to rattle by with a gay, rather reck 
 less air, the passers-by moved more briskly than 
 usual, in fact there was in the atmosphere a sug 
 gestion that everybody and everything must be 
 going to a wedding. Everybody of course must 
 know about it and be interested, indeed there 
 were evidences of interest in the fact that as 
 people passed by they nearly always glanced at 
 the open church door, and a few rather shabby
 
 The Wedding \ 5 i 
 
 persons having loitered about the entrance, their 
 number continued adding to itself until they 
 formed a waiting group. 
 
 The Small Person and her companions waited 
 also. Nobody could have thought of going into 
 the church until the carriages had arrived and 
 they had seen everybody get out, not to mention 
 the fact that being inexperienced they were timid 
 and lacked the courage to take any bold steps. 
 They stood very much in awe of an official in a 
 sort of gown who was known as the " Parroter," 
 and whose function it was to show people to 
 pews on Sunday and look pained and annoyed 
 when little boys sneezed too frequently or drop 
 ped things. 
 
 " Perhaps the Parroter wouldn t let us in," said 
 someone. " Dare you ask him?" 
 
 But nobody dared do anything until the bridal 
 party arrived. It seemed as if it would never 
 come. The waiting in the street seemed to last 
 hours and hours, and was filled with tumultuous 
 agitations caused by false alarms that the car 
 riages were coming. 
 
 " Here they are ! Here they are ! " somebody 
 would cry. " I m sure that s a carriage turning 
 the corner down the street. Don t you see it?" 
 And then everyone became elated and moved ner 
 vously for fear she had not a good place, and 
 pulses quickened and hearts beat and the car-
 
 152 77/6 One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 riage probably turned out to be a cab. They 
 wandered up and down restlessly to make the 
 time pass more quickly, and one or two bold 
 spirits even went and peeped into the church, 
 but retired precipitately at the approach of the 
 " Parroter." The Small Person after what ap 
 peared to her some sixteen hours of suspense 
 and agitation was pervaded by an awful se 
 cret fear that at the last moment Quentinravens- 
 woodmaltravers had been forever tabooed by 
 his bride s family and there would be no wedding 
 at all. 
 
 But at last, at last the bells began to ring that 
 loud, gay, hilarious wedding-chime, the bell-notes 
 seeming to race and tumble over each other in 
 their hurry to be joyful. 
 
 There was something curiously intoxicating 
 about it. It was the Party over again only more 
 than the Party. The Small Person looked up at 
 the bell-tower and the blue sky behind it. What 
 exquisite blue sky ! What soft little fleecy white 
 clouds ! What a beautiful day ! " Happy is the 
 bride that the sun shines on." Someone had said 
 that, and the sun was shining! The carriages 
 were there and the crowd about her was stirring 
 with excited curiosity. But she saw only vapor 
 ous whiteness and flowers and dowagers rich 
 colors, with blots of grown-up gentlemen. The 
 sun was shining, the bells were chiming, the
 
 The Wedding 153 
 
 church was filling . Happy was the bride that 
 the sun shone on. But all brides were hap 
 py ? The sun always shone on them. What a 
 strange, delightful, exalting event it was to be 
 Married ! 
 
 She never knew how she was led or dragged or 
 hustled into the church. Some other little girl 
 more practical and executive than herself man 
 aged her. But presently she was there, ensconced 
 in a high pew in the cathedral grayness. The 
 church was a cathedral and impressed her deeply. 
 She felt religious and wondered if she ought not 
 to say her prayers. She was not calm enough to 
 see detail she was too emotional a Small Person, 
 and this was the first time she had seen anyone 
 married. The vaporous whiteness, the floating 
 veils and flowers were grouped about the altar, 
 the minister seemed to be taking the brides and 
 the grown-up gentlemen to task at some length. 
 He called them Dearly Beloved, but appeared to 
 address rather severe warnings to them. T-he 
 Small Person had a vague feeling that he was of 
 the opinion that they would come to a bad end if 
 not admonished in time. She hoped they would 
 not particularly Quentinravenswoodmaltravers, 
 whose straight nose she had been too deeply 
 moved to single out from the rest. For a moment 
 or so she felt that it was so solemn to be married 
 that it was almost conducive to low spirits. But
 
 154 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 she cheered up after the minister appeared to 
 have relented and let them off and they moved 
 away to the vestry. Then there was a stir among 
 the spectators, which soon became a bustle, and 
 she was led or dragged or hustled out into the 
 sunshine and renewed joyous clangor of the bells. 
 
 There was a great bustle outside. The crowd 
 of lookers-on had increased, and a policeman was 
 keeping it back, while the carriages stood in line 
 and closed up one by one as the floating frocks 
 and veils, and dowagers velvets and satins, and 
 blots of grown-up gentlemen filled them, and were 
 driven away. The Small Person watched it all as 
 in a dream. The bells raced and clamored, the 
 sun shone brighter than ever. She was only a 
 Small Person who had really nothing to do with 
 these splendors and who no more contemplated 
 the magnificent prospect of being married herself 
 than she contemplated being crowned in West 
 minster Abbey. Such glories as these were only 
 for grown-up people. But they were beautiful- 
 beautiful ! 
 
 The young ladies who had been married in 
 full panoply of white satin and wreaths and veils 
 were each handed into a carriage by the grown 
 up gentleman they belonged to, who got into the 
 carriage also. 
 
 After they had all driven away, the bells had 
 ceased their clamor, and the crowd dispersed, one
 
 The Wedding 155 
 
 sharp-eyed little person made a most interesting 
 statement : 
 
 " I saw in as their carriage drove past," she an 
 nounced, " and he had Miss Grantham s head on 
 his shoulder." 
 
 " Which one was it ?" inquired the Small Per 
 son. She was sure it was Quentinravenswoodmal- 
 travers. 
 
 And inquiry proved that it was.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Strange Thing 
 
 IT seems inevitable that each individual, in look 
 ing back to childhood and the school-room, should 
 recall distinct memories of certain children who 
 somehow stood out from among their fellows, 
 made prominent or set apart a little by some 
 beauty, strength, or cleverness, or some unattrac- 
 tiveness or disability. There is, perhaps, in every 
 school-room, the girl or boy who is handsome, 
 who has fine eyes or splendid hair, the one who 
 learns lessons with amazing quickness, the one 
 who is specially well-dressed and has an air of well- 
 being, the one who is dull or common-looking, the 
 one who is somehow commoner than anyone else, 
 the one who has an easy, fearless manner, and is 
 suspected of being the " favorite " of those in au 
 thority, the one, poor child, who is physically ugly 
 and unpleasant, and cannot rise against the fate 
 which has treated him so cruelly. 
 
 The Small Person knew each of these types. 
 She was not consciously an aristocratic little Per 
 son, but she had an intense, silent dislike to, and 
 impatience of, the " common " ones. She found
 
 The Strange Thing 157 
 
 them antipathetic to a degree which was trying, 
 as one of them happened to be amusing and 
 another really good-natured. She continually 
 tried to adjust herself to them, but the " common 
 ness" always interfered. It made the good-nat 
 ured one ridiculous and the amusing one odious 
 and unprincipled. Among the younger ones there 
 was a little boy who impressed her without actually 
 being interesting. He was not clever, he was not 
 pretty, he was not engaging. He was an inoffen 
 sive little fellow, and set apart in her imagination 
 by a mysterious unfortunateness. As I look back 
 I think it possible that he was really a shy and 
 gentle little fellow, on whom one s maturity might 
 look with great tenderness. The Small Person 
 felt a vague kindliness for him, though she was 
 not at all intimate with him. 
 
 " He is very delicate," people said of him, and 
 she could not but regard him with a sort of curi- 
 ousness. She was not delicate, no one belonging 
 to her was delicate. She belonged to a family of 
 romping, red-blooded creatures, and the idea of 
 being " delicate " seemed mysterious as well as 
 mournful. 
 
 And he had such a strange, unnatural look. He 
 was slight and insignificant, light-haired and gray- 
 eyed, and he had a peculiarity marked among the 
 groups of plump and rosy juveniles about him 
 instead of being pink or rose-colored, his cheeks
 
 158 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 and lips were bluish purple. They were distinct 
 ly far from the normal color. They were not red 
 at all, and sometimes they looked quite violet. 
 
 " What a queer color Alfie s lips are," was often 
 said. " Isn t it funny ? They re blue, and so are 
 his cheeks." 
 
 And then someone would say wisely, and rather 
 proud of the superior knowledge : 
 
 " It s because he has heart disease. I heard Miss 
 Janey speaking about it. He may die quite sud 
 denly." 
 
 And then someone would know stories of peo 
 ple who had died suddenly, and would relate them, 
 and a sense of awe would pervade everybody, as 
 it always did when Death was spoken of though 
 it was so impossible, so impossible that any of them 
 selves could die. People did die, of course, peo 
 ple who had lived to be quite old, or who had 
 caught scarlet fever in some phenomenal way, but 
 somehow they seemed to belong to a world quite 
 far off and quite different to the one in which one s 
 self lived to the w r orld of the Nursery and the 
 Square, and the Schoolroom where one did one s 
 sums wrong and could not remember the date of 
 Henry VIII. s marriage with Anne Boleyn. Oh, 
 no, that would be too incongruous ! 
 
 It gave the Small Person a curious feeling to try 
 to realize that the plain, quiet little boy with the 
 blue lips might die die quite suddenly. Once she
 
 The Strange Thing 159 
 
 gave him a new slate-pencil because of it, though 
 she did not tell him why, and was perhaps scarce 
 ly definite herself about it. She used to forget 
 her geography in looking at him questioningly 
 when he did not see her. 
 
 It must have been one of the " common " ones 
 who one morning came to her, wearing an air of 
 excited elation in her consciousness of having 
 startling news to impart, and who greeted her 
 with 
 
 " Have you heard about Alfie Burns?" 
 " No," she answered ; " what about him? " 
 " He s dead" said the news-bearer. " He wasn t 
 at school yesterday and he died this morning." 
 
 So the Strange Thing came among them into 
 the school-room among the forms and desks and 
 battered books, making itself in an unreal way as 
 real as the ink-stands and slate-pencils. It had 
 come to Alfie Burns, with his little ordinary face 
 and lank hair, and yet it still remained impossible. 
 It had come to Alfie Burns but it could not come 
 to any of the rest of them. Somehow he must 
 have been " different." He was " delicate " and 
 had that queer color. At any rate he was " differ 
 ent " now, and seemed impossible, too. There was 
 a curious intense craving for detail among the 
 older ones. Everyone wanted to know how he 
 had died, and if he had said anything. In the 
 books of memoirs the little boy or girl always
 
 i6o The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 said " last words," which were a sort of final script 
 ural or instructive effort. They were usually 
 like this: 
 
 " Father," said James, between his paroxysms of 
 agony, " try to be a better man that you may meet 
 me in Heaven." 
 
 " Brother Thomas," said Mary Ann, faintly, " do 
 as mother tells you and obey your Sabbath-school 
 teacher." 
 
 " Please do not swear any more, Uncle William 
 Henry," said little Jane, as her mother wiped 
 the death-damp from her brow. " I shall be in 
 Heaven in a few minutes and I want you to 
 come." 
 
 Remembering these things one wondered what 
 Alfie s " last words " had been. It would have 
 seemed almost impossible that anyone could die 
 without last words. Wicked people always ex 
 pired in frightful torment, using profane language 
 or crying for mercy or writhing with remorse be 
 cause they had not been better before they were 
 taken ill. Alfie had been a sort of indefinite, in 
 significant little boy. He was not naughty, but 
 his goodness had a passive negative quality and 
 lie never reproved or instructed anyone. So it 
 was difficult to adjust one s self to the situation, 
 and imagine how the Strange Thing would find 
 him when it came. 
 
 And nobodv knew any detail. There seemed
 
 The Strange Thing 161 
 
 to be none. He had died, and of course it was 
 supposable that his parents had cried, and we 
 knew he would be buried. And though the event 
 was discussed and discussed from all points of 
 view this was all anyone knew. 
 
 No one had ever been to his house or seen his 
 parents. They were quiet business people who 
 did not belong to the Square, and, as far as the 
 school seemed to know, he had no brothers or sis 
 ters and must have had a rather dull life. He 
 did not seem to have any particular companions 
 or to invite people to his house to play or to have 
 tea with him. 
 
 According to all orthodox beliefs and in an 
 innocent way nothing could have been more or 
 thodox than all the school he had gone to 
 Heaven and was an Angel. 
 
 This the Small Person found a tremendous 
 problem to grasp. I know that it pervaded her 
 for days, and I wonder why she did not talk 
 about it to somebody grown up. Perhaps it 
 was her infant English habit of reserving her 
 sentiments and emotions, combined with her se 
 cret consciousness that she was so little and 
 that the grown-up people were so big that they 
 could not really understand one another s point 
 of view. Of course, to people who knew all 
 about Death and Heaven and Angels, her re 
 marks would seem silly and trivial perhaps
 
 1 62 The One I Kneiu the Best of AH 
 
 even disrespectful. She did not ask anything-, 
 but was oppressed and permeated by a vague 
 sadness and sense of unexplained things. 
 
 Heaven was a place without laws or boun 
 daries. Anything could be done there if one 
 once got in and everything was there. There 
 was a Great White Throne, there were streets 
 of gold, and walls built of " all manner of pre 
 cious stones." The stones she remembered 
 principally were the chalcedony and sardonyx, 
 sardius, chrysolite, beryl, and chrysoprasus, be 
 cause they had strange names, and she wondered 
 what color they were. And there was a Woman 
 on a " scarlet-colored beast, full of names of 
 blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns," 
 and though she was in Heaven she was "drunk 
 en with the blood of the saints." And there 
 were Dragons and Beasts, and there were El 
 ders and Pale Horses and Golden Candlesticks 
 and Golden Vials. And the Beasts were full of 
 eyes before and behind and had six wings each, 
 and the horses had breast-plates of fire and ja 
 cinth and brimstone, and heads of lions, and fire 
 and smoke came out of their mouths. It was all 
 in Revelations and so it was true. Heaven was 
 like that, and Alfie Burns had gone there out 
 of the school-room and the atmosphere of ink 
 stands and copy-books, from making mistakes 
 in his sums and cleaning his slate with an un-
 
 The Strange Thing 163 
 
 savory "slate -rag" or sponge, from looking 
 yearningly out at the other slates on the roofs to 
 see if it was raining and there was no prospect of 
 playing. And now suddenly he was an Angel and 
 wore wings. Wings seemed as impossible as the 
 Strange Thing which had happened to him. It 
 was so difficult to adjust them to his little blue- 
 lipped face and small, insignificant figure which 
 his clothes seemed always rather too large for. 
 
 " But he would be quite different," the Small 
 Person persisted obstinately to herself as her 
 only consolation. " He would be quite different 
 and he would be dressed in white robes." 
 
 The draperies she tried to see him in were 
 something of the nature of a very voluminous, 
 very white night-gown but at all events they 
 were " quite different." The interest of all this 
 is that what we begin with at seven we seem to 
 end with at seventy. How are we less vague 
 what more do we know ? Nothing nothing 
 nothing, but that whatever it is wherever it is 
 it is " quite different." 
 
 In the years which lie between we have learned 
 more geography, more astronomy, we have 
 learned that the blue is space and the clouds 
 are vapor, but what more definite, but that we 
 clamor for something, we plead for something, 
 we must have something, we ought to have some 
 thing " quite different."
 
 164 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Somebody probably it was the executive, 
 practical little girl who had had the energy and 
 ability to hustle the vague Small Person into the 
 church at the Grantham wedding somebody 
 proposed that two or three select ones should go 
 to Alfie s home and ask to be allowed to " see " 
 him. 
 
 The Small Person was awed. She wanted 
 very much to see him what was left of him 
 after he had become an angel. " His soul has 
 gone to Heaven, his body is only dust," that was 
 what was always said. She somehow wanted to 
 look at the poor little body which was only dust. 
 
 " Perhaps we oughtn t to go," she said, timor 
 ously. " Perhaps they won t like us to see him." 
 
 But she was taken. Somebody else had been 
 and nobody had seemed to dislike their going. 
 The Small Person, I have frequently reflected, 
 was always taken to places. She was not a strong 
 Small Person, except in unsuspected powers of 
 keeping quiet under some strong emotions, and 
 in possessing a certain silent steadiness of pur 
 pose when she meant to do a thing. Perhaps 
 her strength was and always has been that she 
 quite unconsciously looked as if she meant noth 
 ing while she really meant a great deal. But 
 that was probably far less a moral or mental qual 
 ity than a gift amiably bestowed by Nature in a 
 lavish moment. The leading spirits took her to
 
 The Strange Thing 165 
 
 the place under their charge. Afterward she did 
 not seem to remember anything about the house, 
 even its entrance or stairway anything but a 
 certain dull, dreary little front parlor in it. This 
 was most likely because she remembered the lit 
 tle dismal room and what was there so strangely 
 well. 
 
 It was such a dull, unpicturesque room, small 
 and unadorned, and dreary beyond measure. At 
 least so it seemed to the Small Person, though 
 she saw no detail of it but a stiff horsehair-cov 
 ered sofa against a wall. On this sofa lay some 
 thing covered with a white sheet. This was what 
 they had come to see. Somehow the room, the 
 sofa, the whole atmosphere of the colorless dul- 
 ness seemed like the little unornamental fellow 
 himself, with his lank hair, his ill-fitting clothes, 
 and his mild, small, unattractive, bluish face. The 
 person who had taken charge of them drew the 
 white sheet away, and the Small Person saw the 
 Strange Thing for the first time, with an awful 
 sense of desolateness and depression. 
 
 Even the Strange Thing had not left the poor 
 little fellow beautiful. He seemed to have grown 
 very long ; he was clothed in an awesome gar 
 ment of bluish white flannel, with ornamentation 
 of ugly stamped scalloped edges ; in accordance 
 with some belated grewsome fashion he had on 
 a strange muslin night-cap, whose stiff crimped
 
 1 66 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 frill border made an unlovely setting- for his poor 
 little still bluish face. It looked more dusky than 
 ever in its strange blue color, and his lips were 
 almost violet. A line of lifeless gray showed 
 itself under the not entirely closed lids. 
 
 The Small Person stood and looked down at 
 this with "a rather awful feeling. She did not 
 know what she had expected to see, but this 
 made her heart beat with dreary throbs. It was 
 not that she was exactly frightened, on the whole 
 she was not as frightened as she had expected to 
 be when she came face to face with the Strange 
 Thing, but she felt an indescribable awed dreari 
 ness. She also wondered why she did not begin 
 to cry. She had imagined that at the sight of 
 the Strange Thing one would inevitably begin to 
 cry. She wondered if it was because she had no 
 heart that she did not. Ought one really to sob 
 bitterly at the sight of a little boy one had not 
 known at all well, and of whom one chiefly re 
 membered that he had heart disease and blue 
 lips? 
 
 " He is an Angel," she kept insisting, mentally. 
 " He has gone to Heaven." 
 
 The girl who had taken her to the house whis 
 pered to her, telling her to touch him. She had 
 touched him herself, and so had the others. This 
 appeared to be part of a ceremony. The Small 
 Person shrank very much. She felt that it would
 
 The Strange Thing 
 
 167 
 
 be an awful thing to do. And yet she had heard 
 so much about a certain strange coldness colder 
 than anything else not the same thing as any 
 other coldness as " cold as Death." There was 
 a fearsome longing to know what it was like. 
 
 And if one touched what the Strange Thing had 
 left, one did not dream about it. One could not 
 bear the thought of dreaming of the small room, 
 the horsehair sofa, and the poor little unlovely 
 object with the frilled muslin cap and eyelids not 
 quite closed.
 
 1 68 
 
 She put out her hand and touched the unsmil 
 ing cheek. 
 
 " As cold as Death ! " It was not as cold as 
 she had imagined it would be. Not as cold as ice 
 or as cold as snow and yet and yet it was un 
 like anything else a soft chillness which some 
 how seemed to hold no possibility of its ever 
 being warmed. What she carried away from the 
 dreary little room when she left it was the mem 
 ory of that soft chillness and a sort of wonder at 
 herself because she had really seen the Strange 
 Thing. 
 
 " Poor little Alfie," the executive child said. 
 " I m very sorry for him, but he s better off." 
 The general opinion expressed was that every 
 body was " sorry " for him. It would have been 
 unfeeling not to be sorry. There was also the 
 greatest possible stress laid on the fact that he 
 had gone to Heaven, and these sentiments were 
 regarded as so incontrovertibly proper that it 
 would have occurred to no one to find their con 
 nection incompatible. Curious as it may seem, I 
 do not remember that the Small Person herself 
 did. An unquestioning acceptance of all axioms 
 was the feature of the period, and she was so full 
 of the mystery of the Strange Thing itself that 
 she could contemplate nothing less, though she 
 knew that she gained nothing by contemplating 
 that.
 
 The Strange Thing 169 
 
 But though she had seen it and so had the 
 others, though they had looked down at its rigid 
 ity, and touched its coldness with their warm 
 hands, though it had come into their very midst 
 to Alfie Burns, who was nobody particular, and 
 who had played and done his sums wrong just 
 like the rest of them they knew it could not 
 come to any of themselves ; they did not say so, 
 of course, but they were quite secure in it, and 
 were not afraid at all. 
 
 For the Small Person, perhaps, it was well that 
 it was not very long before it came again. I do 
 not know how long. But the second time it 
 wore another face, and was touching but not 
 grewsome. And it was better to see that it might 
 be so, than to remember always the grimness of 
 the ugly, dreary room better for anyone, far, 
 far better for a child with a vivid mind. 
 
 In the school there was a department for 
 younger children, quite little ones, who learned 
 their alphabet and played kindergarten games. 
 They had a room of their own and a teacher of 
 their own. There were some attractive mites 
 among them, and " the older ones," as the others 
 called themselves with a feeling of great matu 
 rity, had favorites and pets. 
 
 There was a tiny one who was the pet of all- 
 such a pretty pet and such a laughing one ! She 
 was three years old and had golden-brown eyes
 
 I/O 
 
 and little nut-brown curls on her small round 
 head. She was a merry thing, full of dimples, 
 and her brown-gold eyes were large and love- 
 cornpelling, and had long curling lashes. The 
 child pet of a school full of girls is a much loved 
 thing. This one was adored. Her lovers never 
 tired of praising her prettiness, her quaint little 
 movements, her eyelashes, her curls and eyes. 
 She was a little lovely one, and her tiny name 
 was Selina. 
 
 "Look at her!" everyone would exclaim when 
 a Kindergarten game was being played. "Oh, see 
 how pretty she is when she puts her teenty elbow 
 on her knee and leans her cheek on her hand to 
 show how the laborer rests. She keeps opening 
 her eyes and laughing. She can t keep them 
 shut." 
 
 This very game was played one Friday after 
 noon, and she was at her very prettiest and 
 quaintest. Earlier in the day, it was remem 
 bered afterward, she had been a little dull and 
 had not seemed quite herself, but in the after 
 noon she had brilliant rose-colored cheeks, and 
 her merry eyes were like stars. 
 
 "Isn t she a sweetie?" said the girls. "Isn t 
 she a little rogue ? Look at her peeping under 
 her eyelashes." 
 
 When the Small Person came to school on 
 Monday morning the door was opened for her
 
 The Strange Thing 171 
 
 by one of the elder girls of the family. She had 
 a curious shocked look in her eyes. 
 
 " Has anyone told you ? " she exclaimed. 
 " Have you heard about it?" 
 
 " Heard what ? " the Small Person faltered, 
 startled by her expression. 
 
 " Little Selina is dead ! Pretty little Selina ! " 
 
 And so the Strange Thing came again ! 
 
 This time the difficulty was to believe it to feel 
 that it could be true. 
 
 " Little Selina ! " the Small Person gasped. 
 " She she cant be ! Who told you ? On Fri 
 day she was playing the Haymaker game and she 
 kept peeping she could not keep her eyes shut 
 and we laughed so ! Selina ! " 
 
 " It s quite true," was the answer. " She was 
 ill then, though she had such red cheeks. Janey 
 said she hadn t seemed bright in the morning. 
 They say she hadn t been quite herself for a day 
 or so. She died at six this morning, and they 
 sent word by a servant. She zvas crying, poor 
 girl ! " 
 
 What a Strange Thing it was ! 
 
 In the school-room the children looked at each 
 other amazed. They were amazed that was it. 
 Each new comer uttered the same exclamation, 
 " Selina? " and then " Selina ! " As if it were too 
 incredible. They kept telling each other how 
 merry she had been when she played the Hay-
 
 172 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 maker game, how rosy her cheeks had looked, 
 how roguishly she had laughed. They kept 
 repeating that she was such a pretty little thing 
 and everybody loved her. And somehow there 
 was a tendency even in the common ones to 
 look bewildered and thoughtful, and exclaim, in 
 a puzzled, questioning undertone, " Selina ? Sc- 
 lina ! " 
 
 The Small Person found she was saying it to 
 herself all through the day. It had seemed 
 extraordinary that Alfie should be taken away, 
 even though they had all known about the heart 
 disease. It had been extraordinary because the 
 Strange Thing seemed to have nothing to do 
 with such people as themselves to be only pos 
 sible to people somehow quite remote and unlike 
 them. But there seemed a reason why Selina 
 should not be taken, the reason of herself, her 
 pretty, buoyant, dimpling, vivid self. What had 
 the awful thing to do with that ! It was unnat 
 ural. 
 
 " Selina ? Selina ! " 
 
 I think it was the velvet-eyed little Best Friend 
 and her younger sister who went with the Small 
 Person to the child s home, to see her, as they 
 had seen Alfie. It was the first time they had 
 ever been to the house. The children saw very 
 little of each other away from the school-room, 
 and Selina only appeared on the small horizon
 
 The Strange Thing 173 
 
 when her nurse brought her to the front door 
 and left her to pursue her tiny studies. 
 
 Of this house, also, the Small Person never 
 remembered anything afterward but one room, 
 which has remained a picture hung in the gallery 
 of life. 
 
 It was not a large room. It was a nursery bed 
 room, perhaps, though there was no bed in it, 
 only a little cot standing in the middle of it, and 
 prettily draped with white. 
 
 Everything in the room was white, covered 
 with pure white, hung with white, adorned with 
 white flowers mostly white rosebuds very ten 
 der little ones. It seemed like a little chapel of 
 snow, w^here one felt one must breathe softly. 
 
 And under the snowy draperies of the small cot, 
 among rosebuds which seemed to kiss it with their 
 petals, there was another little white thing lying. 
 
 Selina ? Sclina ! 
 
 Ah, little love ! how pretty and innocent and 
 still the Strange Thing had left her. It could 
 not have hurt her. She was not changed, only 
 that she was somehow lovelier. There were 
 rosebuds in her hands, and on her pillow ; her 
 eyelashes looked very long as they lay upon her 
 cheek, and in a still, strange little way she was 
 smiling. In the white room, among the white 
 flowers, looking down at her fair child-sleep 
 through tears, one was not the least afraid.
 
 174 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The Small Person was vaguely glad of some 
 thing, and somehow she knew that she was not 
 " sorry for her." She looked, and looked, and 
 
 ii 
 
 
 looked again, with tenderly brooding eyes. She 
 did not want to go away. If the Strange Thing 
 only left one a soft, white creature in a white 
 room, among flowers, and smiling like that, at 
 what it had showed one, it was not so awful.
 
 The Strange Thing 175 
 
 What a pretty, pretty smile as if she was keep 
 ing a little secret to herself. 
 
 "May we kiss her?" the Small Person asked, 
 in a low voice, timidly. 
 
 " Yes, dear," was the answer. 
 
 And she bent over and kissed her round cheek 
 where the dimples used to play. And the cold 
 ness was only the soft coldness of a flower. 
 
 And afterward they went away, talking to 
 gether in low, tender, child whispers. And they 
 told each other again what a pretty little thing 
 she had been, and that everybody had loved her. 
 And the Small Person remembered how in the 
 game she had made everybody laugh, because 
 she could not keep still, and could not keep her 
 eyes closed. But now now, she was quite still, 
 and she could keep her pretty eyes shut. 
 
 And this had been done by the Strange Thing.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 
 
 THE chief tone of her world was given to it by 
 the gentle little lady who was her mother the 
 most kind and simple English lady of a type the 
 most ingenuous and mild. What the Small Per 
 son felt most clearly was that " Mamma" was so 
 entirely and sweetly this gentle and kindly lady. 
 Of course it had not been necessary to formulate 
 this, even in thought, but it was an existent fact 
 which made life pleasant. One could not have 
 borne existence even as a Small Person if one s 
 "Mamma "had not been a lady. There were 
 Mammas who were not quite so nice who wore 
 more ribbons in their caps and who could be seen 
 at a greater distance, and who had not such soft 
 voices, and such almost timidly kind smiles and 
 words for everyone. The Small Person was al 
 ways thankful after interviews with such Mammas 
 that her own was the one who belonged to her, 
 and to whom she belonged. 
 
 It was so interesting to hear of the days when 
 she had been a little girl also. 
 
 " When I was a little girl and we lived at Patri-
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 177 
 
 croft " was the slender link which formed a 
 chain of many dear little stories of quite another 
 world. 
 
 She had not been Romantic. The Small Person 
 had a vague feeling that she herself might have 
 been the subject of memoirs of a sweet and not 
 awe-inspiring kind. " Mamma " could never have 
 been denunciatory. She seemed a little like Ame 
 lia Sedley, but not so given to weeping and not so 
 silly. There were two little water-color pictures, 
 which hung in the drawing-room. They were 
 supposed to represent, ideally, Amy Robsart and 
 Jeanie Deans. They had sweet pink faces and 
 brown ringlets, and large, gentle blue eyes. They 
 were very much alike, and the Small Person was 
 very fond of them because Mamma had one day 
 said : " Poor Papa bought them before we were 
 married because he thought they were like me. 
 1 used to wear my hair like the picture of Jeanie 
 Deans." 
 
 To the Small Person this surrounded them with 
 a halo. The vision of " Poor Papa " overcome by 
 youthful ardor before he was married to Mamma, 
 and tenderly buying these two little pictures be 
 cause they were like her, and had ringlets, like 
 hers, was simply delightful to her. How could 
 she help loving them ? 
 
 Was Mamma clever ? No, I think not. The 
 Small Person never asked herself the question.
 
 178 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 That would have been most sacrilegious unlov- 
 ingness. And why should one have thought of 
 asking more of her than that she should be 
 " Mamma." One would not ask one s self if an 
 Angel were clever. And, also, one did not think 
 
 of wondering 
 how many 
 years she had 
 lived. She 
 was just the 
 age of a mam 
 ma. Only as 
 long as she 
 lived her 
 mind was like 
 that of an in 
 nocent, serious, 
 j^^ 
 
 young girl with 
 a sort of maidenly 
 * matronliness. Not be 
 ing at all given to elo 
 quence or continuous con 
 versation of any sort, it was 
 a wonderful thing that her 
 mere existence near one meant so much that it 
 soothed headaches, and made sore-throats bear 
 able ; that it smoothed stormy nursery seas, and 
 removed the rankling sting of wrong and injus 
 tice. One could have confronted any trial, sup-
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 179 
 
 ported by the presence of this little, gentle, very 
 ingenuous and unworldly Mamma. 
 
 She was a sweetly feminine thing, and her liter 
 ature had been as feminine as herself. The Small 
 Person found out about that. She had read " im 
 proving " works when she was a young lady. She 
 had a great respect for Miss Martineau and Mrs. 
 Ellis and her " Daughters of England." She had 
 read poems in Keepsakes, and knew all the beau 
 ties of Dr. Watts. Mrs. Barbauld she revered, 
 and a certain book called " Anna Lee, the Maiden, 
 Wife, and Mother," she admired most sweetly. 
 
 " But you ought not to read tales so much," 
 she used to say, with a gently heroic sense of ma 
 ternal duty, to the Small Person. " You ought 
 to read something Improving." 
 
 "What is Improving, Mamma?" the Small 
 Person would reply. 
 
 Gentle little lady Mamma ! I am afraid she was 
 vague though the Small Person did not realize 
 that it was vagueness she always observed in her 
 blue eye when she asked this question. The an 
 swer was always the same : 
 
 " Oh ! history and things, love. History is al 
 ways, improving." 
 
 The Small Person used to wonder why His 
 tory particularly. It was never suggested that 
 grammar, geography, and arithmetic were stimu 
 lating to the mind but history always. And she
 
 180 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 knew all " Pinnock s England " and " Pinnock s 
 Rome " and somebody else s " Greece." Could 
 there have been in Mamma herself a lurking 
 fondness for the Story which was not " improv 
 ing " ? There were three or four mentioned at 
 different periods which she seemed to remember 
 interesting details of with remarkable clearness. 
 " The Scottish Chiefs," " The Children of the 
 Abbey," " Fatherless Fanny," " The Castle of 
 Otranto," and " The Mysteries of Udolpho." 
 Certain incidents in them being inadvertently 
 described to the Small Person so inflamed her 
 imagination that the most burning desire of her 
 life was to be the happy possessor of these rich 
 treasures. It was years before she came upon 
 them, one by one, and then somehow their glory 
 had departed. The mysterious secreted relative 
 wandering about the cloister s ruins had lost her 
 sorrowful eerie charm, the ghastly, apparently 
 murdered victim, concealed by the heavy curtain, 
 had no impressiveness, and it was not really a 
 shock when he turned out to be only wax. Emily 
 the beautiful persecuted Emily in " Udolpho " 
 was actually tedious in her persistent habit of 
 " giving vent to her feelings in the following 
 lines." But when Mamma told bits of them with 
 a certain timidity engendered by their romantic 
 lack of the element of " improvement," what 
 thrillingly suggestive things they were !
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 181 
 
 What a beautiful thing this pure and gentle 
 heart was quite as simple as the heart of a child, 
 and filled with sweetest, lenient kindness to all 
 things ! What a beautiful thing for a little child 
 to grow up in the mild sunshine of ! What brill 
 iant strength could have had such power if it 
 had not had its sweetness too ? How did one 
 learn from it that to be unkindly and selfish was 
 not only base but somehow vulgar too and that 
 the people who were not born in the " back 
 streets " naturally avoided these things as they 
 avoided dropping their h s and speaking the dia 
 lect? 
 
 Nobody ever said " Noblesse oblige," nobody 
 ever said anything about " Noblesse " at all, and 
 yet one knew that in certain quiet, unpretentious 
 houses the boys and girls must be " ladies and 
 gentlemen," and to be so one must feel inadmissi 
 ble some faults it was by no means difficult to fall 
 into. There is, after all, a certain quaint dignity 
 in the fixed qualities understood by some English 
 minds in the words " lady " and " gentleman." 
 The words themselves have been vulgarized, and 
 cheapened, and covered with odd gildings and 
 varnish, and have been made to mean so many 
 objectionable things, that it has seemed better 
 taste to let them drop out of fashion but once 
 their meaning in simple, gentle minds w r as some 
 thing very upright and fine. They \vere used in
 
 1 82 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 this sense in the days of the Small Person at 
 least she believed them to mean nothing less. 
 
 In searching the past there is no memory of 
 any lecture delivered by " Mamma " on the sub 
 ject of good morals, good manners, and good 
 taste. Anything from " Mamma " in the nature 
 of a harangue would have seemed incongruous. 
 Perhaps it was because through all the years she 
 never was unkind or ungenerous, because she was 
 good to everything even to disreputable and ob 
 jectionable stray cats and lost dogs brought in 
 with bursts of enthusiasm for refuge ; because 
 she never uttered a vulgarly sharp or spiteful, 
 envious word, or harbored an uncharitable 
 thought perhaps it was because of these things 
 that one grew up knowing that her unspoken 
 creed would be : 
 
 " Be kind, my dear. Try not to be thoughtless 
 of other people. Be very respectful to people 
 who are old, and be polite to servants and good 
 to people who are poor. Never be rude or vul 
 gar. Remember to be always a little lady." 
 
 It w r as all so simple and so quite within the 
 bounds of what one could do. And, all summed 
 up and weighed, the key-note of it was but one 
 thing: " Be kind, my dear -be kind." 
 
 There was an innocent, all-embracing prayer, 
 which the entire Nursery said unfailingly every 
 night and morning, through all its childhood
 
 1 and the First One 183 
 
 some of them, perhaps, far beyond childhood, be 
 cause of the tender homely memories it brought 
 back. One of them, at least, in after years, when 
 the world had grown to wider boundaries and 
 faith was a less easy thing, found a strange, sad 
 pleasure in saying it because its meaning was so 
 full of trustingness, and so sweet. 
 
 Surely it was "Mamma" who was responsible 
 for it " Mamma" who had a faith so perfect and 
 simple, and who, in asking for good, could have 
 left out in her praying nothing, however poor 
 and small. 
 
 As she grew to riper years the Small Person 
 often pondered on it and found it touching, in its 
 all-embracingness. 
 
 It began with the Lord s Prayer the first 
 words of this being said devoutly as, " Our 
 Father, chart in Heaven," and the more slowly one 
 said it all, the more devout one was supposed to 
 be. The child who " gabbled " her prayers was 
 " a wicked thing." It was very awful, when one 
 was tired or preoccupied, to find out that one was 
 " gabbling." Discovering this, one went back and 
 began again, with exceeding deliberation. 
 
 But it was the little prayer which came after 
 this which so took in all the world leaving out 
 none in its blessing : 
 
 " God bless Papa and Mamma," it began, lov 
 ingly, "and Grandpapas and Grandmammas"-
 
 1 84 
 
 though when the Small Person first remembered 
 it the Grandpapas were gone, and one could only 
 say, " and Grandmammas," because the Grand 
 papas had " gone to Heaven," and so needed no 
 praying for, because in Heaven everybody was 
 happy and God took care of them without being 
 asked every night and morning by the wearers of 
 the little white night-gowns, by the little white 
 beds, in the Nursery. " God bless my Brothers 
 and Sisters," it went on, lovingly again, " and 
 my Uncles and Aunts and Cousins." And then, 
 that none might escape and be forgotten, " Pray 
 God bless all my Relations and Friends," and 
 then, in an outburst of sympathy, " Pray God, 
 bless Everybody." And modestly, at the end 
 and with the feeling that it was really a great 
 deal to ask " And make Me a Good Child for 
 Jesus Christ s Sake. Amen." 
 
 One felt, with all one s little heart, that this 
 could be only done " For Jesus Christ s Sake "- 
 because one knew how far one was removed from 
 the little girl who died of scarlet fever in the 
 Memoirs. 
 
 And then one finished with three dear little 
 verses which seemed to provide for all in one s 
 child-life and which remembered one s friends 
 again, and took one even to the gates of Paradise. 
 
 In Nursery parlance it was always spoken of as 
 " Jesus tender."
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 185 
 
 " Did you say your Jesus tender ? " was some 
 times sternly demanded by one little white Night 
 gown of another. " You were such a little bit of 
 a time kneeling down, if you said it you must 
 have gabbled." 
 
 It was this : 
 
 " Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, 
 Bless Thy little lamb to-night ; 
 Through the darkness be Thou near me, 
 Keep me safe till morning light." 
 
 That seemed to make everything so safe when 
 the gas was turned down. 
 
 " Through the Darkness be Thou near me "- 
 
 the strange, black Dark, when anything might 
 come out of corners, or from under the bed, or 
 down the chimney, and if one heard a sound, one 
 could only huddle one s head under the clothes 
 and lie listening with beating heart. But if 
 " Jesus tender " was there, and would keep one 
 safe till morning light, one need not be really 
 afraid of anything. And then came the little 
 thankful part : 
 
 " Through this day Thy hand hath led me, 
 
 And I thank Thee for Thy care. 
 Thou hast warmed and clothed and fed me, 
 Listen to my evening prayer."
 
 1 86 
 
 And then the last, where the poor little sins were 
 asked mercy for, and the friends were embraced 
 again, and one was left happy taken care of 
 dwellin in Paradise with the Tender one : 
 
 
 " Let my sins be all forgiven, 
 
 Bless the friends I love so well, 
 Take me, when I die, to Heaven, 
 Happy there with Thee to dwell. 
 For Jesus Christ s sake. Amen." 
 
 It was very sweet and very trusting full of be 
 lief, and full of love and kind faith in and for all 
 the world. And whatever of faith might fade in 
 the glare of maturity, which made all things too 
 real or too vague, to say simply every night and 
 morning through a whole childhood, words as 
 confiding and as kind must be a good begin 
 ning for an innocent life for any life, however 
 spent. 
 
 The First One a development of that notable 
 seventh year was written one Sunday evening 
 in Summer, when it was clear twilight] and the 
 church bells were ringing. She sat at the Sitting 
 Room Table which for the time was merely a 
 table made to rest things upon. She was fond of 
 the act of scribbling, and frequently had filled 
 pages in blank books with lines of angular let 
 ter m s joined together. The doing it gave her 
 the feeling of writing with rapidity and ease
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 187 
 
 as older people did. There was something in 
 the free movement of the flying pen which 
 she liked extremely. The long summer twilight 
 of these Sunday evenings was always emotion 
 ally impressive to her. She did not know why, 
 but that they seemed so quiet, and the house 
 was so still, and one did not play with the Doll 
 or run about. She had never been forbidden 
 secular amusement, or talked to rigidly, but some 
 how there were certain things one felt it was not 
 exactly proper to do on Sunday. 
 
 Sunday, in fact, was rather a nice day. After 
 breakfast one was dressed with such care for 
 church. The Small Person and her two sisters, 
 exceedingly fresh as to frocks and hats, and ex 
 ceedingly glossy as to curls, walked to church 
 with Mamma and the Governess and the two 
 brothers, whose Eton collars presented their most 
 unimpeachable spotlessness. 
 
 The sermon was frequently rather long, but 
 one did one s best by it in the way of endeavor 
 ing to understand what it was about. The Small 
 Person was dissatisfied with her character be 
 cause she was conscious that her mind frequently 
 wandered, and that she found herself imagining 
 agreeable scenes of a fictitious nature. She also 
 found that when she checked these sinful mun 
 dane fancyings and forced herself to strictly fol 
 low the Reverend James Jones, she was guilty
 
 1 88 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 of impatient criticism, entirely unbecoming a lit 
 tle girl. The literary ideal of a perfect little girl 
 in those days a spotless little girl, who, being 
 snatched away in her youth by scarlet fever, 
 would create quite a commotion in Heaven by 
 the rectitude of her conduct was the painful 
 young person who had memoirs written about 
 her, relating the details of her sufferings and the 
 Example she had been to every one about her 
 particularly to all other children who were not of 
 the moral elite as it were. The Small Person had 
 extremely high standards. There was nothing she 
 would have been so thankful for as to find that 
 she might attain being an Example- and suitable 
 for memoirs but she had an humble, sorrowing 
 consciousness that such aspirations were in vain. 
 This was evident on the face of it. The little 
 girls in memoirs could not have been guilty oJ: 
 the vileness of " not listening to the sermon." 
 They heard every word of it, and preached it 
 over again to their companions on the way home, 
 by way of inspiring them to religious enthu 
 siasm. They never thought of anything but the 
 preacher while they were in church, and they 
 never read anything but the Bible, and were in 
 the kindly habit of repeating chapters of it aloud 
 to people left alone with them. They always 
 knew a text to say when anyone did anything 
 wrong, and it always converted the erring one
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 189 
 
 upon the spot. " Thou shalt not steal," they said 
 solemnly, when a boy was going to steal an ap 
 ple, and he never thought of such a thing again. 
 " Thou, God, seest me," they said when Tommy 
 had taken a lump of sugar, and was revelling in 
 the crime, and he immediately put it back into 
 the bowl probably very much the worse for wear 
 but he never looked at the sugar-bowl again so 
 long as he lived. 
 
 The Small Person felt she could not accom 
 plish these things that there was a fatal earthly 
 flaw in her nature. Perhaps it was because she 
 was Romantic, and no memoir had ever been 
 written about a little girl who was Romantic. 
 Whether it preserved them against scarlet fever 
 or against the memoir she did not ask. But 
 sometimes she had a sad lurking fear that if a 
 girl out of a memoir had heard her dramatic 
 performances with the Doll she would have said 
 to her : 
 
 " That is not a bark. It is only an Arm Chair. 
 You are not playing on a lute made of silver. 
 You are only tooting on a tin whistle which cost 
 a penny. You are not a gentleman. You are 
 a little girl. And you are saying what is not 
 true. These are all lies and liars go to Hell." 
 
 It made her feel inclined to burst into tears 
 when she thought of it so she thought of it as 
 little as possible. This may have indicated a
 
 190 TJie One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 shifty irresponsibility of nature or a philosophic 
 discretion. She could not live without the Doll. 
 She felt it sad that she was not made to be an Ex 
 ample, but she tried to be as unobjectionable as 
 was compatible with her inferiority and lack of 
 fine qualities. 
 
 And, somehow, she liked Sunday. Having 
 had another Mamma she might have disliked it 
 greatly, but as it existed in her life, it had rather 
 the air of a kind of peaceful festival. She her 
 self was in those days too unconscious to realize 
 that it combined with its spiritual calm certain 
 mild earthly pleasures which made an excellent 
 foundation for its charm. One did not go to 
 school ; there were no lessons to learn ; the chaos 
 of the Nursery was reduced to order ; the whole 
 house looked nice and quiet ; one was so special 
 ly spotless in one s best frock; there was always 
 such a nice pudding for dinner (never rice, or 
 bread-pudding, but something with an aspect 
 of novelty). For a little while after dinner one 
 remained in the drawing-room, and sometimes 
 Mamma who belonged to the generation when 
 " the figure " was not a matter treated lightly, 
 would suggest that the Small Person and her two 
 sisters should lie quite flat upon their backs, upon 
 the hearth-rug, " for fifteen minutes by the clock." 
 
 " It is very good for your backs, my dears," 
 she would say. " It makes them straight. It is
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 191 
 
 very important that a young lady should hold 
 herself well. When we were girls your aunt 
 Emma and I -back-boards were used." 
 
 The Small Person quite delighted in this cere 
 mony. It was so nice to stretch one s plump 
 body on the soft rug with the sense of its being 
 rather a joke and hear about the time when 
 people used back-boards. It appeared that there 
 had been school-mistresses genteel, extremely 
 correct ladies who kept boarding-schools who 
 had been most rigorous in insisting on the use 
 of the back-board by their pupils. There were 
 anecdotes of girls who would " poke their chins 
 forward," and so were constrained to wear a 
 species of collar. There was one collar indeed, 
 celebrated for certain sharp-pointed things under 
 the chin, which briskly reminded the young 
 lady when she " poked." The knowledge that 
 scholastic and maternal method had improved 
 since those days, and that one would never be 
 called upon to use back-boards or instruments 
 suggestive of the Inquisition, was agreeable, and 
 added charm to lying on the rug and turning 
 one s eyes to the ormolu clock on the mantel 
 every now and then, to see if the three five min 
 utes were gone. 
 
 After that one went for a decorous saunter 
 round the Square, where one always encountered 
 the Best Friend and her sisters, and perhaps
 
 192 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 other little girls, all in best frocks and best hats, 
 and inclined to agreeable conversation. 
 
 About four one returned to the drawing-room, 
 and the event of the day took place. Everyone 
 took a chair, and being given an orange, disposed 
 of it at leisure and with great but joyful decorum, 
 while Mamma or the Governess read aloud. 
 
 " Where did we leave off last Sunday ? " the 
 reader would ask, turning over the leaves. 
 
 The Small Person always knew. She revelled 
 in these Sunday afternoons. During the rapture 
 of their passing she heard " Ministering Chil 
 dren," " The Channings," " Mrs. Halliburton s 
 Troubles," " Letters from Palmyra," and " Letters 
 from Rome," an enthralling book called " Naomi," 
 which depicted dramatically the siege of Jerusa 
 lem, and divers other " Sunday books." 
 
 Yes, Sunday was a day quite set apart, and was 
 really very pleasant to think of. A far more brill 
 iant woman than " Mamma" might have made it 
 infinitely less an agreeable and bright memorv. 
 Hers was the brilliance of a sweet and tender 
 heart which loved too kindly to give one dreary 
 hour. 
 
 None of the younger ones went to church in 
 the evening. 
 
 " I am afraid you might be sleepy," said 
 Mamma, which was an instance of most discreet 
 forethought.
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 193 
 
 So not going to church, the Small Person had 
 her evening hours in the quiet house, and liked 
 them greatly. 
 
 The form and merits of the First One have 
 not remained a memory, but the emotion which 
 created it is a memory very distinct indeed. As 
 for the creation itself, it cannot have been of any 
 consequence but that it ivas the First One. 
 
 I see the Sitting Room with its look of Sunday 
 neatness, the Green Arm Chair wearing a decor 
 ous air of never having braved the stormy billows, 
 the table with its cloth quite straight upon it, 
 and the Small Person sitting by it with pen and 
 ink and an old exercise-book before her, the win 
 dow open behind her. 
 
 The pen and ink and book were to scribble 
 with, because it amused her to scribble. But all 
 was so quiet around her, and the sound of the 
 church-bells coming through the open windows 
 was such a peaceful thing, that she sat leaning on 
 the table, her cheek on her hand, listening to it. 
 What is there that is so full of emotional sugges 
 tion in the sound of bells ringing in the summer 
 twilight ? The Small Person did not know at all. 
 But she felt very still and happy, and as if she 
 wanted to say or do something new, which would 
 somehow be an expression of feeling and good 
 ness, and and she did not know at all what else. 
 
 She turned her face over her shoulder, to look 
 3
 
 194 The One I Knew tJie Best of All 
 
 at the sky, which showed over the tops of the 
 houses in the Back Street. It was very beautiful 
 that evening very blue, and dappled with filmv 
 white clouds. It had a Sunday evening look. 
 
 After looking at it, she turned slowlv to the 
 exercise-book again not with any particular in 
 tention, but reminded by the pen in her hand 
 of the pleasantness of scribbling. A delightful, 
 queer, and tremendously bold idea came to her. 
 It was so daring that she smiled a little. 
 
 " I wonder if I could write a piece of poetry," 
 she said. " I believe I ll try." 
 
 No one need ever know that she had attempt 
 ed anything so audacious, and she could have the 
 fun of trying. There was no one in the room 
 but the Green Arm Chair, and it could not be 
 tray her besides the fact that it would not if 
 it could. It was such a nice old thing. It had a 
 way at times of seeming to have forgotten the 
 adventures of its wild and rather rackety past, 
 and of seeming to exist only to hold out its arms 
 benignly to receive Grandmammas. As to Pi 
 rates on the High Seas, it seemed never to have 
 even heard of one. 
 
 A piece of poetry was a thing with short lines, 
 and at the end of them were words which sound 
 ed alike which rhymed. 
 
 " Down on a green and shady bed 
 A modest violet grew,
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 195 
 
 Its stalk was bent, it hung its head 
 As if to hide from view." 
 
 " Charge, Chester, charge ! on, Stanley, on ! 
 Were the last words of Marmion." 
 
 " Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 
 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day 
 Were to fleet by to-morrow and fade in these arms 
 Like fairy dreams gone to decay." 
 
 " How doth the little busy bee 
 
 Improve each shining hour ; 
 It gathers honey all the day, 
 From every opening flower." 
 
 These were pieces of poetry, and they gave one 
 something to build on. " Bed, Head, Led, Shed 
 Charms, Arms, Farms, Carms." No, Carms 
 was not a word. Oh, " Calms ! " And Calms 
 was a real word. That seemed to open up vistas. 
 It became quite exciting like a sort of game. 
 There were words spelled differently from each 
 other, it seemed, which would rhyme. And the 
 church-bells went on ringing with that soft sound 
 which seemed to make one think things. 
 
 What should the piece of poetry be about? 
 How pretty that ringing was ! Oh, suppose one 
 tried to write a piece of poetry about the bells ! 
 Bells, Shells, Tells, Sells Ring, Sing, Fling, Wing. 
 
 And she wrote a " piece of poetry " about the 
 church-bells, and of it there is no record what 
 ever, but that it was the First One. How long it
 
 196 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 was before she wrote another I am not at all sure. 
 She did not seem to rush madly on in her down 
 ward career. 
 
 Time could not possibly be calculated in those 
 days. A month seemed to hold a Future. Any 
 thing might occur in the way of rapture during 
 six weeks holiday. If one heard that a thing 
 would happen " Next Year," one could not feel 
 actual interest in it. " Next century " would not 
 have made it much less vague. 
 
 But I think she was nine or ten years old when, 
 on another Sunday evening, she broke forth 
 again. She had read a great deal of the " Secre 
 taire " by that time, and had found that in Maga 
 zines published for grown-up people there were 
 many things to read. She had discovered that 
 PuncJi was a source of delight, and a person of 
 the name of Charles Dickens had attracted her 
 attention. Perhaps the fact that she had made 
 his acquaintance, and that she had discovered 
 Punch had given a new flavor to her romanticisms. 
 But to the last the adventures of the Doll were 
 never clouded in their seriousness by any sense 
 of humor. Her charm would have been lost if 
 one could have treated her lightly, or made fun 
 of her. She was Reality. 
 
 The Sunday evening when she wrote her next 
 piece of poetry was a dark and stormy one. It 
 was a winter evening. The rain was falling and
 
 "Mamma" and the First One 197 
 
 the wind howling outside. Her sisters were in 
 bed, everyone else but one servant at church, and 
 she was sitting in the drawing-room. 
 
 She had pen and ink before her again, without 
 any particular reason, except that she wanted 
 something to do, and again it was the sounds out 
 side which gave her her impetus. There were no 
 church-bells. They had stopped ringing long 
 before, and the wintry storm had begun after 
 everyone must have been safely in church. It 
 was the sound of the wind which moved her this 
 time. It sounded all the more weird, as it rushed 
 wailing round the houses, because she was quite 
 alone. Sometimes it seemed to exhaust itself in 
 sounds like mournful cries heard very far off. 
 That particular sound had always affected her 
 very much. When she had been a little child 
 lying awake in the Nursery bedroom she had 
 been heart-broken by a fancy of a baby lost in the 
 darkness of the night and storm, and wandering 
 alone, crying, crying for someone to find it. 
 
 This Sunday night it made her melancholy. 
 Even the cheerful sounds of the bright fire of 
 blazing coal were not enough to overpower the 
 feeling. And she felt so alone that she began to 
 wish " Mamma" and the Governess would come 
 home from church, and wondered how they 
 would get through the rain. It seemed lonely 
 when the wind sounded like that.
 
 198 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 And suddenly, as a means of distracting her 
 self, she began to write another "piece of poetry." 
 
 It began by being a very harrowing thing. 
 The immortal whole was never seen by her after 
 that night, but the flavor of the first verse was so 
 fine that it would not be easy to forget it. The 
 " Secretaire " had given her an acquaintance with 
 more than one darkling poem, recording and im 
 mortalizing the sentiments of lofty-minded per 
 sons who were the victims of accursed fate and 
 who in the depths of their woe were capable of 
 devoting many verses to describing their exalted 
 scorn of things in general particularly suns 
 which would unfeelingly persist in shining, stars 
 that continued heartlessly to remain bright, and 
 skies whose inconsiderate blueness could not be 
 too scathingly condemned. And the very lofti 
 ness of their mental altitude was the cause of 
 their being isolated from the " hollow world." 
 They were always " alone." Alone. That was a 
 good idea. The piece of poetry should be called 
 "Alone." And the wind should be heard in it. 
 How it wailed at that particular moment. And 
 this was the soul-stirring result : 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone alone ! The wind shrieks " Alone !" 
 
 And mocks my lonely sorrow, 
 " Alone alone ! " the trees seem to moan, 
 
 For thee there s no bright to-morrow."
 
 and t/ie First One 199 
 
 There were no trees but that was immaterial. 
 And there was no sorrow but that also was of 
 no consequence whatever. There was, however, 
 a touch of unconscious realism in the suggestion 
 of the to-morrow not wearing a cheerful aspect. 
 The next day was Monday, and it would be 
 necessary to go to school again, which was a 
 prospect never holding forth inducements of a 
 glittering nature. She was not warmly attached 
 to school. 
 
 But the first verse really impressed her. Up 
 to that time, I remember, she had never been im 
 pressed by anything she had done. The First 
 One had not impressed her at all. She had only 
 found it very absorbing to write it. But the tone 
 of this struck her. It was the tone. It seemed so 
 elevated so grown-up so like something out of 
 the " Secretaire." It suggested Lord Byron. It 
 seemed to begin a little like some of those things 
 he had written about ladies intimating that if he 
 was not very careful indeed they would fall hope 
 lessly in love with him, which might lead to most 
 disastrous results, but that, being the noble creat 
 ure he was, he would be careful and " spare " 
 them which the Small Person always thought 
 extremely nice of him, and so beautiful when ex 
 pressed in poetry. But she had not come to the 
 lady in her poetry. In fact, she had not thought 
 of her at all, which was quite remiss, as she had
 
 2oo The One I Knew the Best of AIL 
 
 imagined the sufferer whom the wind shrieked at 
 to be a gentleman. Perhaps such had been the 
 feelings of Quentinravenswoodmaltravers when 
 the eldest Miss Grantham s papa had disapproved 
 of him. Gentlemen in that situation, in the 
 " Secretaire," always felt that trees and things 
 were taunting them. But it was cheering to re 
 flect that lie had had a " bright to-morrow " on the 
 occasion when he drove home from church with 
 the eldest Miss Grantham s head on his shoulder. 
 
 Oh, it really was quite a beautiful piece of 
 poetry at least the beginning of it was. And she 
 sat and gazed at it respectfully. 
 
 I have wondered since then if one has not rea 
 son to congratulate her on the thing which hap 
 pened next, and on the result of it. Perhaps 
 Punch and the witticisms in the grown-up maga 
 zines, and perhaps the tone of thought of the gen 
 tleman of the name of Dickens were her salva 
 tion. If it had been possible for her to write a 
 second verse as harrowing as the first and to 
 complete her piece of poetry with the same senti 
 ments carried to the bitter end, this being re 
 peated through her ripening years and giving 
 tone to them, it seems not impossible that the 
 effect upon her character might have been a little 
 lowering, or at least not of the most bracing nat 
 ure. 
 
 But this was what happened. Though a wildly
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 201 
 
 romantic, she was a healthy and cheerful-minded 
 Small Person, and intense as was her reverence 
 for this first verse she found she could not possibly 
 write another. She tried and tried in vain. She 
 frowned gloomily, and listened to the wind howl 
 ing. She thought of the "Corsair," and the ladies 
 Lord Byron had " spared." She strove to depict 
 to herself the agonies of Quentinravenswoodmal- 
 travers before Miss Grantham s papa relented. 
 But it was no use. She became more and more 
 cheerful, and at last found herself giving it up 
 with something like a giggle, because it suddenly 
 struck her as rather funny that she was sitting 
 there trying so hard to " think of something sor 
 rowful." 
 
 And it occurred to her that she would try to 
 make it into something amusing. 
 
 It is quite possible that unconscious cerebra 
 tion connected with some humorous poems in 
 PuncJi, or the grown-up magazines, guided her. 
 She wrote the rest of it and there were a num 
 ber of verses quite rapidly, and with great en 
 joyment. She laughed a great deal as she was 
 doing it. It was quite a primitive and aged idea 
 she used, but it seemed intensely amusing to her. 
 The gentleman who had begun by being mocked 
 and shrieked at by the winds and trees developed 
 into an unmarried gentleman whose bachelor 
 hood exposed him to many domestic vicissitudes
 
 202 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 and un- 
 pleasant- 
 
 nesses. He 
 seemed a very 
 hapless gentle 
 man, indeed, and his 
 situation was such that 
 one did not wonder that 
 
 the winds in the first verse " seemed to moan " at 
 him, even though they intended it for another 
 gentleman. 
 
 She finished the last verse in a burst of ecstatic
 
 " Mamma and the First One 203 
 
 low giggling. When it was all done she did not 
 think of respecting it or admiring it at all ; it did 
 not impress her, it simply made her laugh. 
 
 I wonder if it can have really been at all actu 
 ally funny. At that age one laughs so easily. 1 
 know nothing about the verses but that there was 
 an interesting incident connected with them, and 
 that they made someone else laugh. 
 
 Just as she finished them " Mamma " came 
 home from church, and hearing the front door 
 bell ring she took her papers off the table. It 
 would not have done to let " the boys " know she 
 had been trying to write poetry. They would 
 have -made her life a burden to her. 
 
 But " Mamma " was different. Mamma always 
 liked to be told about things, and perhaps the 
 verses would make her laugh, too. It was always 
 nice to make her laugh. 
 
 So she took the exercise-book under her arm, 
 and went upstairs with it, still flushed and elated 
 by the excitement of composition. 
 
 Mamma was standing before the dressing-table 
 taking off her nice little black bonnet. She never 
 wore anything but black after " Poor Papa " died, 
 though he died young. 
 
 She turned, smiling, as the Small Person ap 
 proached with the exercise-book under her arm. 
 
 " Well, my dear," she said. " What have you 
 got there ? "
 
 204 The One I Kuczv the Best of 
 
 . -i 
 
 " I ve got a piece of poetry," said the Small 
 Person. " 1 want to read it to you and see if you 
 don t think it s funny." 
 
 She forgot to say anything about having writ 
 ten it herself. She was so full of it and so eager 
 to try it on Mamma that it seemed unnecessary 
 to say it was her own. Just warm from the writ 
 ing of it, she took it for granted that it was all 
 understood. 
 
 She looked so elated and laughing that Mam 
 ma laughed too. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. 
 
 " Let me read it to you," said the Small Per 
 son. And she began. " It s called Alone, " she 
 said. 
 
 She began with the melancholy verse and did 
 her best by it. Mamma looked a little mysti 
 fied at first, but when the second verse began 
 she smiled ; at the third she laughed her pret 
 ty laugh ; at the fourth she exclaimed " How 
 funny ! " at the fifth and sixth she laughed more 
 and more, and by the time all the others were 
 finished she was laughing quite uncontrollably. 
 The Small Person was flushed with delight and 
 was laughing too. 
 
 " Do you think it s funny ? " she asked. 
 
 " Funny ! " exclaimed Mamma. " Oh, it is very 
 funny! Where did you find it? Did you copy 
 it out of one of the periodicals?"
 
 "Mamma"- and the First One 205 
 
 Then the Small Person realized that Mamma 
 did not know who had done it, and she felt rather 
 shy. 
 
 " Where did you get it ? " repeated Mamma. 
 
 The Small Person suddenly realized that there 
 was an unexpected awkwardness in the situation. 
 It was as if she had to confess she had been se 
 creting something. 
 
 She became quite red, and answered almost 
 apologetically, looking rather sheepishly at Mam- 
 
 " I didn t get it from anywhere." She hesi 
 tated. " I thought you knew. I I wrote it my 
 self." 
 
 Mamma s face changed. She almost dropped 
 her bonnet on the floor, she was so astonished. 
 
 " You ! " she exclaimed, looking almost as if she 
 was a little frightened at such an astounding de 
 velopment. " You wrote it, my dear ? Are you 
 in earnest ? Why, it seems impossible ! " 
 
 " But 1 did, Mamma," said the Small Person, 
 beaming with delight at success so unexpected 
 and intoxicating. " I really did. My own self. 
 I was sitting in the drawing-room by myself. 
 And I wanted to do something because it was so 
 lonely and the wind made such a noise. And I 
 began to write and I made it mournful at first. 
 And then I couldn t go on with it, so I thought 
 I d make it funny. See, here it is in the exercise-
 
 206 T/ic One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 book with all the mistakes in it. You know you 
 always keep making mistakes when you write 
 poetry." 
 
 Dear Mamma had never written poetry. It was 
 revealed afterward that "Poor Papa" had done 
 something of the sort before he was married. But 
 never Mamma. And the rest of the children- 
 Aunt Emma s children and Aunt Caroline s and 
 Uncle Charles s had never shown any tendencies 
 of the kind. And the Square children never did 
 it. I think she was a little alarmed. She may
 
 " Mamma" and the First One 207 
 
 privately have been struck with a doubt as to its 
 being quite healthy. I am afraid she thought it 
 was enormously clever -and, in those days, one 
 not infrequently heard darkling stories of children 
 who were so clever that " it flew to the brain," 
 with fatal results. And yet, whatever her startled 
 thoughts were, she was undisguisedly rilled with 
 delight and almost incredulous admiration. She 
 glanced at the exercise-book and looked up from 
 it quite blushing herself with surprise and pleas 
 ure. 
 
 " Well, my dear," she said, " you have taken me 
 by surprise, I must confess. I never thought of 
 such a thing. It why, it is so clever ! " 
 
 And she put her arms about the overwhelmed 
 and ecstasized Small Person and kissed her. And 
 for some reason her eyes looked quite oddly bright, 
 and the Small Person, delighted though she was, 
 felt a queer little lump for a moment in her 
 throat. 
 
 This being, I suppose, because they \vere both 
 feminine things, and could not even be very much 
 delighted without being tempted to some quaint 
 emotion.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " EditJi Somcrville" and Raw Turnips 
 
 I FIND it rather interesting to recall that, hav 
 ing had the amusement of writing the poem and 
 the rapturous excitement of rinding it was a suc 
 cess with Mamma, the Small Person did not con 
 cern herself further about it. It is more than 
 probable that it had a small career of its own 
 among her friends and relatives; but of that she 
 seems to have heard nothing but that it was read 
 to a mature gentleman who pronounced it" clever." 
 She did not inquire into the details and was given 
 none of them. This was discreet enough on the 
 part of the older people. She was not a self-con 
 scious, timid child, to whom constant praise was a 
 necessity. She was an extremely healthy and 
 joyous Small Person, and took life with ease and 
 good cheer. She would have been disappointed 
 if Mamma had thought her "piece of poetry" 
 silly and had not laughed at all. As she had 
 laughed so much and had been so pleased she 
 had had all the triumph her nature craved, and 
 more might have been bad for her. To have 
 been led to attach any importance to the little
 
 " Edith Somerville" 209 
 
 effusion or to regard it with respect would cer 
 tainly have been harmful. It is quite possible 
 that this was the decision of Mamma, who proba 
 bly liked her entire unconsciousness. 
 
 It was possibly, however, a piece of good fort 
 une for her that her first effort had not been a 
 source of discouragement to her. If it had 
 been, it is likely that she would have done 
 nothing more, and so would not have spent her 
 early years in unconscious training, which later 
 enabled her to make an honest livelihood. 
 
 As it was, though she wrote no more poetry, 
 she began to scribble on slates and in old ac 
 count-books thrilling scenes from the dramas 
 acted with the Doll. It was very exciting to 
 write them down, and they looked very beauti 
 ful when written particularly if the slate pencil 
 was sharp but the difficulty was to get a whole 
 scene on to a slate. They had a habit of not fit 
 ting, and then it was awkward. And it hap 
 pened so frequently that just at the most excit 
 ing point one s pencil would reach the very last 
 line that could be crowded in and strike against 
 the frame in the middle of a scene even in the 
 middle of a sentence. And it destroyed the 
 sentiment and the thrill so to break off in such 
 a manner as this : 
 
 " Sir Marmuduke turned proudly away. The 
 haughty blood of the Maxweltons sprang to his
 
 210 
 
 cheek. Ethelberta s heart beat wildly. She 
 held out her snowy arms. Oh, Marmaduke ! 
 she cried. Oh, Marmaduke, I cannot bear it, 
 and she burst 
 
 You cannot get in any more when you come 
 to the wooden frame itself, and it was trying to 
 everybody Sir Marmaduke Maxwelton included 
 not to know that Ethelberta simply burst into 
 tears. 
 
 And it spoiled it to sponge it all out and con 
 tinue on a clean slate. One wanted to read it 
 all together and get the whole effect at once. It 
 was better in old butcher s books, because there 
 was more room, though of course the cook 
 never had " done with them," until there were 
 only a few pages left, and even these were only 
 given up because they were greasy. Sometimes 
 one had to scribble between entries, and then 
 it might happen that when Ethelberta, "ap 
 palled by the sight of a strong man weeping, 
 bent over her lover, laying her white hand 
 upon his broad shoulder, and said, Marma 
 duke, what has grieved you so? Speak, dear 
 est, speak ! Sir Marmaduke turned his an 
 guished eyes upon her, and cried in heart-wrung 
 tones: Ethelberta my darling oh, that it 
 should be so Onions id. Shoulder of Mutton 
 
 IOS." 
 
 And old copy-books were almost as bad,
 
 Edith Somerville" 211 
 
 though one sometimes did get a few more blank 
 leaves. But with her knowledge of the impas 
 sioned nature of the descendant of the Maxwel- 
 tons and his way with Ethelberta when he was 
 expressing his emotions freely, the Small Per 
 son could not feel that " Contentment is better 
 than riches," " Honesty is the best policy," " A 
 rolling stone gathers no moss," were sentiments 
 likely to "burst forth from his o er- charged 
 bosom as he gazed into her violet eyes and 
 sighed in tender tones " which not infrequent 
 ly happened to him. Yes, it was extremely dif 
 ficult to procure paper. When one s maturity 
 realizes how very much there is of it in the 
 world, and how much might be left blank with 
 advantage, and how much one is obliged by 
 social rules to cover when one would so far pre 
 fer to leave it untouched, it seems rather sad 
 that an eager Small Person could not have 
 had enough when she so needed it for serious 
 purposes. 
 
 But she collected all she could and covered 
 it with vivid creations. It was necessary that 
 she should take precautions about secreting it 
 safely, however. " The boys," having in some 
 unexplained way discovered her tendencies, were 
 immensely exhilarated by the idea, and indulged 
 in the most brilliant witticisms at her expense. 
 
 "I say!" they would proclaim, "she s writing
 
 212 77ie One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 a three-volumed novel. The heroine has golden 
 hair that trails on the ground. Her name s Lady 
 Adolphusina." 
 
 They were not ill-natured, but a girl who was 
 " romantic " must expect to be made fun of. 
 They used to pretend to have found pieces of 
 her manuscript and to quote extracts from them 
 when there were people to hear. 
 
 It was great fun for the boys, but the frogs 
 I should say the Small Person did not enjoy 
 it. She was privately a sensitive and intensely 
 proud Small Person, and she hated it, if the 
 truth were told. She was childishly frank, but 
 desperately tenacious of certain reserves, of 
 which the story-writing was one. She liked it 
 so much, but she was secretly afraid it was a 
 ridiculous thing for a little girl to do. Of course 
 a child could not really write stories, and per 
 haps it was rather silly and conceited to pretend, 
 even for amusement, that she was doing it. But 
 she never let anyone see what she wrote. She 
 would have perished rather. And it really hurt 
 nobody, however silly it was. 
 
 She used to grow hot all over when the boys 
 made fun of her. She grew hot even if no one 
 heard them, and if they began before strangers 
 she felt the scarlet rush not only to the roots of 
 her hair but all among them and to the nape of 
 her neck. She used to feel herself fly into a blaz-
 
 Ed it /i Somerville " 213 
 
 ing rage, but the realization she began her first 
 conscious experience with at two years old the 
 complete realization of the uselessness of attacking 
 a Fixed Fact used to make her keep still. The 
 boys were a Fixed Fact. You cannot stop boys 
 unless you Murder them ; and though you may 
 feel for one wild, rushing moment that they 
 deserve it, you can t Murder your own brothers. 
 If you call names and stamp your feet they will 
 tease you more ; if you burst out crying they will 
 laugh and say that is always the way with girls, 
 so upon the whole it seems better to try not to 
 look in a rage and keep your fury inside the little 
 bodice of your frock. She was too young to have 
 reached the Higher Carelessness of Theosophy and 
 avoid feeling the rage. She was a mild creature 
 when left alone to the Doll and the Story, but 
 she was capable of furies many sizes too large for 
 her. Irritable she never was, murderous she had 
 felt on more than one occasion when she was not 
 suspected of it. She was a great deal too proud 
 to " let people see." So she always hid her scraps 
 of paper, and secreted herself when she was cov 
 ering them. 
 
 Mamma knew and never catechized her about 
 them in the least, which was very perfect in her. 
 She doubtless knew that in a rudimentary form 
 they contained the charms which enriched the 
 pages of the Family Herald and the Young Ladies
 
 214 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Halfpenny Journal, but she was too kind to inter 
 fere with them, as they did not seem to interfere 
 with " Pinnock s England " or inspire the child 
 with self-conscious airs and graces. 
 
 My memory of them is that they were extreme 
 ly like the inspirations of the Young Ladies Half 
 penny. The heroines had the catalogued list of 
 charms which was indispensable in \\\z Journal type 
 of literature. One went over them carefully and 
 left nothing out. One did not say in an indefinite, 
 slipshod manner that Cecile was a blonde. One 
 entered into detail and described what she " had " 
 in the way of graces. " She had a mass of silken, 
 golden locks which fell far below her tiny waist in 
 a shower of luxuriant ringlets. She had a straight, 
 delicate nose, large, pellucid violet eyes, slender, 
 arched eyebrows, lashes which swept her softly 
 rounded, rose-tinted cheek, a mouth like Cupid s 
 bow, a brow of ivory on which azure veins me 
 andered, pink ears like ocean shells, a throat like 
 alabaster, shoulders like marble, a waist which one 
 might span, soft, fair arms, snowy, tapering, dim 
 pled hands, and the tiniest feet in the world. She 
 wore a filmy white robe, confined at her slender 
 waist by a girdle of pearl and gold, and her luxu 
 riant golden tresses were wreathed with snow 
 drops." 
 
 Heroines were not things to be passed over 
 as mere trivialities or every-day affairs. Neither
 
 " Ed it k Somerville " 215 
 
 were heroes. Sir Marmaduke Max \velton covered 
 nearly two whole slates before he was done 
 with, and then entire justice was not done to the 
 " patrician air which marked all of Maxwelton 
 blood." 
 
 But how entrancing it was to do it. The Small 
 Person particularly revelled in the hair, and eyes, 
 and noses. Noses had always struck her as being- 
 more or less unsatisfactory, as a rule, but with a 
 pencil in one s hand one can " chisel " them, and 
 " daintily model " them ; they can be given a " de 
 licately patrician outline," a " proud aquiline 
 curve," " a coquettish tilt," and be made Greek or 
 Roman with a touch ; and as to hair, to be able to 
 bestow " torrents " of it, or " masses," or " coils," 
 or " coronals," or " clouds," is an actual relief to 
 the feelings. Out of a butcher s or greengrocer s 
 book there is a limit to the size of eyes, but within 
 their classic pages absolutely none. 
 
 Edith Somerville s hair, I remember distinctly, 
 was golden-brown. The weight of the " long, 
 thick, heavy curls which fell almost to her knee " 
 was never stated, but my impression the cold, 
 callous impression produced by a retentive mem 
 ory drawing from the shades of the past the pict 
 ure its volume made on the Small Person s mind 
 my impression would be that no mortal frame 
 could have borne it about. Edith Somerville 
 would have been dragged to earth by it. Her
 
 216 The One I Knew the Best of AIL 
 
 eyes were " large, soft, violet eyes," and were 
 shaded by " fringes " almost as long and heavy 
 as her hair. But neither of these advantages re 
 strained her from active adventure and emotions 
 sufficiently varied and deep to have reduced her 
 to Hair Restorer as a stern necessity. 
 
 She was not created in a copy-book or recorded 
 on a slate. She was Told. 
 
 She began in school on one of the " Embroid 
 ery" Afternoons. On two or three afternoons 
 each week the feminine portion of the school was 
 allowed to do fancy-work to embroider, to 
 crochet, to do tatting, or make slippers or cush 
 ions, with pink lap-dogs, or blue tulips, or Moses 
 in the Bulrushes on them in wool-work and beads. 
 They were delightful afternoons, and the reins of 
 discipline were relaxed. 
 
 Sometimes some one read aloud, and when this 
 was not being done low-voiced talk was permitted. 
 
 It was not an uncommon thing for children to 
 say to each other : 
 
 " Do you know any tales to tell?" 
 
 The Small Person, on being asked this ques 
 tion, had told something more than once. But 
 being asked on this special afternoon by the little 
 girl sitting next to her, she did not reply encour 
 agingly. 
 
 " I can t think of anything to tell," she said. 
 
 " Oh, try," said her small neighbor, whose
 
 "Edith Somerville" 217 
 
 name was Kate. "Just try; you ll remember 
 something." 
 
 " I don t think 1 can," said the Small Person. 
 " The things 1 know best seem to have gone out 
 of my head." 
 
 " Well, tell an old one, then," urged Kate. 
 " Just anything will do. You know such a lot." 
 
 The Small Person was making wonderful open 
 work embroidery, composed of a pattern in holes 
 which had to be stitched round with great care. 
 She hesitated a moment, then took a fresh needle 
 ful of cotton from the twisted coil which was 
 kept thrown round her neck, so that it was easy 
 to pull a thread out of. 
 
 " I don t want to tell an old one," she said ; 
 " but I ll tell you what I ll do, I ll make one up 
 out of my head." 
 
 " Make one out of your own head ! " said Kate, 
 with excitement. " Can you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can," answered the Small Person, with 
 some slight awkwardness. " Don t you tell any 
 one but I sometimes make them up for my self- 
 just for fun, you know and write them on slates, 
 but you can t get them all in on a slate." 
 
 " You write them ! " Kate exclaimed in a 
 breathless whisper, staring at her with doubting 
 but respectful eyes. 
 
 " Yes," the Small Person whispered back. 
 " It s very easy."
 
 218 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Why gasped Kate. " Why you re an 
 Auth ress like Charles Dickens." 
 
 " No, I m not," said the Small Person, a little 
 crossly, because somehow she felt rather ridicu 
 lous and pretentious. " I m not. Of course that s 
 different. I just make them up. It isn t a bit 
 hard." 
 
 " Do you make them up out of things you ve 
 read ? " asked Kate. 
 
 " No, that wouldn t be any fun. I just think 
 them." 
 
 Kate gazed at her, doubtful respect mingling 
 itself with keen curiosity. She edged closer to 
 her. 
 
 " Make up one now," she said, " and tell it to 
 me. Nobody will hear if von speak low." 
 
 And so began the first chapter of " Edith 
 Somerville." It may have been the Small Per 
 son s liberality in the matter of the golden-brown 
 hair, her lavishness as to features and complexion, 
 and the depth and size of the violet eyes which 
 fascinated her hearer. Suffice it to say she was 
 bound as by a spell. She edged closer and closer 
 and hung upon the words of the story-teller 
 breathlessly. She had an animated little face and 
 it became more animated with every incident. 
 Her crochet-work was neglected and she made 
 mistakes in it. If there was a moment s interrup 
 tion for any reason whatever, the instant the cause
 
 " EditJi Somcrville " 219 
 
 was removed she snuggled excitedly against the 
 Small Person, saying: 
 
 " Oh, go on, go on ! Tell some more, tell some 
 more ! " 
 
 The Small Person became excited herself. She 
 was not limited by a slate-frame and she had the 
 stimulus of an enraptured audience. She "told" 
 " Edith Somerville " all the afternoon, and when 
 she left the school-room Kate followed her while 
 she related it on the way home, and even stood 
 and told some more at the front gate. It was not 
 finished when they parted. It was not a story to 
 be finished in an afternoon. It was to be con 
 tinued on the next opportunity. It was continued 
 at all sorts of times and in all sorts of places. 
 Kate allowed no opportunity or the ghost of one 
 to slip by. 
 
 "Just tell a little Edith Somerville while 
 we re waiting," she would say, whether it was in 
 the few minutes before Miss Hatleigh came in, 
 or in a few minutes when she was called from 
 the room by some unforeseen incident, or on the 
 way downstairs, or in the cloak-room, or waiting 
 for the door-bell to be answered when the Small 
 Person went home to her dinner or tea. It was 
 not only the Embroidery Afternoons that were 
 utilized, any afternoon or morning, or any hour 
 would do. 
 
 For a short time the narrative was an entire
 
 220 The One I Kneiu the Best of All 
 
 secret. The Small Person was as afraid of being 
 heard as she was when she entertained herself 
 with the Doll. When anyone approached she 
 dropped her voice very low or stopped speaking. 
 " What makes you so funny? " Kate used to say. 
 
 " I wouldn t care a bit. It s a beautiful tale." 
 And somehow one of the other little girls found 
 out that the beautiful tale was being told, and 
 Kate was made a go-between in the matter of 
 appeal. 
 
 " Lizzie wants to know if she may listen ? " the 
 Small Person was asked, and after a little hesita-
 
 " Edith Somerville" 221 
 
 lion she gave consent and Lizzie listened, and a 
 little later one or two others attached themselves 
 to the party. There were occasions when three 
 or four little girls revelled in the woes and rapt 
 ures of Edith Somerville. 
 
 The relation lasted for weeks. It began with 
 the heroine s infancy and included her boarding- 
 school days and the adventures of all her com 
 panions of both sexes. There was a youthful fe 
 male villain whose vices were stamped upon her 
 complexion. She had raven hair and an olive 
 skin, and she began her career of iniquity at 
 twelve years old, when she told lies about the 
 nice blond girls at the boarding-school, and 
 through heartless duplicity and fiendish machina 
 tions was the cause of Edith Somerville s beinef 
 
 o 
 
 put to bed for nothing. She was always found 
 out in the most humiliating way and covered 
 with ignominy and confusion, besides being put 
 to bed herself and given pages and pages of ex 
 tra lessons to learn. But this did not discour 
 age her ; she always began again. An ordinary 
 boarding-school would have dismissed her and 
 sent her home in charge of a policeman, but this 
 school could not have gone on without her. 
 Edith Somerville would have had no opportunity 
 to shine at all, and her life would have become a 
 flat, stale, and unprofitable affair. Nothing could 
 damp the ardor of the little female villain with
 
 222 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 the large black eyes. When they had left school, 
 and Cecil Castleton, who had purple eyes and 
 soft black hair, loomed up at Somerville Hall, 
 with a tall, slender, graceful figure and a slender, 
 silken mustache, then the female villain began to 
 look about her seriously to invent new plots in 
 which she could be unmasked, to the joy of all 
 the blond people concerned. Cecil Castleton s 
 complexion was not olive and his hair was not 
 raven it was only black, and soft and wavy, and 
 his eyes were purple, which quite saved him from 
 being a villain. You could not be a villain if you 
 had purple eyes. The female villain was natu 
 rally deeply enamored of him, and wished to sep 
 arate him from Edith Somerville. But, of course, 
 it was no use. She would do things it would take 
 days to tell about, and the narration of which 
 would cause the school-room audience to gasp 
 and turn quite pale, but Cecil Castleton always 
 found her out after Edith Somerville and himself 
 had suffered agonies. And it almost seemed as 
 if he could scarcely have helped it. One might 
 have imagined that she was extremely careful to 
 commit no crime which could not be exposed. 
 She was always dropping things where people 
 would find them when she had been listening, 
 and she sat up at nights to keep a diary about the 
 lies she told and those she intended to tell, and 
 even wrote letters to her aunt that she might
 
 " Edith Somerville" 223 
 
 gloat in black and white over the miseries and es 
 trangements she was planning. Sometimes she 
 even put these letters into the wrong envelopes, 
 particularly when she intended to accept an in 
 vitation to take tea with Edith Somerville s bos 
 om friend. This feebleness of mind may, like 
 her character, have been the result of her com 
 plexion, but it gave thrill and excitement to the 
 story. 
 
 And how the audience was enthralled! It 
 would be a pleasing triumph for a story-teller of 
 mature years to see such eyes, such lips, to hear 
 such exclamations of delight or horror as this in 
 choate Small Person was inspired by. 
 
 Naturally, stories told in school and at odd 
 times meet with interruptions. 
 
 " Young ladies, you are talking ! " Miss Hat- 
 leigh would say sometimes, or one would reach 
 the front gate, or some one would intrude, and 
 then everything stopped. When it began again 
 it began with a formula. 
 
 And so Edith came floating lightly 
 down the broad old oak stairway while Cecil 
 Castleton stood waiting below." 
 
 It always began " And so." That seemed to 
 join it on to what had gone before. Accordingly, 
 if the Small Person paused for a moment, Kate, 
 whose property she had become, and who ex 
 ploited her as it were, and always sat next to her,
 
 224 1Y le O HC I Knew the Best of All 
 
 would make a little excited movement of impa 
 tience in her seat, and poke her in the side with 
 her elbow. 
 
 " And so " she would suggest. " And so 
 and so Oh, do go on ! " 
 
 And the others would lean forward also, and 
 repeat: "And so? And so?" until she began 
 again. 
 
 The history of Edith Somerville being com 
 pleted she began another romance of equal 
 power. 
 
 It was also of equal length, extending over 
 weeks of relation, and at its completion she began 
 another, and another, and another. There is no 
 knowing how many she told, but however her 
 audience varied Kate always sat next to her. 
 There were never more than two or three other 
 listeners. The Tale Listeners were a little exclu 
 sive and liked to keep together. 
 
 It was through a brilliant inspiration of Kate s 
 that a banquet became part of the performance. 
 The Small Person was extremely fond of green 
 apples very green and sour ones, such as can be 
 purchased at the apple-stands only sufficiently 
 early in the year to be considered unfit for human 
 food. A ripe and rosy apple offered no induce 
 ments, but a perfectly green one, each crisp 
 bite of which was full of sharp juice, was a thing 
 to revel in.
 
 "Edith Somerville " 225 
 
 Knowing this taste, Kate had the adroit wit 
 to arrive one afternoon with her small pocket 
 bulging. 
 
 " I ve got something !" she whispered. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Something to eat while you re telling Edith 
 Somerville. Green apples." 
 
 They were such a rapturous success and 
 seemed so inspiring in their effect that they 
 founded a custom. The Listeners got into the 
 habit of bringing them by turns. Green goose 
 berries were also tried and soon Kate had an 
 other inspiration. 
 
 " If I can get a little jug downstairs," she 
 whispered one afternoon, " I am going to fill it 
 with water and bring it up hidden in my frock. 
 And we can hide it under the form and take 
 drinks out of it when no one is looking." 
 
 This may not appear to be a wildly riotous 
 proceeding, but as jugs of water were not ad 
 mitted into the school-room and if one wanted a 
 drink one went decorously downstairs first, the 
 idea of a private jug and concealed libations was 
 a daring and intoxicating thing. 
 
 Only Kate would have thought of this. She 
 was a little girl with a tremendous flow of spirits 
 and an enterprising mind. She was sometimes 
 spoken of by the authorities, rather disapprov 
 ingly, as " a Romp." 
 15
 
 226 T/ie One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 The Romp managed the feat of bringing up 
 the jug of water. It was quite thrilling to see 
 her come in as if she had nothing whatever con 
 cealed behind the folds of her skirt. She walked 
 carefully and showed signs of repressing giggles 
 as she approached the Listeners. 
 
 " Have you got it?" whispered the Small 
 Person. 
 
 " Yes under my frock. I ll put it under the 
 form." 
 
 It was put under the form and, as soon as it 
 was considered discreet, drinks were taken sips 
 out of the side of the jug, combined with green 
 apples. Nobody was particularly thirsty, and if 
 they had been there was plenty of water down 
 stairs, but that was not contraband, it was not 
 mingled with acid apples and " Edith Somer- 
 ville." 
 
 There was a suggestion of delightful riot and 
 dissipation in it. It was a sort of school-room 
 Bacchanalian orgie, and it added to the advent 
 ures of Edith Somerville just the touch of 
 license needed. The Small Person s enjoyment 
 was a luxurious thing. To fill one s mouth with 
 green apple and wash it down furtively from the 
 jug under the form was bordering on perilous 
 adventure. She was very fond of bordering on 
 adventure. When apples were no longer green 
 somebody brought raw turnips. Perhaps it was
 
 "Edith Somerville" 227 
 
 Kate again. She was a child with resources. 
 Some of the girls seemed to like them. The 
 Small Person did not, but she liked the sense of 
 luxury and peril they represented. She was so 
 pleased with the flavor of the situation that she 
 bore up against the flavor of the raw turnips. 
 She never told her fellow-banqueters that she 
 did not enjoy them, that she found them tough 
 and queer, and that it needed a great deal of 
 water to wash them down. She took large bites 
 and obstinately refused to admit to herself that 
 they were on the whole rather nasty. To admit 
 this would have been to have lost an atmosphere 
 an illusion. And she was very fond of her 
 illusions. She loved them. She went on tell 
 ing the stories and the listeners hung on her 
 words and nourished themselves with deadly in- 
 digestibles. And nobody died either of " Edith 
 Somerville " or the raw turnips.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Christopher Columbus 
 
 SHE told many stories " Continued in our Next," 
 through many weeks, to the Listeners, whose 
 property she seemed to become. They had 
 their established places near her. Kate s was the 
 nearest, and, in fact, she was chief proprietress 
 of the entertainment. She had been, as it were, 
 the cause of Edith Somerville, who but for her 
 would never have existed. My impression is that 
 she arranged where the Listeners should sit, and 
 that her influence was employed by outsiders who 
 wanted to gain admission. She was an impetu 
 ous child, and did not like to lose time. If by 
 some chance a Listener dropped out of the ranks 
 for an afternoon, and, returning, asked anxiously : 
 
 " What did you tell yesterday ? I didn t hear 
 that part, you know ; " Kate would turn and 
 give a hasty and somewhat impatient rdsum<! of 
 the chief events related. 
 
 " Oh, Malcolm came," she would say, " and 
 Violet had a white dress with bluebells at her 
 belt, and he was jealous of Godfrey, and he got 
 in a temper at Violet, and they quarrelled, and he
 
 Christopher Columbus 229 
 
 went away forever, and she went in a boat on the 
 lake, and a storm came up, and he hadn t quite 
 gone away, and he was wandering round the lake, 
 and he plunged in and saved her, and her golden 
 hair was all wet and tangled with bluebells, and 
 so turning to the Small Person "and so 
 now go on ! " 
 
 And then would proceed the recital describing 
 the anguish and remorse of the late infuriate Mal 
 colm as he knelt upon the grass by the side of 
 the drenched white frock and golden hair and 
 bluebells, embracing the small, limp, white hand, 
 and imploring the violet eyes to open and gaze 
 upon him once more. 
 
 They always did open. Penitent lovers were 
 always forgiven, rash ones were reconciled, wick 
 edness was always punished, offended relatives 
 always relented particularly rich uncles and 
 fathers opportune fortunes were left invariably 
 at opportune moments. No Listener was ever 
 harrowed too long or allowed to rust her crochet 
 needles entirely with tears. As the Small Person 
 was powerful, so she was merciful. As she was 
 lavish with the golden hair, so she was generous 
 with the rest. A tendency toward reckless liber 
 ality and soft relenting marked her for its prey 
 even at this early hour. I have never been quite 
 able to decide whether she was a very weak or 
 a very determined creature weak, because she
 
 230 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 could not endure to see Covent Garden merely 
 as the costermongers saw it or determined, be 
 cause she had the courage to persist in ignor 
 ing the flavor of the raw turnip and in bestowing 
 on it a flavor of her own. After all, it is possi 
 ble that to do this requires decision and fixed 
 ness of purpose. In life itself, agreeable situa 
 tions are so often flavored by the raw turnip, and 
 to close one s eyes steadily to the fact that it is 
 not a sun-warmed peach, not infrequently calls 
 upon one s steadiness of resource. 
 
 If she had been a sharp, executive, business-like 
 sort of child, she might have used her juvenile 
 power as a thing with a certain market value. 
 She might have dictated terms, made conditions, 
 and gained divers school-room advantages. But 
 she had no capacities of the sort. She simply 
 told the stories and the others listened. If there 
 had been a Listener astute enough in a mercantile 
 way to originate the plan of privately farming 
 her out, it might easily have been managed with 
 out her knowledge. She had been a stupidly un 
 suspecting little person from her infancy, and she 
 might always have been relied upon for the 
 stories. But there was no Listener with these 
 tendencies, that I am aware of. 
 
 There came a time when some windfall gave 
 into her possession an exercise-book which was 
 almost entirely unused. She wrote her first com-
 
 Christopher Columbus 231 
 
 plete story in it. It had been her habit previous 
 ly to merely write scenes from stories on the slate 
 and in the butcher s books. Sir Marmaduke 
 Maxwelton and his companions were never com 
 pleted. But the one in the blank-book came to a 
 conclusion. Its title was " Frank Ellsworth, or 
 Bachelors Buttons." There was nothing what 
 ever in it which had any connection with buttons, 
 but the hero was a bachelor. He was twenty- 
 two, and had raven hair, and, rendered firm by 
 the passage of years of vast experience, had de 
 cided that nothing earthly would induce him to 
 unite himself in matrimony. The story opened 
 with his repeating this to his housekeeper, who 
 was the typical adoring family servant. The 
 venerable lady naturally smiled and shook her 
 head with playful sadness and then the discrim 
 inating reader knew that in the next page would 
 loom up the Edith Somerville of the occasion, 
 whose large and lustrous azure eyes and vail of 
 pale golden ringlets would shake even the resolu 
 tion of his stern manhood, and that, after pages 
 of abject weakness, he would fall at her feet in a 
 condition which could only be described as driv 
 elling. My impression is that the story contained 
 no evidence whatever of intelligence. But it was 
 not at intelligence that the Small Person was 
 aiming. She was only telling a story. She was 
 very simple about it. She added the sub-title,
 
 232 TJi e One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " or Bachelors Buttons," because she was pleased 
 to see something in it vaguely figurative, and she 
 liked the sound. 
 
 This story she read to Mamma, who said it was 
 " a very pretty tale," and seemed somehow a lit 
 tle amused. Perhaps, after all, Mamma was 
 clever. She never discouraged or made the 
 Small Person feel her efforts silly and preten 
 tious, but her gentle praise gave no undue impor 
 tance to them, and somehow seemed to make 
 them quite natural and innocent child develop 
 ments. They were not things to be vain about, 
 only things to enjoy in one s own very young way. 
 
 The Small Person obtained other blank-books 
 and began other stories, but none were ever fin 
 ished. It always happened that a new one in 
 sisted on being begun and pushed the first aside. 
 A very long one the pride of her heart called 
 " Celeste, or Fortune s Wheel," was the guiding 
 star of her twelfth year, but it was not concluded, 
 and was thrown into the fire with all the rest 
 when she left her own land for a new one. 
 
 The unfinished stories rather troubled her. 
 When the infant regret that she was not a suita- 
 able subject for Sunday-school Memoirs had 
 melted into a vague young desire not to have 
 many faults, she used to wonder if the fact that 
 so many stories were begun and not finished, was 
 a sign of an undesirable mental quality.
 
 Christopher Columbus 233 
 
 " I ought to finish them," she use to think, re 
 morsefully. " I ought not to begin things I don t 
 finish." And she reproached herself quite se 
 verely. 
 
 " Shall I go on like this, and never finish one ? " 
 she thought, and she was vaguely distressed by a 
 shadowing feeling that it might be her sort to be 
 always beginning, and never finishing. 
 
 Inspired by her example, several of the Listen 
 ers began to write stories in old blank-books. 
 
 They were all echoes of Edith Somerville, and 
 when they were given to her to read, she sternly 
 repressed in herself any occasional criticism 
 which arose in her small mind. She was afraid 
 that criticism on her part, even though only men 
 tal, was a sign of what was generally spoken of as 
 " a bad disposition." She was, in private, ex 
 tremely desirous not to have "a bad disposition." 
 
 " I am conceited," she said to herself. " That 
 is the reason I don t think their stories are as nice 
 as mine. It is vulgar and ridiculous to be con 
 ceited, besides being bad." 
 
 There was one Listener who described her 
 hero, at an interesting juncture, as " holding out 
 his tiny lily hand," and something within her was 
 vaguely revolted by a sense of the grotesque, but 
 she could not have been induced to comment 
 upon the circumstance. 
 
 It might, in these days, be interesting to ex-
 
 234 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 amine these manuscripts if they still existed 
 with a view to discovering if they contained any 
 germ of a reason why one child should have con 
 tinued to write stories throughout life, while the 
 rest did not write again. The romances of the 
 Small Person were wildly romantic and pre 
 posterously sentimental, without a doubt. That 
 there was always before her mind s eye a distinct 
 and strongly colored picture of her events, I re 
 member ; the Listeners laughed and occasionally 
 cried, and were always rapt in their attention ; 
 but if regarded with the impartial eye of cold 
 criticism, my impression is that they might be 
 dismissed as arrant nonsense. The story ran riot 
 through their pages, unbitted and unbridled. 
 
 But no one ever saw them but herself. Even 
 Mamma heard only the reading of " Frank Ells 
 worth." The rest, scribbled in copy-books and 
 blank-books, accumulated in darkness and pri 
 vacy, until the first great event of her life oc 
 curred. 
 
 It was a very great event, and, I am convinced, 
 changed the whole color of existence for her. It 
 was no less a matter than leaving England, to 
 begin a new life in America. 
 
 The events which preceded, and were the final 
 reasons for it, were not pleasant ones. She was 
 too young to be told all the details of them. But 
 the beginning of it all was a sort of huge Story,
 
 Christopher Columbus 235 
 
 which seized upon her imagination. It seemed 
 to her that, for years and years, everyone seemed 
 to live, more or less, under the shadow of a cloud 
 spoken of as "the War in America." This was 
 probably felt more in the cotton manufacturing 
 centres than anywhere else. Lancashire was the 
 great county of cotton factories. Manchester 
 was the very High Altar of the God Cotton. 
 There were rich men in Manchester who were 
 known everywhere as Cotton Lords. The smoke 
 rolling from the tall Babel Towers which were 
 the chimneys of their factories, made the sky 
 dingy for scores of miles around, the back streets 
 were inhabited by the men and women who 
 worked at their looms, the swarms of smoke-be 
 grimed children who played everywhere, began 
 to work in the factories as early as the law al 
 lowed. All the human framework of the great 
 dirty city w r as built about the cotton trade. All 
 the working classes depended upon it for bread, 
 all the middle classes for employment, all the 
 rich for luxury. The very poor, being wakened 
 at four in the morning by the factory bells, 
 flocked to the buildings over which the huge 
 chimneys towered and rolled their volume of 
 black smoke ; the respectable fathers of families 
 spent their days in the counting-rooms or differ 
 ent departments of the big warehouses ; the men 
 of wealth lived their lives among cotton, buying
 
 236 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 and selling, speculating and gaining or losing in 
 Cotton, Cotton, Cotton. 
 
 "If the war in America does not end," it began 
 to be said at one time, " there will be no more 
 cotton, and the manufacturers will not know what 
 to do." 
 
 But this was at first, when everyone believed 
 that the difficulty would settle itself in a few 
 months, and the North and South would be united 
 again. No one was pessimist enough to believe 
 that such a terrible thing would happen as that 
 the fighting would continue. 
 
 But after a while other things were said. 
 
 " There is beginning to be a scarcity of cotton. 
 People even say that some of the factories may 
 have to stop work." 
 
 Every closed factory meant hunger to scores of 
 operatives even hundreds. But still the war 
 went on in America. 
 
 " Jackson s factory has stopped work because 
 there is no cotton ! " came a little later. 
 
 Then : 
 
 " Bright s has stopped work ! All the opera 
 tives thrown out of employment. Jones is going 
 to stop, and Perkins can only keep on about two 
 weeks longer. They are among the biggest, and 
 there will be hundreds on the street. Brownson s 
 ruined. Had no cotton to fill his engagements. 
 All these enormously rich fellows will feel it aw-
 
 Christopher Columbus 237 
 
 fully, but the ones who are only in moderate cir 
 cumstances will go to smash ! " 
 
 It was oftenest the Boys who brought these re 
 ports. And still the war went on in America, and 
 the Small Person heard rumors of battles, of vic 
 tories and losses, of killed and wounded, of the 
 besieging of cities with strange-sounding names, 
 of the South overwhelmed by armies, of planta 
 tions pillaged, magnolia-embowered houses ran 
 sacked and burned. At least when she heard of 
 Southern houses being destroyed, she herself at 
 once supplied the magnolias. To her the South 
 was the land of " Uncle Tom s Cabin." A planta 
 tion meant a boundless estate, swarming with 
 negroes like Uncle Tom, Aunt Chloe, Eliza, and 
 the rest of them, and governed either by a Legree 
 or a Saint Claire, who lived on a veranda covered 
 with luxuriant vines and shaded by magnolia- 
 groves, where Eva flitted about in a white frock 
 and long, golden-brown ringlets. 
 
 She did not in the least know what the war was 
 about, but she could not help sympathizing with 
 the South because magnolias grew there, and peo 
 ple dressed in white sat on verandas covered with 
 vines. Also, there were so many roses. How 
 could one help loving a place where there were 
 so many roses? When she realized that the 
 freedom from slavery of the Uncle Toms and 
 Aunt Chloes and Elizas was involved, she felt
 
 238 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 the situation a strained one. It was impossible 
 not to wish the poor slaves to be freed the story 
 itself demanded it. One wept all through " Uncle 
 Tom s Cabin " because they had not their " free 
 dom," and were sold away from their wives and 
 children, and beaten and hunted with blood 
 hounds ; but the swarms of them singing and 
 speaking negro dialect in the plantations were 
 such a picturesque and lovable feature of the 
 Story ; and it was so unbearable to think of the 
 plantations being destroyed, the vine-covered ve 
 randas disappearing, and the magnolias bloom 
 ing no more to shade the beautiful planters in 
 Panama hats and snow-white linen. She was so 
 attached to planters, and believed them all ex 
 cept the Legrees to be graceful and picturesque 
 creatures. 
 
 But it seemed that the war prevented their 
 sitting on their verandas sipping iced juleps 
 through straws, while their plantations brought 
 forth cotton. 
 
 Factory after factory closed, thousands of oper 
 atives were out of work, there was a Cotton Fam 
 ine. The rich people were being ruined, the poor 
 were starving, there was no trade. The ware 
 houses began to feel it, the large shops and the 
 small ones, more or less directly ; all Manchester 
 prosperity depended upon Cotton, and as there 
 was no Cotton there was no money.
 
 Christopher Columbus 239 
 
 " If the war in America were only over," every 
 body said. 
 
 The stories of the starving operatives became 
 as terrible as the stories from America. Side by 
 side with accounts of battles there were, in the 
 newspapers, accounts of the " Lancashire Dis 
 tress," as it was called. Funds were 
 raised by kind-hearted people in 
 all sorts of places to give aid to 
 the suffering creatures. There 
 were Soup Kitchens estab 
 lished, and pitiful tales were 
 told of the hundreds of hol 
 low-eyed, ravenous men 
 and women and chil 
 dren who crowded 
 about their doors. 
 
 " If t war i Merica 
 ud coom to an eend," 
 they said among themselves, 
 " we shouldna aw be clemmin." And 
 it was not only the operatives who suffered, 
 all classes were involved as the months went on. 
 
 Little girls and boys began to say to each 
 other: 
 
 " We can t go to Wales this summer. Papa 
 says he can t afford it. There are so many of us 
 and it takes such a lot of money. It s the war in 
 America that makes him feel poor."
 
 240 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 Or, 
 
 " The Blakes are not going to have a Christmas 
 party. Mr. Blake has lost money through the 
 war in America." 
 
 Or more awe-inspiring still : 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Hey wood is a bankrupt. 
 The war in America has ruined his business, and 
 he has to close his warehouse." 
 
 Even Mamma began to look harassed and anx 
 ious. She had neither a factory nor a warehouse, 
 but she also had her difficulties and losses. Poor 
 gentle and guileless little lady, she was all unfit to 
 contend with a harsh, sharp, sordid world. She 
 had tried to be business-like and practical, because, 
 poor Papa being gone, there were the three little 
 girls to be taken care of and the boys to be given 
 a career in life. Sometimes the Small Person 
 found her at her dressing-table taking off her lit 
 tle black bonnet with gentle trembling hands and 
 with tears in the blue eyes " Poor Papa " had 
 thought like Am}- Robsart s and Jeanie Deans s. 
 
 " Is there anything the matter, Mamma?" she 
 would ask. 
 
 " Yes, dear," Mamma would answer tremblingly. 
 " I have a great deal to be anxious about. I am 
 afraid I am not a very good business woman, and 
 so many things go wrong. If I only had poor 
 Papa to advise me ; " and the soft, deprecat 
 ing voice would break.
 
 Christopher Columbus 241 
 
 "Don t, don t be low-spirited, Mamma," the 
 Small Person would say, with a tremor in her 
 own voice. " It will all come right after a 
 while." 
 
 " Oh, my dear," Mamma would exclaim, at once 
 tried and worn out, " nothing will ever come right 
 until this dreadful war is over in America." 
 
 If this were a record of incidents, many might 
 be recorded of this time. But it is only a record 
 of the principal events which influenced the men 
 tal life of a Small Person. 
 
 There came at last a time when the war was 
 ended, and there was a pathetic story of the first 
 bales of cotton being met by a crowd of hunger- 
 and trouble-worn factory operatives with sobs and 
 tears, and cries of rapturous welcome and of one 
 man perhaps a father who had sat by a fireless 
 hearth, broken of spirit and helpless, while his 
 young swarm cried for bread a poor gaunt fel 
 low 7 who, lifting his hat, with tears running down 
 his cheeks, raised his voice in the Doxology, one 
 after another joining in, until the whole mass sang, 
 in one great swelling chorus : 
 
 " Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise Him, all creatures here below ; 
 Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Host ; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." 
 
 The Small Person heard this story with a large 
 
 16
 
 242 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 lump in her throat. She felt that it meant so 
 much, and that there must have been strange, sor 
 rowful things going on in the cottages in the Back 
 Streets. 
 
 It was after she had heard it that the great 
 
 event occurred. She entered a room one morn 
 ing to find Mamma and the two boys evidently 
 discussing with unusual excitement a letter with 
 a foreign post-mark. 
 
 " It seems so sudden ! " said Mamma, in rather 
 an agitated voice.
 
 Christopher Columbus 243 
 
 " It would be a great lark," said one of the boys. 
 " I should like it ! 
 
 " I don t think I could ever make up my mind 
 to leave England ! " fluttered Mamma. " It 
 seems such a long way ! " 
 
 The Small Person looked from one to the 
 other. 
 
 " What is a long way ? " she asked. " What 
 are you talking about, Mamma ? " 
 
 Mamma looked at her, and her gentle face 
 wore an almost frightened-like expression. 
 
 " America ! " she said, " America ! " 
 
 " America ! " exclaimed the Small Person, with 
 wide-opened eyes. " What about America ? " 
 
 " We re going there," cried her younger 
 brother, who was given to teasing her. " The 
 whole job lot of us ! I say, isn t it a lark ! " 
 
 " My dear, don t talk so thoughtlessly ! " said 
 Mamma. " I have had a letter from your Uncle 
 John, in America. He thinks it would be a good 
 thing for us to go there. He believes he could 
 find openings for the boys." 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped the Small Person, " America ! 
 Do you do you think you will go? Oh, 
 Mamma," with sudden rapture " do do ! " 
 
 It seems so incredibly delightful ! To go to 
 America ! The land of " Uncle Tom s Cabin ! " 
 Perhaps to see plantations and magnolias ! To 
 be attended by Aunt Chloes and Topsys ! To
 
 244 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 make a long voyage to cross a real Atlantic 
 Ocean in a ship which was not the Green Arm- 
 Chair ! 
 
 The real events of her life had been so simple 
 and its boundaries had been so limited. From 
 the Back Garden of Eden to the Square, and 
 from the Square to the nearest mild sea-side 
 town, which seemed to be made up of a Pier, 
 bathing-machines, lodgings, and shrimps for tea, 
 these were her wildest wanderings. The inhabi 
 tants of the Square were not given to travel. 
 The Best Friend had spent a summer in Scot 
 land, and the result of searching cross-examina 
 tion as to her sojourn in this foreign land had 
 seemed to give the whole flavor of Sir Walter 
 Scott. She had sat by a " loch," and she had 
 heard people speak Gaelic, which she had found 
 an obstacle to fluent interchange of opinion. 
 The Small Person had once seen a very little 
 girl who was said to have come from America. 
 She had longed to talk to her and find out what 
 it was like to live in America what America 
 was like, what it was like to cross the Atlantic 
 Ocean. Her craving was to find out all about 
 America to have it summed up as it were with 
 definite clearness. But the very little girl was 
 only five years old, and she was not an intelli 
 gent little girl, and did not seem to regard herself 
 as a foreign product, or to know that America
 
 Christopher Columbus 
 
 245 
 
 was foreign and so intensely interesting. But 
 the Small Person looked upon her with defer 
 ence and yearning, and watched her from afar, 
 being rather surprised that she did not seem to 
 know how almost weirdly fascinating she was. 
 
 And now to think that there was a possibility 
 even a remote 
 
 I i 
 
 one that she 
 go to 
 her- 
 
 m i g h t 
 
 America 
 self! 
 
 " Oh, Mamma, 
 please do, please 
 do ! " she said 
 again and again, 
 in the days that 
 followed. 
 
 The Boys re 
 garded the pros 
 pect with rapt 
 ure. To them 
 it meant wild 
 adventure of ev 
 ery description. They were so exhilarated that 
 they could talk of nothing else, and began to 
 bear about them a slight suggestion of being of 
 the world of the heroes of Captain Mayne Reid 
 and Fenimore Cooper. They frequently referred 
 to the " Deerslayer " and the " Last of the Mohi-
 
 246 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 cans," and brought in interesting details gath 
 ered from " a fellow I know, who comes from 
 New York." Certain descriptions of a magnifi 
 cent thoroughfare known as Broadway impressed 
 the Small Person immensely. She thought that 
 Broadway was at least half a mile wide, and 
 that before the buildings adorning it Bucking 
 ham Palace and Windsor Castle must sink into 
 utter insignificance particularly a place called 
 A. T. Stewart s. These opinions were founded 
 upon the statements of the "fellow who came 
 from New York." 
 
 It really was a delightfully exciting time. 
 The half-awed rapture of hearing the possible 
 prospect talked over by Mamma and the Uncles 
 and Aunts, the revelation one felt one was mak 
 ing in saying to an ordinary boy or girl, " Do 
 you know that perhaps we are going to Amer 
 ica! " There was thrill enough for a lifetime 
 in it. 
 
 And when at last Mamma " and the Aunts 
 and Uncles and all the relations and friends " 
 had decided the matter, and everybody went to 
 bed knowing that they were going to America, 
 and that everything was to be sold and that the 
 Atlantic was to be crossed, a new world seemed 
 to be looming up, and the Small Person in the 
 midst of her excitement had some rather queer 
 little feelings and lay awake staring in the dark-
 
 Christopher Columbus 247 
 
 ness and wondered who would get the Green 
 Arm-Chair and the Nursery Sofa. 
 
 And then came greater excitement still. 
 There seemed such thousands of things to be 
 done and such a sense of intoxicating novelty in 
 the air. Everybody was so affectionate and 
 kind, and staying with a family of cousins 
 while the house was disposed of seemed the 
 most delightful rollicking thing. Two families 
 in one house filled it to overflowing and pro 
 duced the most hilarious results. There was 
 laughing nearly all night, and darting in and out 
 on errands and visits all day, there was a buy 
 ing of things, and disposing of things, the see 
 ing friends, the bidding good-by, and somehow 
 through it all that delicious sense of adventure 
 and expectation and wild, young, good spirits 
 and fun. 
 
 And this all reached a climax in an excited, 
 entrancing journey to Liverpool, with two rail 
 road carriages full of cousins, with an aunt or so 
 in attendance. Then there was a night in Liver 
 pool, in which it was almost impossible to sleep 
 at all because there was so much to be talked 
 over in bed, and the next morning was so thrill- 
 ingly near and at the same time so unbearably 
 far away. 
 
 And when it came at last there came with it 
 the sending away to the ship of cases and trunks,
 
 248 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
 the bundling into cabs of all the cousins, with 
 final packages of oranges and lemons and all sorts 
 of remedies and resources, the tremulously de 
 lightful crowding on the wharf, the sight of the 
 great ship, the nervous ecstasy of swarming upon 
 it, exploring, exclaiming, discovering, glancing 
 
 over the groups of fellow- 
 passengers and sin 
 gling out those who 
 looked interesting. 
 And then, while 
 the excitement 
 was at the high 
 est, there came 
 the ringing of 
 the fateful bell, 
 and the Small 
 Person felt her 
 heart give a 
 curious wild 
 t h u m p a n d 
 strange elec 
 tric thrills run 
 down into her 
 fingers. 
 
 S u d d e n 1 y 
 she felt as if too 
 much was hap 
 pening all at
 
 Christopher Columbus 249 
 
 once as if things were woful. She wanted to go 
 to America yes, but everybody seemed to have 
 his eyes filled with tears, people were clinging to 
 each other s hands, shaking hands fiercely, clasped 
 in each other s arms, the people in the groups 
 about her were all agitated, Mamma was being 
 embraced by the aunts, with tears, the cousins 
 made farewell clutches, their eyes suddenly full 
 of tears. 
 
 " Good-by, good-by ! " everyone was saying. 
 " Good-by. I hope you ll be happy ! Oh ! it s so 
 strange to sec you go ! We shall so miss you ! " 
 The Small Person kissed and was kissed with 
 desperate farewell fervor. People had not then 
 begun to make summer voyages from America to 
 England every year. Going to America was 
 going to another world a world which seemed 
 divided from quiet simple English homes almost 
 by the gulf of Eternity. 
 
 " Oh ! Good-by, good-by," she cried, quite pas 
 sionately. " I wish you were all going with 
 us ! " 
 
 A friend of an older cousin was of the par 
 ty. He was a nice fellow she had known from 
 childhood. Because he was nice enough to be 
 trusted, she had given him her little dog, not 
 knowing she might have taken it with her. 
 
 He was the last to shake hands with her. 
 He looked rather nervous and deeply moved.
 
 250 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Good-by," he said. " I hope you 
 will like America." 
 
 " Good-by," she said, looking at 
 him through tears. " You I know 
 you ll be good to Flora." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I ll be good 
 to Flora." 
 
 And after looking at her a second 
 he seemed to decide that she was 
 still sufficiently a little girl to be 
 kissed, and he kissed her wet cheek 
 affectionately and 
 walked away with an 
 "evident effort to 
 maintain a decided 
 air. And when the 
 ship began to move 
 slowly away he stood 
 with the aunts and 
 cousins on the wharf, 
 and they all waved 
 their handkerchiefs, 
 ___ and the Small Per 
 
 son leaned upon the 
 
 deck-rail, with tears running down her cheeks, 
 and said to herself, under her breath, 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear! Now I m going to 
 America."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Dryad Days 
 
 THERE were many of them so beautiful so 
 newly, strangely beautiful that words seem poor 
 things to try and describe them with. Words are 
 always poor things. One only uses them because 
 one has nothing else. There is a wide, wide dis 
 tance a distance which is more than a matter of 
 mere space between a great murky, slaving, 
 manufacturing town in England, and mountains 
 and forests in Tennessee forests which seem end 
 lessly deep, mountains covered with their depths 
 of greenness, their pines and laurels, swaying and 
 .blooming, vines of wild grape and scarlet trumpet- 
 flower swaying and blooming among them, tangled 
 with the branches of sumach and sassafras, and all 
 things with branches held out to be climbed over 
 and clung to and draped. 
 
 To have lived under the shadow of the factory 
 chimneys, to have locked up at the great, soft, 
 white clouds and fleecy, floating islands, always 
 seeing them somewhat tarnished, as it were, with 
 the yellowness of the chimney -smoke, to have
 
 252 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 picked one s daisies and buttercups in the public 
 park, always slightly soiled with the tiny dots of 
 black the soft drift of " smuts " which never 
 ceased falling all this is an excellent preparation 
 for rapture, when one is brought face to face with 
 Dryad haunts, and may live Dryad days. 
 
 After the passing of the years in the Back Gar 
 den of Eden the Small Person had always been 
 so accustomed to the ever-falling little rain of 
 "smuts " that it had become an accepted feature 
 of existence. They fell upon one s features, and 
 one of the gentle ofifices of courtesy was to remove 
 them from beloved and intimate cheeks or noses, 
 and delicately direct the attention of mere ac 
 quaintances to their presence and exact situation. 
 They made spots upon one s hat-ribbons, and dis 
 figured one s best frock, and it occurred to no one 
 to touch anything or rest against it without pre 
 vious examination. In fact, one was so accustomed 
 to their presence that the thought of resenting it 
 rarely intruded itself, and one scarcely realized 
 that there existed people who were not so rained 
 upon. The Small Person had always felt it sad, 
 however, that the snow even the pure, untrodden, 
 early morning snow was spoiled so soon by the 
 finer snow of black which fell upon its fair surface 
 and speckled it. One of the most exciting nursery 
 experiments in winter had been to put a cupful of 
 milk, sweetened with nursery brown sugar, onto the
 
 The Dryad Days 253 
 
 window-sill outside, with the thrilling expectation 
 that it would freeze and become ice-cream. This 
 was always tried when it snowed and one could 
 get the milk and sugar ; but as Manchester weather 
 was rarely very cold, the mixture never froze, and 
 if it had done so, it would never have become ice 
 cream, or anything more nearly resembling it than 
 pale-blue skimmed milk and brown sugar would 
 make. There had been rare occasions when a thin 
 coating of ice had formed upon the top of the 
 preparation, and been devoured with joy but it 
 usually remained in a painfully sloppy condition, 
 and was covered with a powder of fine soot. And 
 when in despair one took it in and disposed of it 
 with a spoon, with an effort to regard it as a lux 
 ury, because if it had frozen it would have been 
 ice-cream the flavor of smoke in it was always 
 its strongest feature. This was an actual trial to 
 the Small Person, because it interfered with the 
 pretence that it was ice-cream. It really was so 
 horribly smoky. Everything had been more or 
 less smoky all through her childhood. And she 
 had an absolute passion for the country. She 
 adored the stories in which people had parks or 
 gardens, or lived in rustic cottages, or walked in 
 forests, or across moors, or climbed " blue hills." 
 She revelled in the thoughts of bluebells and 
 honeysuckles, and harebells and wild roses. She 
 " pretended " them in the Square itself. And
 
 254 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 this, by the way, recalls a thrilling incident which 
 is perhaps sufficiently illustrative to be worth 
 recording. 
 
 One or two of the large vacant houses perhaps 
 all of them had once had large gardens behind 
 them. Years of neglect and factory chimney 
 smoke had transformed them into cindery des 
 erts, where weeds grew rank in patches where 
 anything could grow at all, and where, despite 
 the high brick walls surrounding them, all sorts 
 of rubbish accumulated, and made both weeds 
 and bareness more hideous, and their desolate- 
 ness more complete. Usually the doors of en 
 trance were kept locked, and there was no oppor 
 tunity of even looking in from the outside. This 
 fact the Small Person had always found enchant 
 ing, because it suggested mystery. So long as 
 one could not cross the threshold, one could 
 imagine all sorts of beautifulness hidden by the 
 walls too high to be looked over, the little green 
 door which was never unclosed. It made her 
 wish so that she could get inside. 
 
 For years she never did so, but at last there 
 came a rumor that the big houses were to be 
 pulled down, to make room for smaller ones, and 
 then it was whispered about among the Square 
 children that the little green door in the high 
 wall which surrounded the garden behind the 
 big house, called for some mysterious reason
 
 The Dryad Days 255 
 
 " Page s Hall," had been opened, and some bold 
 spirit had walked in and even walked out again. 
 
 And so there arrived an eventful hour when the 
 Small Person herself went in passed through the 
 enchanted door and stood within the mysterious 
 precincts looking around her. 
 
 If she had seen it as it really was she would 
 probably have turned and fled. But she did not 
 she saw nothing as it was Grdce an Bon Dieu ! 
 She saw a Garden. At least it had been a Gar 
 den once and there were the high brick walls 
 around it and the little door so long unop 
 ened, and once there had been flowers and trees 
 in it; they had really bloomed and been green 
 and shady there, though it was so long ago. The 
 charming treasure of her life had been the story 
 that once the Square itself had been an orna 
 mental lake with swans and lilies in it. 
 
 So she wandered about in a dream " pretend 
 ing." That changed it all. The heaps of earth 
 and rubbish were mounds of flowers, the rough, 
 coarse docks were lilies with broad leaves, every 
 poor green thing struggling for life in the hard 
 earth had a lovely name. They were green things 
 at least, and she loved them for that. They grew 
 just as real flowers might have done in a place 
 which had once been a Garden. 
 
 All her little life she had felt a sort of curious 
 kinship with things which grew the trodden
 
 256 The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 grass in the public park, the soiled daisies and 
 buttercups. She had lived among her bricks and 
 mortar and smoke with the yearnings of a little 
 Dryad underlying all her pleasures. In the 
 Square real trees and flowers and thick green 
 ferns and grass seemed joys so impossible. 
 
 She walked about slowly. " Pretending " with 
 all her power. She bent down and looked the 
 weeds in their faces and touched them tenderly. 
 They were such poor things, but in some places 
 they grew quite thickly together and covered the 
 ugly barrenness of the earth with a coarse, simple 
 greenery which represented vaguely to her mind 
 something which was quite beautiful. She felt 
 grateful to them. 
 
 " Suppose they were roses and pansies and lilies 
 and violets," she said to herself. " How beautiful 
 it would be ! " 
 
 And then her dear Angel the beloved Story- 
 laid its kind, beautiful hand upon her, and as she 
 stood among the docks and thistles, if an older 
 person could have looked on understanding 
 surely he would have seen light and color and 
 glow come into her child face. 
 
 " You are roses! " she said. " You arc violets 
 and lilies and hyacinths and daffodils and snow 
 drops ! You arc ! " 
 
 She had reached a mound and w r as standing on 
 it. Beside it, and between herself and the garden
 
 The Dryad Days 257 
 
 wall, there was a sort of broad, deep ditch which 
 seemed to have no reason for existence and of 
 fered no explanation of itself. The mound had 
 probably been formed by the piling up of the 
 earth and rubbish dug out and thrown up. The 
 green things grew over the mound and were rank 
 even in the ditch itself, scrambling down its ugly 
 sides and half filling it. She looked into this ditch 
 and was pleased with it. 
 
 " This is the castle Moat," she said. " It is a 
 Moat and these are the castle gardens." 
 
 The Moat enraptured her. It made all things 
 possible. She rambled about building around it. 
 
 " There is a Bower here," she said, in the very 
 low voice she reserved for such occasions. " It is a 
 Bower covered with roses. There are a great 
 many trees great big trees with thick trunks and 
 broad, broad branches. There are oaks and 
 beeches and chestnut-trees and they spread their 
 boughs across the avenues from side to side. 
 There are Avenues. They are arched over with 
 green. There are banks and banks of flo\v- 
 ers banks of primroses and banks of violets." 
 She was always lavish. " There are bluebells 
 and thick green grass and emerald velvet moss, 
 and ferns and ferns. There are fountains and Grot 
 toes and everything is carpeted with flowers." 
 
 It was all as abundant as Edith Somerville s 
 hair. 
 
 17
 
 258 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 And the Garden the long dead Garden the 
 poor old, forgotten, deserted Garden ! Did it 
 know that suddenly it had bloomed again as 
 it had never bloomed before, even half a century 
 ago in its palmiest days ? 
 
 It would be beautiful to believe that it did, and 
 that some strange, lovely struggle and thrill so 
 moved it, that Nature herself helped it to one 
 last effort to live expressing itself in a myste 
 rious and wonderful thing. If this was not so, 
 how did a flower grow there ? 
 
 It seemed wonderful to the Small Person 
 though it was such a tiny thing such a common 
 thing in some places that there are country-bred 
 people who would not have stooped to pick it 
 up. But she had never seen one. 
 
 Sht was bending over the green things on the 
 mound and telling them again that they were 
 flowers when she saw a tiny red speck close 
 to the ground. 
 
 It was scarcely more than a speck and a flow 
 er was such a wildly improbable thing that she 
 could not believe her eyes. 
 
 " It s a flower ! " she gasped. " A tiny red 
 thing!" and she knelt among the weeds and 
 gloated on it. "It s a real flower!" she said, 
 "growing / " 
 
 She did not know what it was. She took it up 
 as if it had been a holy thing. Only a little
 
 The Dryad Days 
 
 259 
 
 Dryad, who had spent her life in the Square 
 looking out at the slates for rain, could have felt 
 as she did. She looked at it closer and closer, 
 and then remembered something she had read in 
 some poem of rural scenes, the name of some
 
 260 The One I Knew tJic Best of All 
 
 little thing which was tiny and red, and grew low 
 and close to the earth. It did not really matter 
 whether she was quite right or not she could not 
 know but she loved the name and hoped it was 
 the real one. 
 
 " It is a Pimpernel," she said, " a scarlet Pim 
 pernel. It must be ! " And she ended with a 
 wild little shout to the other children who were 
 exploring within hail. 
 
 "Come here!" she cried. "Come here, and 
 see what I have found. I have found a Pimpernel 
 a scarlet Pimpernel like those that grow in the 
 fields ! " 
 
 And from a life where a growing green thing 
 was a marvel and a mystery, and a pimpernel 
 an incongruous impossibility, she went into the 
 Dryad da} s. They began with a journey of two 
 weeks after land was reached, with the banks 
 of the St. Lawrence, with days of travel through 
 Canadian forests, with speechless, rapt wanderings 
 on the borders of a lake like a sea, with short 
 rests at cities which seemed new and foreign, 
 though they were populated with people who 
 spoke English, and which ended at last in a 
 curious little village one unpaved street of wood- 
 en houses, some painted white and some made of 
 logs, but with trees everywhere, and forests and 
 hills shutting it in from the world.
 
 The Dryad Days 26 1 
 
 Then she lived in the Story. Quiet English 
 people, who, driven by changes of fortune, wan 
 dered thousands of miles and lived without ser 
 vants in a log cabin, were a Story themselves. 
 The part of the house which was built of logs 
 enchanted her. It was quite like Fenimore 
 Cooper, but that there were no Indians. She 
 yearned inexpressibly for the Indians. There 
 must have been Indians some time, and there 
 must be some left in the forests. This was what 
 she hoped and tried to find out about. It is pos 
 sible her inquiries into the subject sometimes 
 rather mystified the owners of the white wooden 
 houses, to whom Indians seemed less thrilling. 
 Occasionally an Indian or two were seen she 
 found, but they were neither blood-thirsty nor 
 majestic. They did not build wigwams in the 
 forests, or wear moccasons and wampum ; they 
 did not say " The words of the Pale Face make 
 warm the heart of the White Eagle." 
 
 " They gener ly come a beggin somepn good 
 to eat," one of the white house-owners said to 
 her. " Vittles, or a chaw er terbacker or a dram 
 er whiskey is what they re arter. An he ll lie aii 
 steal, a Injun will, as long as he s a Injun. 1 
 hain t no use for a Injun." 
 
 This was not like Fenimore Cooper, but she 
 persuaded herself that the people she questioned 
 had not chanced to meet the right kind of Abo-
 
 262 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 rigine. She preferred Fenimore Cooper s, even 
 when he wore his war-paint and was scalping the 
 Pale Face or rather pursuing him with that 
 intent without attaining his object. She de 
 lighted in conversation with the natives the 
 real native, who had a wonderful dialect. As she 
 had learned to speak Lancashire she learned to 
 speak East Tennessean and North Carolinian 
 and the negro dialect. Finding that her English 
 accent was considered queer she endeavored to 
 correct it and to speak American. She found 
 American interesting and rather liked it. That 
 was part of the Story, too. To use, herself, in 
 casual conversation, the expressions she had 
 heard in American stories related with delight in 
 England was a joy. She used to wonder what 
 the aunts and cousins and the people in the 
 Square would think if they heard her say " I 
 guess," and " I reckon," if they would be shocked 
 or if they would think it amusing. 
 
 The Square the wet, shiny slates the soiled 
 clouds and falling soot seemed more than thou 
 sands of miles away it was as if they could 
 scarcely have been real, as if she must have 
 dreamed them. Because she was really a Dryad 
 she felt no strangeness in the great change in 
 her life. It seemed as if she must always have 
 lived with the vast clear space of blue above 
 her, with hundreds of miles of forests surround-
 
 The Dryad Days 263 
 
 ing her, with hills on every side, with that view 
 of a certain far-off purple mountain behind 
 which the sun set after it had painted such splen 
 dors in the sky. To get up at sunrise and go 
 out into the exquisite freshness and scent of earth 
 and leaves, to wander through the green aisles 
 of tall, broad-leaved, dew-wet Indian corn, whose 
 field sloped upward behind the house to the 
 chestnut-tree which stood just outside the rail 
 fence one climbed over on to the side of the hill, 
 to climb the hill and wander into the woods 
 where one gathered things, and sniffed the air 
 like some little wild animal, to inhale the odor 
 of warm pines and cedars and fresh damp mould, 
 and pungent aromatic things in the tall " Sage 
 grass," to stand breathing it all in, one s whole 
 being enveloped in the perfume and warm fresh 
 fragrance of it, one s face uplifted to the deep, 
 pure blue and the tops of the pines swaying a 
 little before it to hear little sounds breaking the 
 stillness when one felt it most lovely little 
 sounds of birds conversing with each other, 
 asking questions and answering them and some 
 times being sweetly petulant, of sudden brief 
 little chatters of squirrels, of lovely languorous 
 cawing of crows high above the tree tops, of the 
 warm-sounding boom and drone of a bee near 
 the ground strange as it may seem, to do, to 
 feel, to see and hear all this was somehow not
 
 264 The One I Knew the Best of y/// 
 
 new to her. She was not a stranger here she 
 had been a stranger in the Square when she had 
 lifted her face to the low-hanging, smoky clouds, 
 talking to them, imploring them when they would 
 make no response. Without knowing why be 
 cause she was too young to comprehend she 
 felt that she had begun to be alive, and that be 
 fore, somehow, she had not been exactly living. 
 Though the poor green things in a smoke and 
 soot-smitten Sahara had moved her and seemed 
 to say something vaguely, though one pimpernel 
 astray through some miracle among the rubbish 
 had made her heart cry aloud, the full bounty of 
 all Nature poured out before her in one magnifi 
 cent gift seemed to be something she had always 
 known something she must have been waiting 
 for all through her young years of exile a na 
 tive land which she could not have been kept 
 away from always. And the most perfectly raptur 
 ous of her moments always brought to her a feel 
 ing that somehow in some subtle way she was 
 part of it part of the trees, of the warm winds 
 and scents and sounds and grasses. This though 
 she had not reached the point of knowing it was 
 because ages before dim, far-off beautiful ages 
 before, she had been a little Faun or Dryad or 
 perhaps a swaying thing of boughs and leaves 
 herself, but this had been when there had been 
 fair pagan gods and goddesses who found the
 
 T/ie Dryad Days 265 
 
 fair earth beautiful enough for deity itself. And 
 some strange force had reincarnated her in the 
 Square. 
 
 It is worth mention, perhaps, that here she 
 ceased to " pretend " in the old way. There was 
 no need to " pretend." There were real things 
 enough. She had laid the Doll aside reluctantly 
 some time before doing it gradually after some 
 effort at being purely maternal with it, which, 
 after some tentative experiment, was a failure, 
 because she so loved the real, warm babies that 
 to hover over a wax one seemed an insult to her 
 being. She lived in the woods, and she wrote 
 stories on slates and pieces of paper. But the 
 Story took a new tone. Sir Marmaduke Max- 
 welton was less prominent, and the hair of Edith 
 Somerville flowed less freely over the pages. 
 Hair and eyes seemed less satisfying and less nec 
 essary. She began to deal with emotions. She 
 found emotions interesting and forests and 
 Autumn leaves assisted them and seemed part of 
 them somehow, as she was part of the forests 
 themselves. In the Square she had imagined 
 in the forests she began to feel. 
 
 She lived in the village long enough to gain a 
 great deal of atmosphere, and then she went with 
 the family to another place. The new home was 
 not very far away from the first one, and though 
 it was within a few miles of a place large enough
 
 266 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 to be called a town, instead of a village, it was 
 even more sylvan. This time the house was a 
 little white one and she did not deplore its not 
 being built of logs, because she had lived beyond 
 the Fenimore Cooper standpoint and expected 
 neither Indians nor bears. She no longer regarded 
 America as foreign, and had attained a point of 
 view quite different from that of her early years. 
 
 The house was not at the foot of a hill, in these 
 days it was at the top of one. It was not a very 
 high hill, and the house was a tiny one, balanced 
 quaintly on the summit, as if some flood had left 
 it there on receding. 
 
 " Noah s Ark was left like it on Mount Ararat," 
 said the Small Person. " Let us call it Noah s 
 Ark, Mount Ararat. Think how queer it will 
 look on letters." So it was called Noah s Ark, 
 Mount Ararat, and the address did look queer on 
 letters. 
 
 The house was a bandbox, but the place was 
 adorable in these days. One stood on the little 
 porch of Noah s Ark and looked out over under 
 growth and woods and slopes and hills which 
 ended in three ranges of mountains one behind 
 the other. The farthest was the Alleghanies. It 
 was at this place that what were most truly the 
 Dryad days were lived. There were no neigh 
 bors but the woods, there was no village, the 
 town was too far away to be visited often by peo-
 
 The Dryad Days 267 
 
 pie who must walk. There was nothing to dis 
 tract one. 
 
 And the mountains always seemed to stand 
 silently on guard. They became part of one s 
 life. When the Small Person came out upon the 
 porch very early in the morning they were deep 
 purple and stood out soft and clear. The sun 
 was rising from behind a hill to the left, where 
 three or four very tall pine-trees seemed to have 
 grown with a view to adding to the spectacular 
 effect by outlining their feathery branches and 
 straight, slender stems against the pink, pearl, 
 amber, blue, apple-green, daffodil sky, growing 
 intenser every moment until the golden flood 
 leaped up above the tallest feathered pine. In 
 the middle of the day they paled into faint blue 
 in a haze of sunny light and heat, at sunset they 
 were violet with touches of deep rose. The 
 Small Person began to think of them as of hu 
 man things. They were great human things, 
 with moods which changed and expressions 
 which came and went. She found herself going 
 to look at them at all sorts of times, at different 
 phases of the day or sky, to see how they looked 
 now ! They had so many expressions they al 
 ways seemed to be saying something no, think 
 ing- something but she did not know what. She 
 would have been glad to understand but with 
 these too she had that instinct of kindship of
 
 268 The One I Knew the Jlest of All 
 
 somehow being part of their purple, their clear 
 dark outline, their dips and curves against the 
 sky with these too ! The first morning that she 
 went out and found them covered with snow- 
 like ranges of piled white clouds lightly touched 
 with sunrise pink she almost cried out aloud. 
 
 But it was not only the mountains all the near 
 things that surrounded and shut her in were of 
 the same world. She began to ramble and ex 
 plore, wandering about, and led on step by step 
 by the things she saw until it ended in her liter 
 ally living in the open air. 
 
 About a hundred yards from the house was a 
 little thicket which was the beginning of the 
 woods. Sassafras, sumach, dogwood, and young 
 pines and cedars grew in the midst of a thick 
 undergrowth of blackberry -vines and bushes. 
 The slender but full-branched trees stood very 
 close together, and a wild grape-vine roofed them 
 with a tangled abundance. 
 
 When she found this place the Small Person 
 hungered to get into the very heart of it and feel 
 the leaves enclose her and the vine sway about 
 her and catch with tendrils at her hair. But that 
 was impossible then, because the briers and un 
 dergrowth were so thick as to be impenetrable. 
 For some time it was a longing unattained. 
 
 It was a chance, perhaps, which caused it to be 
 fulfilled. Some friend of the brothers, during a
 
 The Dryad Days 269 
 
 visit of some holiday, was inspired to suggest 
 that an hour or so of vigorous cutting and prun 
 ing would do wonders for this very spot, and in a 
 valiant moment the idea was carried out. 
 
 The Small Person lived in it for two years 
 after, and it was called the " Bower." 
 
 The walls of the Bower were branches and 
 bushes and lovely brambles, the ceiling was 
 boughs bearing bravely the weight of the matted 
 vine, the carpet of it was grass and pine-needles, 
 and moss. One made one s way to it through a 
 narrow path cleared between blackberry and wild- 
 rose briers, one entered as if through a gateway 
 between two slender sentinel sassafras-trees and 
 the air one breathed inside smelled of things 
 subtly intoxicating of warm pine and cedar and 
 grape-vine blossoms made hot by the sun. 
 
 The Small Person was never quite sober when 
 she lay full length on the grass and pine-needles 
 on a Summer day and closed her eyes, dilating 
 her little nostrils to inhale and sniff slowly the 
 breathing of these strange sweet things. She 
 \vas not aware that she was intoxicated, she only 
 thought she was exquisitely happy and uplifted 
 by a strange, still joy better than anything else 
 in life something thrillingly near being the Party. 
 
 She came to the place so much, and spent so 
 many hours there, lying on the grass, scribbling 
 a bit of a story, sewing a bit of a seam, reading,
 
 270 The One I Knew t/ie Best of All 
 
 when she could get a book which was rarely 
 thinking out great problems with her eyes open 
 or shut, and she was so quiet that the little living 
 things actually became accustomed to her, and 
 quite unafraid. It became one of her pleasures to 
 lie or sit and watch a bird light upon a low branch 
 quite near her and sway there, twittering a little 
 to himself and giving an occasional touch to his 
 feathers, as he made remarks about the place. 
 She would not have stirred for worlds for fear of 
 startling him. She used to try to imagine what 
 he was saying : 
 
 " Dear me ! What a charming place. So de 
 lightfully fresh and cool after one has been flying 
 about in the hot sun. And so secluded ! Why 
 did not Rosiebeak think of suggesting that I 
 should build the nest here? And none of those 
 big, walking-about creatures who don t sing 
 And then, perhaps, his round, bright, dark eye 
 fell upon her and he made a nervous little move, 
 as if he were going to fly away, but seeing that 
 she did not stir, reflected upon her, and then she 
 thought he said : 
 
 " What is it ? It looks like one of them, but it 
 does not move or make a noise, and its eyes look 
 friendly." 
 
 And then he would gather courage, if he was an 
 enterprising bird, and hop onto a nearer twig and 
 examine her, making quick little curious move-
 
 Dryad Days 
 
 271 
 
 ments with his head and neck. After which he 
 would probably fly away. 
 
 But she had an idea that he always came again 
 and brought some member of his family and en 
 deavored to explain her to them and tell them that 
 his imp ression 
 was that she 
 would not hurt. 
 Many of them, 
 she was quite 
 sure, came 
 
 again. She believed she recognized them. And 
 they became so used to seeing her that they did 
 not mind her in the least, and had quarrels and 
 reconciliations, and said unpleasant things about 
 their relations, and deplored the habits their 
 children were getting into, and practised their 
 scales just as if she had been one of the fam 
 ily. 
 
 Squirrels had no objection to her, rabbits occa 
 sionally came and looked, and dragon-flies and 
 beetles regarded her as of no consequence at all.
 
 2/2 77/6 One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " They think I am another kind of little animal," 
 she used to delight herself with thinking " an 
 other kind of squirrel or thrush or beetle, or a 
 new kind of rabbit they have not seen. Or per 
 haps they think 1 am a very little cow without 
 horns. They don t think I am a person, and they 
 know I like them." 
 
 Some mornings she spent there it would be al 
 most impossible to describe. The air, the odors, 
 the sounds of insects and birds, the golden-green 
 shade of the interlaced vines and branches, the 
 delicate shadows of the leaves, the faint rustle of 
 them, which only seemed to make the stillness 
 more still and full of meaning, wakened in her a 
 fine, tender ecstasy, which did not seem to be ex 
 actly a feeling belonging to life on earth. She 
 was always alone, and she used to lie in the gold- 
 green shade quite motionless, with her eyes closed, 
 a curious, rapt fancy in her mind. 
 
 " Somehow," she used to think, " I am not quite 
 in my body. It is so beautiful that my soul is try 
 ing to get away like a bird. It has got out of my 
 body and it is trying to break loose ; but it is fast 
 ened with a little slender cord, and that holds it. 
 It is fluttering and straining because it wants to 
 fly." 
 
 There was even in her mind a perfectly definite 
 idea of how high above her body the little soul 
 hovered, straining to break the cord. She fancied
 
 1 lie Dryad Days 273 
 
 it hovering, with the movement of a poised hum 
 ming-bird, about a yard above her breast no 
 higher the slender chain was only that long. 
 
 And she used to try to make herself more and 
 more still, and centre all her thoughts upon the 
 small lifted spirit trying to help it to break the 
 chain. 
 
 " If it could break it," she thought, " it would fly 
 away I don t know where and I should be dead. 
 And they would come to the Bower to look for 
 me at night when I did not come home, and find 
 me lying here. And they would think it was 
 dreadful and be so sorry for me ; and nobody 
 would know that I had only died because I was so 
 happy that my soul broke the chain." 
 
 If in the young all things not quite of earth are 
 justly to be considered morbid, then this ecstasy, 
 too subtile to be called a mood, was a thing to be 
 discouraged ; but it was an emotion all of rapture, 
 and was a thing so delicate and strange that she 
 kept it silently to herself. 
 
 In the life she spent in wandering about the 
 woods, she became perfectly familiar with all their 
 resources. She was generally gathering flowers. 
 The little house \vas filled with them to overflow 
 ing. Her hands were always filled as she rambled 
 from one place to another. She was always look 
 ing for new ones, and it \vas not long before she 
 knew exactly the spots of earth, of dryness or damp- 
 18
 
 274 The Cue I Knew the Best of All 
 
 ness, of shade or sun, in which each one grew. 
 She was nearly always by herself, but she was 
 never alone when she was among these intimates of 
 hers. She found it quite natural to speak to them, 
 to bend down and say caressing things to them, 
 to stoop and kiss them, to praise them for their 
 pretty ways of looking up at her as into the eyes of 
 a friend and beloved. There were certain little 
 blue violets who always seemed to lift up their 
 small faces childishly, as if they were saying : 
 
 " Kiss me ! Don t go by like that. Kiss me." 
 That was what she imagined about them. 
 
 Those were lovely days when she found these 
 violets. They were almost the very first things 
 that came in the Spring. First there was a good 
 deal of rain, and when one was getting very tired 
 of it there would come a lull. Perhaps it was 
 only a lull, and the sun only came out and went 
 in with capricious uncertainty. But when the 
 lull came the Small Person issued forth. Every 
 thing was wet and smelled deliciously the 
 mould, the grass, the ferns, the trees, and bushes. 
 She was not afraid of the dampness. She was a 
 strong little thing, and wore cotton frocks. Gen 
 erally she had no hat. A hat seemed unnecessary 
 and rather in the way. She simply roamed 
 about as a little sheep or cow would have roamed 
 about, going where an odor or a color led her. 
 She went through the bushes and undergrowth,
 
 The Dryad Days 275 
 
 and as she made her way they shook rain-drops 
 on her. As she had not known flowers before, 
 and did not know people then, she did not learn 
 the real names of the flowers she gathered. But 
 she knew their faces and places and ways as she 
 knew her family. The very first small flower of 
 all was a delicate, bounteous thing, which grew 
 in masses and looked like a pale forget-me-not on 
 a fragile stem. She loved it because it was so 
 ready and so free of itself, and it meant that soon 
 the wet grass would be blue with the violets 
 which she loved beyond all else of the Spring or 
 Summer. She always lost her head a little when 
 she saw the first of these small things, but when, 
 after a few days more rain, the sun decided to 
 shine with warm softness, and things were push 
 ing up through the mould and bursting from the 
 branches and trunks of trees, and bluebirds began 
 to sing, and all at once the blue violets seemed to 
 ms/i out of the earth and purple places every 
 where, she became a little mad with a madness 
 which was divine. She forgot she was a Small 
 Person with a body, and scrambled about the 
 woods, forgetting everything else also. She knew 
 nothing but the violets, the buds of things, the 
 leaves, the clamp, sweet, fresh smell. She knelt 
 down recklessly on the wet grass ; if rain began 
 to fall she was not driven indoors unless it fell in 
 torrents. To make one s wav through a wood on
 
 276 The One I Kneiv tlie Best of All 
 
 a hillside with hands full of cool, wet leaves and 
 flowers, and to feel soft, light, fresh rain-drops on 
 one s cheek is a joy a joy ! 
 
 With the violets came the blossoming of the 
 dogwood trees and the wild plum things to be 
 broken off in branches and carried away over 
 one s shoulder, like sumptuous fair banners of 
 white bloom. And then the peach- and apple- 
 blossom, and new flowers at one s feet on every 
 side as one walked through paths or made new 
 ones through the woods. As the weather became 
 warmer the colors became warmer with it. Then 
 the early mornings were spent in the flower hunt, 
 the heat of the day in the Bower, the evenings in 
 the woods again, the nights upon the porch, 
 looked down upon by myriads of jewels trem 
 bling in the vastness of dark blue, or by a moon, 
 never the same or in the same setting, and alwavs 
 sailing like a boat of pearl in a marvellous, mys 
 terious sea. 
 
 The Small Person used to sit upon the steps of 
 the porch, her elbows on her knees, her hands 
 supporting her chin, her face upturned, staring, 
 staring, in the moments of silence. Something of 
 the feeling she had had when she lay upon her 
 back on the grass in the Back Garden of Eden al 
 ways came back to her when she began to look up 
 at the sky. Though it was so high so high, so 
 unattainable, vet this too was a world. Was she
 
 The Dryad Days 277 
 
 part of it too, as she was part of the growing 
 things and the world they belonged to ? She was 
 not sure of that, but there was a link somewhere 
 she was something to it all somehow ! In some 
 unknown way she counted as something among 
 the myriads in the dark, vast blueness perhaps 
 for as much as a point of the tiniest star. She 
 knew she could not understand, that she was be 
 yond the things understandable, when she had 
 this weird updrawn, overwhelming feeling, and 
 sat with her chin upon her hands and stared and 
 stared and stared so fixedly and with such inten 
 sity, that the earth seemed gone left far behind. 
 There was not a season of the year, an hour of 
 the day which was not a wonderful and beautiful 
 thing. In the winter there was the snow, the 
 clear, sharp air, which seemed actually to sparkle, 
 the rose and violet shadows on the mountains, 
 the strange, lurid sunsets, with crimsons and scar 
 lets and pale yellows, burning the summits of pur 
 ple banks of cloud ; there was the crisp sound of 
 one s feet treading the hardened snow, the green 
 of the pines looking emerald against the white 
 ness, the bare tree-tops gray or black against the 
 sky, and making the blue intenser ; there were the 
 little brown rabbits appearing with cautious hops, 
 and poised, sniffing with tremulous noses, their 
 large eyes and alert ears alarming them at a 
 breath of sound to a wild skurry and disappear-
 
 278 The One I Knew tJic Best of AIL 
 
 ance into space itself. The rabbits were a de 
 lightful feature. The Small Person never was 
 able to become intimate with them to the extent 
 of being upon speaking terms. They would come 
 to the Bower and peep at her in the Summer, but 
 in the Winter they always disappeared with that 
 lightning rapidity when they heard her. And yet 
 if they had known her she was conscious that 
 they would have recognized their mistake. She 
 had always deplored seeing them suspended by 
 their hind legs in the poulterers shops in Man 
 chester. They looked so soft, and their dulled 
 eyes seemed so piteous. 
 
 The Spring was the creation of the world the 
 mysterious, radiant, young beginning of living. 
 There were the violets and dogwood blossoms, 
 and every day new life. In the summer there 
 was the Bower, and the roses, and the bees, and 
 the warm, aromatic smells in the air. In the 
 Autumn a new thing came, and she seemed to 
 have drunk something heady again. 
 
 The first Autumn in America was a wondrous 
 thing to her. She existed from day to day in a 
 sort of breathless state of incredulity. In Man 
 chester, the leaves on the trees in the public park, 
 being rained upon until they became sodden and 
 brown, dropped off dispirited, and life was at an 
 end. Even poetry and imaginative prose only 
 spoke of " Autumn s russet brown."
 
 The Dryad Days 279 
 
 But here marvels happened. After a few hot 
 days and cool nights, the greenery of the Bower 
 began to look strangely golden. As she lay under 
 her prettiest sassafras - tree, the Small Person 
 found, when she looked up, that something was 
 happening to its leaves. They were still fresh, 
 and waved and rustled, but they w r ere turning 
 pale yellow. Some of them had veins and flushes 
 of rose on them. She gathered some and looked 
 at them closely. They were like the petals of 
 flowers. A few more hot days and cool nights 
 and there were other colors. The maple w r as 
 growing yellow and red, the dogwood was crim 
 son, the sumach was like blood, the chestnut was 
 pale gold, and so was the poplar the trailing 
 brambles were painted as if with a brush. The 
 Small Person could not believe her eyes, as she 
 saw what, each day, went on around her. It 
 seemed like a brilliant dream, or some exaggera 
 tion of her senses. 
 
 " It can t really be as scarlet as that when one 
 holds it in one s hand," she used to say at sight of 
 some high-hued, flauntingly lovely spray. 
 
 And she would stand upon her tiptoes, and 
 stretch, and struggle to reach it, and stand pant 
 ing and flushed, but triumphant, with it in her 
 hand, finding it as brilliant as it had seemed. 
 
 She began to gather leaves as she had gathered 
 flowers, and went about with bowers of branches,
 
 2 So The One I Kneiv the Best of All 
 
 flaming and crimson, in her arms. She made 
 wreaths of sumach and maple leaves, and wore 
 them on her head, and put bunches in her little 
 belt, and roamed about all day in this splendor, 
 feeling flaunting and inclined to sing. Again, she 
 did not know that she was not sober, and that, 
 as Bacchantes of old wore wreaths of vine-leaves 
 and reeled a little with the blood of the new 
 grapes, so she was reeling a little with an exulta 
 tion beautiful and strange. 
 
 There was a certain hollow in a little woodland 
 road she loitered about a great deal, where there 
 was a view which had always a deep effect upon 
 her. 
 
 It was not an imposing view, it was a soft and 
 dreamy one. The little road ran between woods 
 and pretty wild places, to a higher land clothed 
 with forest. The lovely rolling wave of it 
 seemed to shut in the world she looked at when 
 she stood in the little dip of the road, with wood 
 on both sides and the mountains behind her. 
 
 When all the land was aflame with Autumn, 
 and she sat on Indian Summer afternoons upon a 
 certain large lichen-covered log, she used to gaze, 
 dreaming, at the massed tree plumes of scarlet 
 and crimson and gold uplifted against the blue 
 sky, and softened with a faint, ethereal haze, until 
 she had strange unearthly fancies of this too. 
 
 " A place might open in the blue," she used to
 
 The Dryad Days 281 
 
 say softly to herself. " It might open at any 
 moment now while I am sitting here. And 
 They might come floating over the trees. They 
 would float, and look like faint, white mist at first. 
 And if the place in the blue were left open, 1 
 might sec ! " 
 
 And at such times all was so still so still and 
 wonderful, that she used to find herself sitting 
 breathless, waiting. 
 
 There were many memories of this hollow 
 woodland path. So many flowers grew there, 
 and there were always doves making soft mur 
 murs and most tender, lovelorn plaints, high in 
 the pines far tops. She used to stand and listen 
 to their cooing, loving it, and in her young, she- 
 dove s heart plaining with them, she did not know 
 or ask why. 
 
 And there, more than one rainy autumn day, 
 she came and stood with her boughs in her arms, 
 watching the misty rain veiling the sumptuous 
 colors of the wooded hill, feeling, with a kind of 
 joyful pleasure, the light-falling drops caressing 
 her from her red leaf-\vreaths to her damp feet, 
 which mattered absolutely nothing. How could 
 the wet grass she seemed to have sprung from 
 earth with, the fresh cool rain she loved, hurt 
 her, a young, young Dryad, in these her Dryad 
 days ? 
 
 How many times it befell her to follow this road
 
 282 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 sometimes running fast, sometimes stealing 
 softly, sometimes breaking away from it to plunge 
 into the wood and run again until she stopped to 
 listen, looking up into some tree, or peering into 
 a thicket or bush. 
 
 This was when she was giving herself up to 
 what she called " the bird chases." She liked 
 them so the birds. She knew nothing of them. 
 Birds such as the woods hold had not lived in the 
 Square. There had been only serious -minded 
 little sparrows nesting in the chimneys and in the 
 gutterings. They brought up large families un 
 der the shadows of water-piping, and taught them 
 to fly on the wet slates. They were grateful for 
 crumbs, particularly in snowy weather, and the 
 Nursery patronized them. But they were not 
 bluebirds with a brief little trill of Spring carolled 
 persistently from all sorts of boughs and fence 
 corners ; they were not scarlet birds with black 
 velvet marks and crests ; they were not yellow 
 birds like stray canaries, or chattering jays, or 
 mocking-birds with the songs of all the woods in 
 their throats ; they were not thrushes and wrens, 
 or woodpeckers drumming and tapping in that 
 curiously human way. 
 
 As there had been no one to tell her the actual 
 names of the flowers, so there was no one to tell 
 her the real names of the birds. She used to ask 
 the negroes who lived at the foot of Mount Ara-
 
 The Dryad Days 283 
 
 rat, but the result was so unsatisfactory that she 
 gave it up. 
 
 " What is that little bird that sings like this, 
 Aunt Cynthy?" she would say, trying to imitate 
 its note. " It is a little blue thing." 
 
 " That s the bluebird," seemed rather incom 
 plete to her at the outset. 
 
 " And the bright red one with the black marks 
 and crest?" 
 
 " That s the redbird," which did not seem much 
 more definite. 
 
 " I can sec they are blue and red," she used to 
 say. " Haven t they a name ? " 
 
 But they had no other name, and when the 
 birds described were less marked in color there 
 seemed to be no names at all. So she began to 
 commit the birds to memory, learning their notes 
 and colors and forms by heart. In this way were 
 instituted the bird chases. 
 
 If she heard a new song or note she ran after it 
 until she saw the bird and could watch him pip 
 ing or singing. It was very interesting and led 
 her many a mile. 
 
 Sometimes she believed birds came and sang 
 near her, under cover, for the mere fun of leading 
 her through the woods. They would begin on a 
 tree near by and then fly away and seem to hide 
 again until she followed them. She always fol 
 lowed until she caught sight of her bird. But
 
 284 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 they had wonderful ways of eluding her, and led 
 her over hill and dale, and through thicket and 
 brambles, and even then sometimes got away. 
 
 There was one with a yellow breast and a 
 queer little cry which she pursued for several 
 days, but she saw him at last and afterward be 
 came quite familiar with him. And there was 
 one, who was always one of two a tender, sad 
 little thing who could never be alone, and who 
 was always an unanswered problem to her, and 
 somehow, above all, her best beloved. It was a 
 mystery because no one ever seemed to have seen 
 it but herself, and her description of it was never 
 recognized. 
 
 It was a little bird a tiny one, a soft, small, 
 rounded one, with a black velvet cap, and on its 
 first appearance it came and sat upon the rail of 
 the veranda, and waited there, uttering a piteous 
 little note. She knew that it was waiting and 
 was calling to its mate because it was a timid lit 
 tle thing, existing only under the cover of his 
 wing and love. He could only be a small creat 
 ure himself, but the Small Person felt that in the 
 round, bright, timid eyes he was a refuge from the 
 whole large world, the brief, soft, plaintive cry for 
 him was so pathetically trustful in its appealing. 
 
 The Small Person, who was sitting on the 
 wooden steps, was afraid to stir for fear of fright 
 ening her.
 
 The Dryad Days 285 
 
 "You poor little mite," she murmured, "don t 
 be so sorrowful. He ll come directly." 
 
 And when he did come and was lovingly re 
 joiced over, and the tiny pair flew away together, 
 she was quite relieved. 
 
 There \vas something in the brief, plaintive note 
 which always led her to follow it when she heard 
 it afterward, which only happened at rare inter 
 vals. There seemed to be some sad little ques 
 tion or story in it which she could not help wish 
 ing she could understand. But she never did, 
 though each time she heard the sound she ran to 
 look for it, and stood beneath its tree looking up 
 with a sense of a persistent question in her own 
 breast. What was it about? What did it want? 
 What was it sad for? She never heard the tiny 
 thing without finding it huddled down patiently 
 upon some bough or spray, calling for its mate. 
 And to her it never had any other name than the 
 one she gave it of " The little mournful bird." 
 
 These Dryad days were of the first years of her 
 teens. They were the early Spring of her young 
 life. And she was in Love in Love with morn 
 ing, noon, and night ; with Spring and Summer 
 and Winter ; with leaves and roots and trees ; 
 w r ith rain and dew and sun ; with shadows and 
 odors and winds ; with all the little living things ; 
 with the rapture of being and unknowingness and 
 mere Life with the whole World.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " My Object is Remuneration " 
 
 SHE always felt herself under a personal obli 
 gation to Christopher Columbus. The years in 
 which came the Dryad days would have been 
 very different if they had been spent in the 
 Square or within reach of it. Reduced resources 
 in a great town or city where one has lived al 
 ways, mean change of habits and surroundings, 
 shabbiness, anxiety, and annoyance. They mean 
 depression and dreariness, loss of courage, and 
 petty humiliations without end. In a foreign 
 land among mountains and forests they mean se 
 clusion, freedom, and novelty. It is novelty to 
 live in a tiny white house, to wait upon one s self 
 and everyone else, to wear a cotton frock and 
 chase birds through the woods without the en 
 cumbrances of hats and gloves and parasols. It 
 is also freedom. But in Dryad days lived in an 
 unsylvan age a serious reduction of resources is 
 felt. Detail seems unnecessary, but, without en 
 tering into detail, it may be stated that this re 
 duction of resource was felt on the summit of 
 Mount Ararat. Alas! one cannot live always in
 
 "My Object is Reimmeration" 287 
 
 the Bower, one must come home to dinner and to 
 bed. Material and painful but unavoidable. Even 
 cotton frocks wear out and must be washed. And 
 the openings for the Boys had not been of suf 
 ficient size to allow of their passing through to 
 fc ease and fortune. The consequences were curi 
 ous sometimes and rather trying. 
 
 " We are decayed ladies and gentlemen," the 
 Small Person used to say to herself. " We ought 
 to be living in a ruined feudal castle and have 
 ancient servitors who refuse to leave us and will 
 not take any wages. But it is not at all like that." 
 It was not at all. 
 
 It was so very unlike it that there were occa 
 sions when she gathered her leaves and flowers 
 with a thoughtful little frown on her forehead, 
 and when she talked the matter over with Edith 
 or Mamma. Edith was the practical member of 
 the family. 
 
 " If one could do something ! " she said, thought 
 fully. 
 
 But there are so few things to do if one is very 
 young and quite inexperienced and lives on the 
 top of Mount Ararat. 
 
 Still the serious necessity increased and she 
 pondered over it more and more. 
 
 " I wish I could do something," she said next. 
 She began to have long discussions with Edith as 
 to what one might invent as a means of resource
 
 288 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 what one could teach or learn or make. But 
 nothing proved practicable. 
 
 There was a queer little room with unfinished 
 walls and rafters where she had a table by a win 
 dow and wrote stories in wet or cold weather when 
 
 the Bower was out of the question. There was no 
 fireplace and she used to sit wrapped in a shawl 
 for warmth. She had a little cat which always 
 followed her and jumped upon the table when she 
 sat down, curling- up in the curve of her left arm. 
 The little cat s name was Dora, and it was also a
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 289 
 
 Small Person. It had a clearly defined character, 
 and understood that it was assisting in literary 
 efforts. It also added to the warmth the shawl 
 gave. Edith used to come upstairs to the rough 
 little room and talk to her, and gradually she got 
 into the habit of reading to her pieces of the 
 stories. She began with extracts speeches, 
 scenes, chapters and led on by the delight of her 
 audience, which was stimulating as that of the 
 Listeners, she read all she wrote. 
 
 Edith was a delightful listener. She was an 
 emotional little being, and exquisitely ready with 
 tears, and uncontrolled in laughter. She was at 
 the same time a remarkable Small Person and sin 
 gularly perceptive. 
 
 They used to sit and talk over the stories telling 
 each other what they liked best or were not quite 
 sure of. The Small Person had a curious feeling 
 that in reading to Edith she was submitting her 
 creations to a sort of infallible critic one who was 
 infallible not through experience or training, but 
 through a certain unfailing truth of sentiment and 
 emotion, and an unfaltering good taste. It must 
 be recorded, however, that neither of them for a 
 moment contemplated the chance of a larger pub 
 lic existing for the stories. Never for an instant 
 had it occurred to the Small Person that they were 
 worth publishing. That would have seemed to 
 her a height of presumption quite grotesque. 
 19
 
 290 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 They were hidden from the Boys as carefully as 
 ever, and derided as mercilessly when they were 
 mentioned by them. " Frances s love stories " 
 were an unfailing source of jocular entertainment. 
 It was never ill-natured entertainment, and there 
 was plenty of rough young wit in it ; but naturally 
 a young Briton finds it rather a lark to contem 
 plate the thought of a small girl he has chaffed and 
 patronized all his life secreting herself to write 
 pages of romantic description of the emotions of 
 " a case of spoons." The Boys were fond of her, 
 and their intercourse was marked by bounteous 
 good-nature and the best of tempers and spirits, 
 but their impression naturally was that the stories 
 would be " bosh." But she continued to write 
 them with the little cat curled in her left arm 
 and read them to Edith. It was the " Answers 
 to Correspondents " in various magazines which 
 inspired her with her tremendously daring 
 thought. Things like these : 
 
 " Elaine the Fair. Your story has merit, but is 
 not quite suited to our columns. Never write on 
 both sides of your paper." 
 
 " Christabel. We do not return rejected manu 
 script unless stamps are enlosed for postage." 
 
 " Blair of Athol. We accept your poem, The 
 Knight s Token. Shall be glad to hear from you 
 again." 
 
 She read them on the final pages of Godcys
 
 " My Object is Remuneration" 291 
 
 Ladys Book and Petersons Magazine, etc. Her 
 circumstances were not sufficiently princely to 
 admit of her being among the subscribers, but oc 
 casionally a copy or so drifted in her way. They 
 were much read at that time in the locality. 
 
 She was reading these absorbing replies to the 
 correspondents one day when a thought floated 
 into her mind, and after a few moments of indefi- 
 niteness took shape and presented itself before 
 her. She blushed a little at first because it had 
 such an air of boldness. She rather thrust it 
 aside, but after a while she found herself con 
 templating it as if from afar off. 
 
 " I wonder how much they pay for the stories 
 in magazines," she said, reflectively, to Edith. 
 
 Edith did not know, naturally, and had not 
 formed any opinion. 
 
 " I wonder if they pay much," the Small Per 
 son continued ; " and what sort of people write 
 them?" It seemed impossible that ordinary, 
 every-day people could write things that would 
 be considered worth paying for and publishing in 
 magazines. It seemed to imply immense talents 
 and cultivation and training and enormous dignity. 
 
 She did not think this because she found the 
 stories invariably brilliant, but because she felt 
 that there must be some merit she was not clever 
 enough to detect ; if not they would never have 
 been published.
 
 292 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " Sometimes they are not so awfully clever," 
 she said. 
 
 " Well," said Edith, boldly, " I ve seen lots of 
 them not half as nice as yours." 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed, conscious of being beset 
 by her sheepish feeling ; " that s because you are 
 my sister." 
 
 " No, it isn t," said the valiant Edith, with her 
 favorite little pucker of her forehead. " I don t 
 care whether I m your sister or not. Some of 
 your stories are beautiful ! " 
 
 The Small Person blushed, because she was of 
 the Small Persons who are given to superfluous 
 blushing. " I wonder," she said, " if the maga 
 zine people would think so." 
 
 " I don t know anything about magazine peo 
 ple," said Edith ; " but I don t see why they 
 shouldn t think so." 
 
 " They wouldn t," said the Small Person, with 
 a sudden sense of discouragement. " Of course 
 they wouldn t." 
 
 But she could not help the thought of the an 
 swered correspondents returning to her after 
 ward. She found herself wondering about them 
 as she rambled through the woods or lay on the 
 grass in the Bower. How did they send their 
 stories to the magazines? Was it by post or 
 by express? If it was by post how many stamps 
 would it take? How could one find out? It
 
 " My Object is Remuneration " 293 
 
 would be important that one should put on 
 enough. She remembered " answers " such as 
 this : " March Hare. We cannot receive MSS. 
 on which insufficient postage has been paid." It 
 was evidently necessary to make a point of the 
 postage. 
 
 Then there was the paper. To meet the ap 
 proval of an august being it seemed as if some 
 thing special must be required. And more than 
 once she had read instructions of such a nature 
 as : " Airy, Fairy Lilian. Write in a clear hand 
 on ordinary foolscap paper." 
 
 She was only fifteen, and her life had been 
 spent between the Square and the Bower. Her 
 horizon had not been a broad one, and had not 
 embraced practical things. She had had no per 
 sonal acquaintance with Ordinary Foolscap. If 
 the statement had demanded extraordinary fools 
 cap she would have felt it only natural. 
 
 Somehow she found a timid, but growing in 
 terest in the whole subject. She could not quite 
 get away from it. And when circumstances oc 
 curred which directed her attention specially to 
 the results of the reduced resources she was led 
 to dwell on it with a certain sense of fascination. 
 
 " Something must be done ! " she said to her 
 self, desperately. " We can t go on like this. 
 Someone must do something." 
 
 The three little girls talked together at times
 
 294 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 quite gloomily. They all agreed that Somebody 
 must do something. The Boys were doing their 
 best, but luck did not seem to be with them. 
 
 " Something must be done," the Small Person 
 kept repeating. 
 
 " Yes," replied Edith, " but what must it be and 
 Who will do it?" 
 
 The people whose stories were bought and 
 printed must some time have sent their first 
 stories. And they could not have known whether 
 they were really good or not until they had asked 
 and found out. The only way of finding out was 
 to send one written in a clear hand on one side of 
 ordinary foolscap having first made quite sure 
 that it had stamps enough on it. If a person had 
 the courage to do that, he or she would at least 
 hear if it was worth reading if a stamp was en 
 closed. 
 
 These were the reflections with which the Small 
 Person s mind was occupied. 
 
 And if it was worth reading if the August Be 
 ing deigned to think it so and was not rendered 
 rabid and infuriate by insufficient postage, or in 
 distinct writing, or by having to read on both 
 sides of the ordinary foolscap, if he was in need 
 of stories for his magazine, and if he was in a good 
 temper he might accept it and buy it. 
 
 If the Listeners had liked her stories so much, 
 if Edith and Edwina liked them, if Edith thought
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 295 
 
 they were as nice as some she had read in Godcys 
 Ladys Book, might it not be just possible that 
 that an Editor might deign to read one and per 
 haps even say that it " had merit," even if it was 
 not good enough to buy. If he said that much, 
 she could study the stories in the Ladys Book, 
 etc., assiduously enough, perhaps, to learn the se 
 cret of their success, and finally do something 
 which might be worthy to compete with them. 
 
 She was a perfectly unassuming child. She had 
 never had any feeling about her story-telling but 
 that it seemed part of herself something she 
 could not help doing. Secretly she had been 
 afraid, as time went by, that she had been Ro 
 mantic with the Doll, and in private she was 
 afraid that she was Romantic about the stories. 
 The idea that anyone but the Listeners and Edith 
 and Edwina would be likely to care to hear or 
 read them had never entered her mind. The 
 cheerful derision of the Boys added to her sensi 
 tive shyness about them, and upon the whole she 
 regarded her little idiosyncrasy as a thing to be 
 kept rather quiet. Nothing but actual stress of 
 circumstances would have spurred her to the 
 boldness of daring to hope for them. But in 
 those days Noah s Ark found itself lacking such 
 common things things which could not be dis 
 pensed with even by the most decayed of ladies 
 and gentlemen.
 
 296 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 So one day after many mental struggles she 
 found herself sitting with Edith and the little 
 cat, in the small room with the bare walls and 
 rafters. And she gathered her courage in both 
 hands. 
 
 " Edith," she said, " I ve been thinking about 
 something." 
 
 Edith looked at her with interest. She was a 
 lovely little person and a wonderful friend for her 
 years which were thirteen. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. 
 
 " Do you think do you think it would be silly 
 to send one of my stories to a magazine and 
 see if they would take it ? " 
 
 I cannot help believing that at the first moment 
 Edith rather lost her breath. The two were Eng 
 lish children, brought up in a simple English nurs 
 ery in the most primitively conventional way. 
 Such a life is not conducive to a spirit of bold 
 ness and enterprise. In matters of point of view 
 they would have seemed to the American mind 
 incredibly young for their years. If they had 
 been American children they would have been 
 immensely cooler and far less inclined to ultra- 
 respectful attitudes toward authority. 
 
 " Do you ? " said the Small Person. " Do you ? " 
 
 Edith gathered herself together also. Across 
 a lifetime the picture of her small face rises with 
 perfect distinctness. She was a fair little person.
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 297 
 
 with much curling blond hair and an expressive 
 little forehead which had a habit of puckering it 
 self. She was still startled, but she bore herself 
 with a courage which was heroic. 
 
 " No," she answered, " I don t!" 
 
 If she had said that she did, the matter might 
 have ended there, but as it was, the Small Person 
 breathed again. She felt the matter might be 
 contemplated and approached more nearly. One 
 might venture at least to talk about it in private. 
 
 " I have been thinking and thinking about it," 
 she said. " Even if they are not good enough to 
 be published it would not do any harm just to 
 try. They can only be sent back and then I 
 should know. Do you think we dare do it?" 
 
 " If I were you I would," said Edith. 
 
 " I believe," hesitated the Small Person, " I do 
 believe I will." 
 
 Edith began to become excited. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " I think it would be splendid ! 
 What would you send ? " 
 
 " I should have to write something new. I 
 haven t anything ready that I should care to 
 send. I d write something carefully just as well 
 as I could. There s a story I began to write when 
 we lived in the Square, three years ago. I never 
 finished it, and I only wrote scenes out of it in 
 old account-books ; but I remember what it was 
 about, and the other day I found an old book
 
 298 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 with some scraps of it in. And I really do think 
 it s rather nice. And I might finish it, perhaps." 
 She began to tell the story, and became exhila 
 rated with the telling, as she always did, and 
 Edith thought it an enchanting story, and so it 
 was decided that it should be finished and put to 
 the test. 
 
 " But there s one thing," she said, " I would not 
 have the Boys know for anything in the world. 
 They would laugh so, and they would think it 
 such a joke if it was sent back again. I m going 
 to put in stamps to send it back with, because if 
 you put on stamps enough they will send it back. 
 And perhaps they wouldn t take the trouble to 
 write a letter if they didn t like it and I didn t 
 send the extra stamps. You often see in maga 
 zines a notice that manuscript will be returned if 
 stamps are sent. So in that way I shall be sure 
 to find out. But I must get them without the 
 Boys knowing." 
 
 "Yes, you must," said Edith. "They would 
 tease you so if it came back. But what are you 
 going to do? You know there isn t any money 
 now but what the Boys get. And that s little 
 enough, goodness knows." 
 
 " We shall have to think about it," said the 
 Small Person, " and contrive. It will take a good 
 deal of contriving, but I have to write the story 
 first."
 
 " My Object is Remuneration" 299 
 
 "Do you think it will take many stamps?" 
 asked Edith, beginning to pucker her expressive 
 little forehead, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, a good many, I m afraid," was the Small 
 Person s answer. " And then we have to buy the 
 foolscap paper ordinary foolscap. But of all 
 things promise and swear you won t breathe a 
 word before the Boys." 
 
 It was a marvel that they did not betray them 
 selves in some way. It was so thrilling a secret. 
 While the story was being written they could 
 think and talk of nothing else. The Small Person 
 used to come down from the raftered Temple of 
 the Muses with her little cat under her arm, and 
 her cheeks a blaze of scarlet. The more absorbed 
 and interested she was the more brilliant her 
 cheeks were. 
 
 " How red your cheeks are, my dear," Mamma 
 would say. " Does your head ache ? " 
 
 But her head did not ache, though it would 
 have done, if she had not been a splendidly strong 
 little animal. 
 
 " I always know when you ve been writing very 
 fast," Edith used to say ; " your cheeks always 
 look so flaming red." 
 
 It was not long, of course, before Mamma was 
 taken into confidence. What she thought it 
 would be difficult to say, but she was lovable 
 and sustaining as usual.
 
 300 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 " It won t do any harm to try, dear," she said. 
 " It seems to me you write very nice things, for 
 one so young, and perhaps some of the edi 
 tors might like them ; and, of course, it would 
 be a great help if they would pay you a little 
 money." 
 
 " But the Boys mustn t know one word," said 
 the Small Person. " I ll tell them if it s accepted, 
 but if it isn t, I d rather be dead than that they 
 should find out." 
 
 And so the story went on, and it was read 
 aloud under the rafters, and Edith revelled in it, 
 and the little cat lay curled up in the Small Per 
 son s left arm, quite undisturbed by the excite 
 ment in the atmosphere around her. And as 
 the work went on the two plotters discussed and 
 planned and contrived. 
 
 First, how to get the ordinary foolscap to 
 copy out the manuscript in a beautiful clear 
 hand ; next, how to get the address of the Editor 
 to be approached; next, how to address him; 
 next, how to find out how many stamps would 
 be necessary to carry the fateful package and 
 bring it back, if such was to be its doom. 
 
 It had all to be done in such secrecy and with 
 such precautions. To walk to town and back 
 was a matter of two or three hours, and the Boys 
 
 J 
 
 would wonder if they did not hear why a journey 
 had been made. They always saw the person
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 301 
 
 who went to town. Consequently no member of 
 the household could go without attracting atten 
 tion. So some outsider must be found who could 
 make the journey to visit a book-store and find 
 the address required. It would have been all so 
 simple if it had not been for the Boys. 
 
 But by the time the story was finished an ac 
 quaintance who lived on a neighboring farm had 
 procured the address and some information about 
 the stamps, though this last could not be applied 
 very definitely, as the weight of the package 
 could only be guessed at, in the absence of letter- 
 scales. 
 
 The practical views of the Small Person at 
 this crisis impress me greatly. They were so 
 incompatible with her usual vagueness and ro- 
 mancings that they strike me as rather deliciously 
 incongruous. 
 
 " I must have the right kind of paper," she 
 argued, " because if I sent something that seemed 
 queer to them they would think me silly to begin 
 with. And I must write it very plainly, so that 
 it will be easy to read, and on only one side, be 
 cause if they are bothered by anything it will 
 make them feel cross and they will hate me, and 
 hate my story too. Then, as to the lettpr I send 
 with it, I must be very careful about that. Of 
 course they have a great many such letters and 
 they must be tired of reading them. So I must
 
 302 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 make it very short. I would send it without a 
 letter, but I must make them understand that I 
 want it sent back if they don t like it, and call 
 their attention to the stamps and let them know 
 I am doing it for money and not just for the fun 
 of getting the story published." 
 
 "How will you tell them that?" asked Edith, 
 a trifle alarmed. It seemed so appalling and in 
 delicate to explain to an Editor that you wanted 
 money. 
 
 The Small Person felt the same thing. She 
 felt this sordid mention of an expectation of re 
 ceiving dollars and cents in return for her work 
 a rather gross thing a bold thing which might 
 cause the Editor to receive a severe shock and 
 regard her with cold disgust as a brazen Small 
 Person. Upon the whole, it was the most awful 
 part of the situation. But there was no help for 
 it. Having put her hand to the plough she could 
 not turn back, or trifle with the chance that the 
 Editor might think her a well-to-do Small Person, 
 who did not write stories for publication through 
 sheer need, but for amusement. 
 
 " I shall have to think that over," she said, seri 
 ously. " I don t want to offend them, of course, 
 but I must tell them that ! " 
 
 If it were possible to depict in sufficiently 
 strong colors her mental impressions of the man 
 ners, idiosyncrasies, and powers of an Editor, the
 
 " My Object is Remuneration " 303 
 
 picture would be an interesting one. It was an 
 impression so founded upon respect and un 
 bounded awe. Between an utterly insignificant 
 little girl in the mountains of East Tennessee and 
 an Editor in a princely official apartment in Phil 
 adelphia or New York, invested by Fate with 
 the power to crush people to the earth and re 
 duce them to impalpable dust by refusing their 
 manuscripts or to raise them to dizziest pin 
 nacles of bliss by accepting them there was a 
 gulf imagination could not cross. Buddha him 
 self, sitting in rapt passiveness with folded hands 
 and down-dropped lids, was not so marvellous or 
 so final. Editors presented themselves to her as 
 representing a distinct superhuman race. It 
 seemed impossible that they were moved by the 
 ordinary emotions and passions of mankind. 
 Why she was pervaded with a timorousness, with 
 regard to them, which only Mad Bulls or Tigers 
 with hydrophobia would have justified, it is not 
 easy to explain. Somehow the picture of an Edi 
 tor rendered infuriate" gone must," as it were 
 in consequence of an inadequacy of stamps, or a 
 fault in punctuation, or as a result of indistinct 
 handwriting covering both sides of the ordinary 
 foolscap, was a thing which haunted both her 
 waking and sleeping hours. He would return 
 the manuscript with withering comment, or per 
 haps not return it at all, and keep all the stamps,
 
 304 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 which might be considered perfectly proper for 
 an Editor if one broke his Mede and Persian 
 laws. Such a being as this must be approached 
 with salaams and genuflections, and forehead 
 touching the dust. 
 
 Poor, little, anxious girl ; I find her rather 
 touching at this distance sitting in her raftered 
 room, scribbling hotly, with her little cat in her 
 arm, and her cheeks like scarlet flame. But she 
 could not write the explanatory letter to the Edi 
 tor until she had got the money to buy the paper 
 to copy the story and the stamps to send it. And 
 how to do this without applying to the Boys ? 
 The rafters and the little cat presided over hours 
 of planning and discussion. What could be 
 done. 
 
 " If we could make some money ourselves," 
 said the Small Person, mournfully. 
 
 " But we can t," said Edith. " We ve tried, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes," said the Small Person. " Embroidery 
 and people don t want it. Music lessons peo 
 ple think I m too young. Chickens and they 
 wouldn t hatch, and when they did they died of 
 the gapes ; besides the bother of having to sit on 
 the hen to make her sit on the nest, and live 
 at full speed round the yard chasing them back 
 into the coops when they get through holes. 
 Out of all that setting of goose-eggs only one
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 305 
 
 hatched, and that wasn t a goose it was a 
 gander and a plank fell on it and killed it." 
 
 They both indulged in a rueful giggle. The 
 poultry-raising episode had been a very trying 
 and exciting one. 
 
 " If we had something to sell," she went on. 
 
 " We haven t," said Edith. 
 
 The Story touched the Small Person sadly on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " It would be awfully mournful," she said, " if I 
 really could write stories that people would like 
 and if I could sell them and get money enough to 
 make us quite comfortable if all that good fort 
 une was in me and I never found it out all my 
 life just because I can t buy some paper and pos 
 tage-stamps." 
 
 It seemed too tragic. They sat and looked at 
 each other in gloom. The conversation ended 
 after a short time in desperate discouragement, 
 and the Small Person was obliged to wander out 
 to her hollow on the woodland road and stand for 
 a long time looking at the changing trees, listen 
 ing with a strange feeling to the sorrowful plain 
 ing of the doves on the tops of the pine-trees. 
 
 As the leaves were changing then, it cannot 
 have been very long before the inspiration came 
 which solved the problem. Who gave the in 
 formation which gave rise to it is not a detail 
 which anyone can remember. Something or
 
 306 The One I Knew the Best of Alt 
 
 other makes it seem probable that it was Edwina, 
 who came into the writing-room one day and sat 
 down, saying, a propos of nothing in particular: 
 
 " Aunt Cynthy s two girls made a dollar yester 
 day by selling wild grapes in the market. They 
 got them in the woods over the hill." 
 
 "Which hill?" asked the Small Person. 
 
 " The hill near the house the one you can see 
 out of the window. They say there are plenty 
 there." 
 
 " Are there ? " said the Small Person. 
 
 " 1 wonder how much they got a gallon ? " said 
 Edith. 
 
 " I don t know," said Edwina. " But they sold 
 a dollar s worth, and they say they are going to 
 gather more." 
 
 " Edith ! " exclaimed the Small Person, " Edith ! " 
 A brilliant idea had come to her. She felt her 
 cheeks grow hot. 
 
 " Suppose," she said, " suppose ivc went and 
 gathered some a whole lot and suppose we 
 gave the girls part of the money to sell them for 
 us in the market perhaps we should get enough 
 to buy the stamps and paper." 
 
 It seemed an inspiration of the gods. It was as 
 if some divine chance had been given to them. 
 Edith and Edwina clapped their hands. If wild 
 grapes had been sold they would sell again ; if the 
 woods were full of them whv should thev not
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 307 
 
 gather them quarts, gallons, bucketfuls of them 
 as many as necessity required. 
 
 There arose an excited, joyous gabbling at 
 once. It would be delightful. It would be fun 
 in itself. It would be like going gypsying. And 
 if there were really a great many grapes, they 
 might be sold for more money than would pay 
 for the stamps. 
 
 " It s a good thing we are not living in the 
 Square now," said the Small Person. " We 
 couldn t go and gather wild grapes in Back Syd 
 ney Street." 
 
 Suddenly they felt rich and hopeful, //"they 
 found grapes enough if they were sold if the 
 Editor was in a benign humor, who could tell 
 what might happen. 
 
 " If they buy this one," said the Small Person, 
 " I can write others, and perhaps they will buy 
 those too. I can always make up stories. 
 Wouldn t it be queer if it turned out that was the 
 thing I have to do. You know how we have 
 kept saying, Something must be done. Oh ! 
 Edith, wouldn t it be beautiful ! " 
 
 " Of course it would be beautiful," answered 
 Edith. 
 
 " Perhaps," sighed the Small Person, " it is too 
 nice to be true. But we ll go and get the wild 
 grapes." 
 
 And so they did.
 
 308 The One I Knezv the Best of All 
 
 It was Edith who arranged the detail. She 
 saw the little mulatto girls and talked with them. 
 They were greatly pleased at the idea of selling 
 the grapes. They would pilot the party to places 
 where they believed there were vines, and they 
 would help in the gathering, themselves. The 
 expedition began to wear the air of an exhilarat 
 ing escapade. 
 
 It would have been a delightful thing to do, 
 even if it had been arranged merely as a holiday. 
 They issued forth to conquer in the wildest spir 
 its. Each one carried a tin bucket, and each 
 wore a cotton frock, and a sun-bonnet or a utili 
 tarian straw hat. The sun was rather hot, but 
 the day was a golden one. There was gold in 
 the trees, gold in the air, gold in the distances. 
 The speculators had no decorum in their method. 
 They chased about the warm, yellowing woods 
 like wild things. They laughed and shouted to 
 each other when they scrambled apart. They 
 forced their way through undergrowth, and tore 
 their way through brambles ; they clambered 
 over great logs ; they uttered wild little shrieks 
 at false alarms of snakes ; they shouted with joy 
 when they came upon vines; they filled their 
 buckets, and ate grapes to repletion, and swung 
 on the rope like vines themselves. 
 
 The Small Person had never been less sober. 
 At intervals she roamed awav a little, and stood
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 309 
 
 in some warm, golden place, with young trees 
 and bushes closed about her, simply breathing 
 the air, and enraptured with a feeling of being 
 
 like a well- 
 sunned In 
 dian peach. . . >. 
 Her cheeks 
 had such an 
 Autumn heat in 
 them that glow 
 which is not like the heat 
 of summer. And what a 
 
 day of dreams. If if if ! " If" is such a charm 
 ing word such a benign one such a sumptuous 
 one. One cannot always say with entire sense of 
 conviction, " I have a kingdom and a princely
 
 3io The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 fortune, and I will build a palace of gold " but 
 who cannot say, "If\ had a kingdom and the fort 
 une of a prince, I would build a palace of gold." 
 The golden palace rises fair, and one almost hears 
 the courtiers speak. "If" gives a shadow, the 
 substance of which would be a poorer thing. 
 
 She built her palaces that day, and furnished 
 them, and lived in them, as she searched for her 
 wild grapes. They were innocent palaces, and 
 small ones, for she was a very young and vague 
 thing; but they were things of light and love and 
 beauty, and filled with the diaphanous forms of 
 the beliefs and dreams only such young palaces 
 can hold. 
 
 The party went home at sunset with its tin 
 pails full to the brim and covered with fresh vine- 
 leaves. 
 
 " We shall get two or three dollars fer these," 
 said one of the pilots. " Me an Ser phine didn t 
 have nigh onto as many that other time." 
 
 " Now if they sell them," said Edith and the 
 Small Person when they got home, " we shall 
 have the paper and the postage-stamps." 
 
 It seems to be regretted that the amount they 
 sold for cannot be recalled but it was enough to 
 buy the postage-stamps and paper and pay all 
 expenses, and even leave something over. The 
 business part of the speculation was a complete 
 success.
 
 "My Object is Remuneration" 311 
 
 With what care the ordinary foolscap was 
 chosen ; with what discreet precautions that it 
 should be of the right size and shade, and should 
 not enrage the Editor the instant he saw it. How 
 large and round and clear each letter was made in 
 the copying. An Editor who was afflicted with 
 cataract might have read it half-way across his 
 palatial sanctum. And then the letter that was 
 written to accompany the venture ! How it was 
 reflected upon, and reasoned about, and discussed ! 
 " An Editor does not want to know anything about 
 me " the Small Person said. " He does not know 
 me, and he doesn t care about me, and he won t 
 want to be bothered. I shall just say I have en 
 closed the stamps to send the manuscript back 
 with, if he does not want it. And I shall have to 
 speak about the money. You see, Edith, if the 
 stories are worth writing, they must be worth 
 reading, and if they are worth printing and read 
 ing they must be worth paying for, and if they are 
 not worth publishing and reading they are not 
 worth writing, and I had better not waste my time 
 on them." Whence this clear and practical point 
 of view it would be difficult to say. But she was 
 quite definite about it. The urgency of the situa 
 tion had made her definite. Perhaps at a crisis 
 she became practical but it was only at a crisis. 
 
 And after serious deliberation and much rewrit 
 ing and elimination the following concise and un-
 
 312 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 mistakable epistle was enclosed in a roll of manu 
 script with enough extra stamps to have remailed 
 an Editor: 
 
 "SlR: I enclose stamps for the return of the 
 accompanying MS., Miss Desborough s Difficul 
 ties, if you do not find it suitable for publication 
 in your magazine. My object is remuneration. 
 " Yours Respectfully, 
 
 " F. HODGSON." 
 
 This was all except the address, which was that 
 of the post-office of the neighboring town. Both 
 Edith and herself were extremely proud of the 
 closing sentence. It sounded so business-like. 
 And no Editor could mistake it. And if this one 
 was offended it positively could not be helped. 
 
 " And it s true," she said. " I never should have 
 dreamed of sending a thing to an Editor if I hadn t 
 been obliged to. My object is remuneration." 
 
 And then they could not help breaking into 
 childish giggles at the comical aspect of their hav 
 ing done a thing so bold, and their ideas of what 
 the Editor would think if he could see the two 
 curly and innocent Small Persons who had written 
 that unflinchingly mercenary sentence.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 And So She Did 
 
 IT is a simple enough matter to send a story 
 with a serene mind to Editors one knows, and of 
 whom one is aware that they possess the fine in 
 tellectual acumen which leads them to appreciate 
 the boon bestowed upon them, and the firmness to 
 contemplate with some composure the fact that 
 one s " object is remuneration." But it is quite a 
 different affair to send one s timid and defenceless 
 first-born into the cave of an unknown dragon, 
 whose fangs may be dripping with the blood of 
 such innocents. 
 
 Oh, the counting of the hours which elapse be 
 fore it reaches its destination, and the awful thrill 
 of realizing that perhaps at the very hour one is 
 living through, the Editor is Reading it ! The 
 Small Person did not lose any quakings or heart 
 beats to which she was entitled by the situation. 
 She experienced them all to the utmost, and even 
 invented some new ones. She, and Edith quaked 
 together. 
 
 It was so awful not to know anything whatever, 
 to be so blankly ignorant of editorial habits and
 
 314 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 customs. How long did an Editor keep a manu 
 script before he accepted it, or put all the stamps 
 on with a blow and sent it back ? Did he send it 
 back the day after he had read it, or did he keep 
 it for months or years? Might one become old 
 and gray without knowing whether one s story 
 was accepted or rejected ? If he accepted it, 
 would he send the money at once or would he 
 wait a long time, and how much would it be when 
 it came ? Five dollars ten twenty a hundred ? 
 Could it possibly be as much as a hundred ! And 
 if it could be a hundred oh ! what things could be 
 done with it, and how every body could live hap 
 pily forever after ! 
 
 " I could write one in a week," the Small Per 
 son said. " That would be four hundred dollars a 
 month ! Oh ! no, Edith," breathlessly, " it couldn t 
 be a hundred ! " This was because it seemed im 
 possible that any one could make four hundred 
 dollars a month by her stories and really retain 
 her senses. 
 
 She felt it was better to restrain such frenzy and 
 discipline herself by putting it as low as possible. 
 
 " Suppose it is only about a dollar," she said. 
 " I m sure it s worth more, but they might be 
 very stingy. And we want money so much 
 we are so obliged to have it, that I suppose I 
 should be forced to let them have it for a dollar 
 and even go on writing more."
 
 And So Site Did 515 
 
 " It couldnt be as little as that," said Edith. 
 
 " It would be rather cheap even for me," said 
 the Small Person, and she began to laugh a little 
 hysterically. " A dollar story ! " 
 
 Then she began to make calculations. She was 
 not at all good at calculations. 
 
 " The magazine costs two dollars a year," she 
 pondered. " And if they have fifty thousand sub 
 scribers, that would make a hundred thousand 
 dollars a year. They haven t many stories in each 
 number. Some of the magazines have more 
 than fifty thousand subscribers ! Edith," with a 
 little gasp, " suppose it was a thousand dollars ! " 
 
 They vibrated like pendulums from light-head 
 ed ecstacy to despair. 
 
 " They ll send it back," she said, in hopeless 
 downfall, " or they ll keep the stamps and they 
 won t send it back at all, and I shall wait weeks, 
 and weeks, and weeks, and never know anything 
 about it. And all this thinking and hoping and 
 contriving will have gone for worse than noth 
 ing ! " 
 
 She ended with tears in her eyes, half-laughing 
 at herself because they were there, and she was 
 an emotional Small Person, who had also a sense 
 of the humor of her own exaggerations. She was 
 a creature who laughed a great deal, and was 
 much given to making her sisters and brothers 
 laugh. She liked to say ridiculous things and ex-
 
 aggerate her views of a situation until they be 
 came grotesque and she was obliged to laugh 
 wildly at them herself. " The family s Ups and 
 the family s Downs " were a source of unbridled 
 jokes which still had a touch of usefulness in them. 
 
 " I laugh instead of crying," she used to say. 
 " There is some fun in laughing and there isn t 
 any in crying, and it is ridiculous in one way." 
 
 She made many of these rueful jokes in the 
 days that followed. It seemed as if these were 
 months of days and the tension became more 
 than was bearable. It is likely that only a few 
 weeks passed. 
 
 But at last at last something came. Not the 
 manuscript with all the stamps in a row, but a 
 letter. 
 
 And she and Edith and Mamma and Edwina 
 sat down panting to read it. 
 
 And when it was read they could not under 
 stand it ! 
 
 The letter was not preserved, but the memory 
 of the impression it created preserved itself. 
 
 Somehow it seemed strangely vague to their 
 inexperienced minds. It began thank God by 
 praising the story. It seemed to like it. It 
 plainly did not despise it at all. Its sole criti 
 cisms were on the unceremonious abbreviation of 
 a name, and an intimation that it was rather long. 
 It did not say it was refused, but neither Edith
 
 And So She Did 317 
 
 nor the Small Person were at all sure that it meant 
 that it was accepted, and it said nothing about 
 the Remuneration. 
 
 " Have they accepted it ? " said the Small Per 
 son. 
 
 " They haven t rejected it," said Edith. 
 
 " They evidently think it is rather good," said 
 Mamma. 
 
 " I don t know exactly what they mean," the 
 Small Person finally decided, " but I believe it 
 has something to do with the Remuneration." 
 
 Perhaps it had, and perhaps it had not. Per 
 haps greater experience might have been able to 
 reach something technical in it they could not 
 see. They read and re-read it, thought and rea 
 soned, and invented translations. But the only 
 conclusion they could reach was that perhaps Re 
 muneration not being the Editor s object, was his 
 objection, and that he thought that by adroit en 
 couragement and discouragement he might ob 
 tain the prize without the Object. 
 
 So after a little waiting the Small Person wrote 
 to ask for its return. In after years she was fre 
 quently puzzled by her memory of that first letter. 
 She never knew what it had meant. Experience 
 taught her that it was curiously unbusiness-like, 
 and inclined her to believe that in some way it 
 was meant to convey that the objection was the 
 Remuneration.
 
 318 The One I Knew tJie Best of All 
 
 Then the story was sent to another Editor. 
 
 " I ll try two or three times," the Author said 
 to Edith. " I won t give up the first minute, but 
 I won t keep on forever. If they don t want it, 
 that must mean that it isn t good enough." 
 
 The story whose real name was not " Miss Des- 
 borough s Difficulties," but something rather like 
 it was one she had planned and partially written 
 in her thirteenth year, in the Square. One or two 
 cherished scenes she had written in the old ac 
 count-books. Many years later, on being ex 
 humed from among old magazines in the Con 
 gressional Library, and read again, it revealed 
 itself quite a respectable, but not in the least strik 
 ing, story of love, estrangement, and reconcilia 
 tion between a stately marvel of English young- 
 lady beauty and good-breeding, and the stalwart, 
 brave, and masculine British officer, who was 
 separated and suffered with her in high-bred dig 
 nity and fine endurance. It was an evident 
 though unconscious echo of like stories in Corn- 
 Iiill, Temple Bar, and London Society. The Small 
 Person had been much attached to these periodi 
 cals. Its meritorious features were a certain real 
 ity of feeling in the people who lived in it, and a 
 certain nice quality in the feeling itself. How 
 ever trifling and romantic the plot, the officer 
 was a nice fellow and a gentleman, the beauteous 
 English maiden had good manners, and her
 
 And So She Did 319 
 
 friends, the young-married people, were sympa 
 thetic and sweet-tempered. It moved with some 
 dramatic touch and had an air of conviction. 
 Otherwise it had no particular qualities or origi 
 nality. 
 
 Did months elapse again before they heard 
 from the second Editor or was it years? Per 
 haps it was only weeks, but they contained sev 
 eral protracted lifetimes. 
 
 And then ! Another letter ! Not the manu 
 script yet! 
 
 " SIR : (They were immensely edified at being 
 called Sir.) Your story, Miss Desborough s Dif 
 ficulties, is so distinctly English that our reader 
 is not sure of its having been written by an 
 American. We see that the name given us for 
 the address is not that of the writer. (The Sa 
 maritan friend had lent his name that the mail 
 might evade the Boys.) Will you kindly inform 
 us if the story is original ? 
 
 " Yours, truly," etc. 
 
 This was the letter in effect. It would be im 
 possible to recall the exact words. 
 
 Shaken to the centre of her being the Small 
 Person replied by the next mail. 
 
 " The story is original. I am English myself, 
 and have only been a short time in America."
 
 320 
 
 The Editor replied quite promptly : 
 
 " Before we decide will you send us another 
 story ?" 
 
 How they were elated almost to delirium ! 
 How delighted Mamma s smile was ! How the 
 two unliterary ones exulted and danced about. 
 
 " It will be Accepted ! It will be Accepted ! 
 It will be Accepted ! " they danced about exclaim 
 ing. 
 
 " Perhaps the Editor will buy them both ! " said 
 Edith. " That will be two instead of one ! " 
 
 The Small Person went up to the raftered 
 room positively trembling with joy and excite 
 ment. The Editor did not believe she had writ 
 ten her own story. He would not believe it until 
 she wrote another. He would see ! She would 
 show him ! 
 
 The little cat lay curled up in her arm for three 
 days, seeming lulled by the endless scratching of 
 the pen. She said nothing, but perhaps in some 
 occult feline way she was assisting. The Small 
 Person s cheeks blazed hotter and hotter. She 
 felt as if she were running a race for life or death. 
 But she was not tired. She was strung up to the 
 highest and intensest pitch. The Story was good 
 to her. Her best beloved, who had stood by her 
 all her vivid short life making dull things bright 
 and bright things brilliant -who had touched the 
 face of all the world with a tender, shining hand
 
 And So She Did 321 
 
 who had never deserted her did not desert 
 her now. Faithful and dear fair shadow of 
 things, how passionately she loved it ! In three 
 days the new story was finished. It was shorter 
 than " Miss Desborough," but she knew it was as 
 good, and that the Editor would see it was writ 
 ten by the same hand. But she made it an Ameri 
 can story without a touch of English coloring. 
 And the grapes had brought enough money for 
 more postage-stamps. 
 
 She did not walk for the next few days she 
 danced. She chased about the woods wildly, 
 gathering more flowers and leaves and following 
 more birds than ever. Sometimes when she went 
 to the hollow in the road she felt as if she might 
 be lifted from her feet by the strange exhilaration 
 within her, and carried away over the variegated 
 tree-tops into the blue. 
 
 Her stories were of some use after all. They 
 were not altogether things to be laughed at be 
 cause they were Romantic. Somehow she felt 
 almost as if she were vindicating and exalting a 
 friend who had been kind and tender, and yet 
 despised. Ah, how good it was ! //"all would go 
 well if she might go on if she need be ashamed 
 no longer but write openly as many stories as 
 she liked how good to be alive! She was so 
 young and ardent, she knew nothing and believed 
 everything. It might have been arranged by Fort-
 
 322 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 une that she should get the fullest, finest flavor 
 of it. When the answer came they were passing 
 through one of " the Family s Downs." That 
 was their manner of describing the periods when 
 everything seemed at its worst ; when even the 
 Boys, who were robustly life-enjoying creatures 
 wished " something would turn up." Nothing is 
 more trying than to feel that one s sole hope is 
 that " something may turn up." The something 
 usually turns down. 
 
 And on one of these days the Letter came. 
 Standing by a table in the bare little room, the 
 Small Person opened it with quivering hands, 
 while Mamma and Edith looked tremblingly on. 
 
 She read it, rather weakly, aloud. 
 
 " SIR : We have decided to accept your two 
 stories, and enclose payment. Fifteen dollars for 
 Aces or Clubs, and twenty dollars for Miss Des- 
 borough s Difficulties. We shall be glad to hear 
 from you again. 
 
 " Yours, truly," etc. 
 
 She gave a little hysterical laugh, which was 
 half a gasp. 
 
 " They they ve accepted it," she said, rather 
 obviously to Edith, " and they ve sent me thirty- 
 five dollars." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mamma, quite tremu-
 
 And So She Did 323 
 
 lously, " they really were very nice tales. I could 
 not help thinking so." 
 
 " They are Accepted," cried Edith, quite shrill 
 with ecstasy. " And they will take more. And 
 you can go on writing them all your life." 
 
 And just at that moment as if it had been ar 
 ranged like a scene in a play, one of the Boys 
 came in. It was the elder one, and rather an inti 
 mate of the Small Person, of whom he was really 
 quite fond, though he considered her Romantic, 
 and having a strong sense of humor, his witticisms 
 on the subject of the stories had been well worth 
 hearing. 
 
 " What s up ? " he said. " What is the matter 
 with you all?" 
 
 " Come out on the Porch," said the Small Per 
 son. 
 
 Why she was suddenly overwhelmed with a 
 sort of shyness, which embraced even Mamma 
 and Edith, she could not have told. 
 
 " Well," he said, when they stood outside. 
 
 " I ve just had a letter," said the Small Person, 
 awkwardly. " It s it s from an Editor." 
 
 " An Editor ! " he repeated. " What does that 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I sent him one of my stories," she went on, 
 feeling that she was getting red. " And he 
 wouldn t believe 1 had written it, and he wrote 
 and asked me to send another, I suppose to prove
 
 324 The One I Knew the Best of All 
 
 I could do it. And I wrote another and sent it. 
 And he has accepted them both, and sent me 
 thirty-five dollars." 
 
 " Thirty-five dollars ! " he exclaimed, staring at 
 her.
 
 And So She Did 325 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " Here s the check." 
 
 And she held it out to him. 
 
 He took it and looked at it, and broke into a 
 good-natured, delighted, boyish laugh. 
 
 " Well, by Jove ! " said he, looking at her, half- 
 amused and half-amazed. "That s first-class, 
 isn t it? By Jove ! " 
 
 " Yes," she said, " it is. And they want some 
 more. And I am going to write some as many 
 as I can a whole lot ! " 
 
 And so she did. 
 
 But she had crossed the delicate, impalpable 
 dividing line. And after that, Life itself began, 
 and memories of her lose the meaning which at 
 taches itself to the memories of the Mind of a 
 Child. 
 
 THE END.
 
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